Tristan Hazell lives and works in the shadow of the Westway on Portobello Road. What follows is a collection of observations, reviews, social comment, fiction, poetry, art criticism and more. Much of it is fiction and some of it will offend someone somewhere, I hope.

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Let mummy sing in the garden.

Mummy is crying in the garden

because

I am growing up too quickly she says
and as she weeps
she lets me watch the stuff she thinks I want to watch

you know
the gratuitous sex
the violence
that she thinks I think I want to watch.

I am seven for fucks sake
and I shouldn't know the meaning of innuendo
let alone learn that
women are tools
to be fucked and then killed horribly
by James Bond (my hero).

What I really want
is a parent who allows me to watch
what I really enjoy watching
not the things that peer pressure (my 11 year old brother)
makes me think I want to watch.

Let me cry over the death of Bambi's mum
before I lose the ability to cry over anything.


I want mummy to say NO!

And sing in the garden.



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