My girlfriend Carissa wears breasts like no other. I am eleven but she stoops on account of my painting ability and my bank account. Truly I am prodigious at art. I have had four shows that sold out even before the door were open. Mahmoud says the Lady Who Made Me bought them all. Mahmoud is a liar and an incontinent. He is also my best friend. The Lady Who Made Me drinks port until her planet looks bright. I pay the gas bills.
My dealer is named Fenton. It happened once that I fell asleep on a palette and Fenton sold it for enough to remodel our kitchen. I was not proud. I severely reprimanded him with the aid of my elbows. Recently, he has been thieving items from my room, dubbing the 'Hope in Candyland,’ and 'Sink,' and ’Cat Call,' and whatnot, and selling them to businessmen for extortionate sums. His house is as big as three houses. He says my sloth-like manner of painting injures us both. Yesterday, he suggested employing a team of people to paint on my behalf. We were sipping chair at the office. Again, I forcibly ejected the idea from his brain with physical violence.
I work exclusively in oil and on a large scale. I paint on average eight hours a day. The highest price ever paid for a piece of my work was £215,000. The piece was titled Dear Mum, Please Go Back In Time And Abort Me. They buyer wished to remain anonymous but failed to do so and was later identified by the Daily Mail as a Congolese kleptocrat named Patrice.
Today Carissa met me at the school gates the same way Carissa always meets me at the school gates. With her lips, she sucked up a reef of the busted blood vessel on my neck. I noticed we were being dogged by a man with a skull-sized camera strapped to his ribs and I lobbed my lunchbox at his head and he went away.
We continued with Mahmoud on the motorway bridge. He came with double malt beer and a fax machine. Once the beer was gone, we scrolled through the passing cars, looking for a suitable target. The fax machine was a sizeable crater in what Mahmoud insists was a Bugatti. I told him he was blind. He told me he was lumpy.
"Kimchi," I said, on account of it being our safe word.
Cars are art but so is destroying expensive things that don't belong to you.
Carissa cradled me like a baby and carried me to safety as the supposed Bugatti driver emerged to holler at the clouds above. Carissa is twenty. A palm reader once promised she was immortal. Truly she is the most angelic being either side of the Thames. There are times when she makes me forget the impossibility of a higher power.
Partial list of misappropriated hood ornaments in my current collection: 12 Mercedes tri-stars, 4 broken chains of Audi rings, 1 Rolls Royce Spirit of Ecstasy, 2 leaping Jaguars, 1 custom chrome skull with red glass eyes.
I left school at eleven this morning and had Calabassi drive me to the studio. Attendance is not mandatory for the prodigious on account of our futures lying above the sad tracks of exam papers and whatnot. Our superpowers cannot be learned from books because they're already inside us, waiting to be dug out.
I recommenced work on a 6' x 4' reimagining of the Last Supper in which ever face is my face and every meal is me. Truly I am modest but I am also fair and I think it is a work of genius. Fenton and me admired it while sipping tea and shucking pistachios.
Carissa arrived at four. She looked as though she'd spent the day being waterboarded. I offered her tea. She screamed when I tried to touch her.
"What is it?" I said. She pelted my clavicles with her open hands.
"I wish you didn't exists,’ she told me. She left.
My dealer is named Fenton. It happened once that I fell asleep on a palette and Fenton sold it for enough to remodel our kitchen. I was not proud. I severely reprimanded him with the aid of my elbows. Recently, he has been thieving items from my room, dubbing the 'Hope in Candyland,’ and 'Sink,' and ’Cat Call,' and whatnot, and selling them to businessmen for extortionate sums. His house is as big as three houses. He says my sloth-like manner of painting injures us both. Yesterday, he suggested employing a team of people to paint on my behalf. We were sipping chair at the office. Again, I forcibly ejected the idea from his brain with physical violence.
I work exclusively in oil and on a large scale. I paint on average eight hours a day. The highest price ever paid for a piece of my work was £215,000. The piece was titled Dear Mum, Please Go Back In Time And Abort Me. They buyer wished to remain anonymous but failed to do so and was later identified by the Daily Mail as a Congolese kleptocrat named Patrice.
Today Carissa met me at the school gates the same way Carissa always meets me at the school gates. With her lips, she sucked up a reef of the busted blood vessel on my neck. I noticed we were being dogged by a man with a skull-sized camera strapped to his ribs and I lobbed my lunchbox at his head and he went away.
We continued with Mahmoud on the motorway bridge. He came with double malt beer and a fax machine. Once the beer was gone, we scrolled through the passing cars, looking for a suitable target. The fax machine was a sizeable crater in what Mahmoud insists was a Bugatti. I told him he was blind. He told me he was lumpy.
"Kimchi," I said, on account of it being our safe word.
Cars are art but so is destroying expensive things that don't belong to you.
Carissa cradled me like a baby and carried me to safety as the supposed Bugatti driver emerged to holler at the clouds above. Carissa is twenty. A palm reader once promised she was immortal. Truly she is the most angelic being either side of the Thames. There are times when she makes me forget the impossibility of a higher power.
Partial list of misappropriated hood ornaments in my current collection: 12 Mercedes tri-stars, 4 broken chains of Audi rings, 1 Rolls Royce Spirit of Ecstasy, 2 leaping Jaguars, 1 custom chrome skull with red glass eyes.
I left school at eleven this morning and had Calabassi drive me to the studio. Attendance is not mandatory for the prodigious on account of our futures lying above the sad tracks of exam papers and whatnot. Our superpowers cannot be learned from books because they're already inside us, waiting to be dug out.
I recommenced work on a 6' x 4' reimagining of the Last Supper in which ever face is my face and every meal is me. Truly I am modest but I am also fair and I think it is a work of genius. Fenton and me admired it while sipping tea and shucking pistachios.
Carissa arrived at four. She looked as though she'd spent the day being waterboarded. I offered her tea. She screamed when I tried to touch her.
"What is it?" I said. She pelted my clavicles with her open hands.
"I wish you didn't exists,’ she told me. She left.
Comments (0)
The minimum comment length is 50 characters.
Information
Users of Guests are not allowed to comment this publication.
There are no comments yet. You can be the first!