Poison Page #2

for his own.

And that the world of force

and manly beauty

loved in that way,

within itself

from link to link.

It was from then on,

when they merged in shadow

that each group

offered me a puzzle.

The stiff, silent males

possessed the violence of love

and my life's study,

would be to find it.

16 years had passed

when the maximum security

prison at Fontenal

brought me face to face

with my deliverance:

Jack Bolton

Age 28

175 pounds,

75 inches

formerly, a captive at Baton.

Come on, p*ssy.

You know what?

You make me wanna puke.

Want to suck it, b*tch?

You want to suck it,

you want to crawl for it ...

Yes you do ...

Is it Jack Bolton?

Cannon!

Here?

Since today.

John, a friend of mine, man.

Jack Bolton

Johnny Broom.

- Baton?

- Yes

I knew.

You swallow it by the mouthful,

Don't you, birdy?

Jissom by the jug, right??

You want it real bad,

don't you, punk?

Don't you, slug?

Who's a pretty boy?

Hey you!

Shine.

Annoying Mr. Ass?

Not me, chief.

That's a good boy,

that's a smart little fag.

Think fast, f*ggot.

You want it real bad, doncha?

Doncha?

You want me to shoot it up

your hole? Is that it, huh?

Go on, marry him.

You know you love him.

What? Me, marry him?

Richie was

a complicated boy.

On the one hand, very intelligent.

But at the same time ...

withdrawn.

It was really strange though

the amount of animosity

that he would induce

in the other children

out of nowhere.

Like, there was this kid called Brad.

He started hitting him

because of what he believed

Said was really a prince

and his dad was a king.

The weird thing was that Richie

didn't fight back.

He'd just sit there

until the teacher came.

And he was all bloody.

He was a perfect child.

A perfect baby.

Very independent.

Very smart.

Never fussed.

He always kept himself busy

reading stories and coloring.

He was always doing these ...

private things.

Private games.

- Thanks a lot.

- Forget it.

I got it

from Baton.

It's loyalty.

- To the shithole?

- Maybe.

Better than this.

No way.

They're straight with you here.

You know what's what.

Don't be too sure.

Hey, you got any rolls?

That's alright, man.

Forget it, okay?

Baton.

Ok.

I'll see you later.

Bolton's re-emergencence in my life

contradicted any memory

I had of him as a child.

At Baton he was

solemn and small.

Even I picked on him.

Stay out of my way, Bolton.

You hear me?

Something about my memory

of Bolton disturbed me

but I could not put my finger

on just what it was.

All night long

I built an imaginary life

of which he was the center,

and I always gave that life,

which was begun over and over

and transformed a dozen times,

a violent end.

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