in long lines on stone
through saline excrement excreted
from passive pores of the porous walls
of the cell I created.
Doubt and fear have built for me,
constructing high upon inept aptitude
with coarse mason-work and fetid fungus
of oozing puss, the putrid ache
of nothingness captured serenely, sublimely
by the wet walls of grey-washed servitude
to learned failure, of self-loathing,
of blunder and dreams asunder
under the thunder of guns calling
from hills afar, remote,
beyond my reach and my ken while I rot
in that den of my own insipid erection
where no-one sees, no-one knows,
because no-one comes.
Because no-one cares.
Because in the corner of my existence
stands the festering slop bucket I piss in
daily, hourly, pouring out my heart
in yellow streams of pointless, un-aimed
vitriol of hatred directed at my battered soul.
to pale blue, to a vacant hue
of wistful waste,
of wanton lust unsated through
the rust bucket iron-clad door
of a whore who pins me to a hard-board
mattress lying flaccid on grating springs
where even the cockroaches impale themselves
ending their pointless lives.
Through the blackened bars
shuttering my pitiful window,
a tired sun, waning
after a billion, trillion years of brilliant light
illuminating my golden shining path,
blinding my idiot blood-shot eyes, feeds me
my last supper of liquid luminescence
over a straw-strewn floor.
The constant spring of my existence fills my lungs
with buttercup air
and the distant chirp of lovers
I might have felt in naked slumber
humbles me, crumbles me
with their sweet wet harmony.
The key to my locked heart is lost in the vast ocean
I was too scared even to dip a severed toe in as its waves
lapped my sheltered shins with blood-red darkness.
but only styles remains.
once had a beginning,
and in the middle, we came together.
We came, we saw, and I doubted.
I doubted beyond all doubt
and lived the fear of all fears
in my shrunken marble heart, unable to tell
friend from foe since my dearest beloveds
taught me one bastard lesson:
That they both wear the same facile mask.
Yet I have things too: tools and spades and weapons
and knives coarse in their design and
spineless by nature but study through experience
and not lacking in fortitude built on floundering hope
for here against my wall stands my desk
as I sit upon my seat
with pencil in hand
and writing paper at the ready,
and my lead draws lines of a new kind of hope.
Picture Credit: https://brookingblog.files.wordpress.com/2014/02/nz-prison.jpg