BIRTHMARKS WINDOWS BLUE
Looking for a dad.
What exactly do you look for?
Place some ads. Get some photos copied and write WANTED on them in green marker pen. Or draw a picture:
eyes, nose, mouth and big fat balls. I DON’T HAVE ANY PHOTOS.
When I ask mum, she gets angry.
When I ask mum, she sometimes
makes this face, this awful face, so I know I’ve done something wrong—and I know where to look, too. In the supermarket. I’d like a hundred kilos of dad, please.
It’s tricky, looking for a dad.
They’re all nice. They slip you a tenner—sometimes twice that, if your mum’s given them a decent fuck—and they wink at you, like they’re saying, Here, have a bit of fun with the girls—only this is a guy who’s been screwing your mum, so what do you do? Take the money or cut off his dick? It’s a tough one, but you do everything for your mum, so you keep the money, keep it in your fist, because you’re only wearing your underpants—clutch it in your fingers and watch him go down the hall, whistling, his buttocks clenched.
PUT SOMETHING ON.
Tr. Imogen Taylor