woensdag, augustus 24, 2005

Wha's This? More Feckin' Poetry?

"The intelligent man who is proud
of his intelligence is like a
condemned man who is proud of his
large cell."

— Simone Weil, "Human Personality"

In prison, you write words in your mind
and live lives in your mind
and travel only in dreams
but you get good biscuits with sausage gravy
on Sunday mornings
and use of the weight room
one hour and fourty five minutes per day.

You mete out your hours like
they were the shavings of wittling,
and there is no extrospection.
The heart sings silently and rarily.

In prison, you live outside.
Outside of society, outside
of reality and yet inside
the outside looks so inviting.

It is as if you were dead.

If you've ever wondered what the world
will do when you are finally gone
all you need to do
is listen to those bars close shut
in front of you.

In prison, you live the lie of being alive.
You listen to the breathing in the bunk
above you, and realise that breathing
is just a symptom of living,
not proof itself.

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