shhh. tread softly.
she knows what we've done.
we can keep quiet
and save us a riot
and still have the fun.
but she knows what we've done.
hush. paint softly.
she knows what we've learned.
we can keep seating
our shacklers' beatings
but she will have heard.
she knows what we've learned.
shush. speak softly.
she knows when we'll run.
we can shed tears
and give rope to our fears.
and wash down the burns.
but she knows when we'll run.
safe colours, greys, blues,
solid and immovable,
silent, strong
steely, safe.
You can't steal
my colours, no
you can't
they're safe
and sound
in a box
in a tin
in a drawer
by my bed
by my head.
Please sir.
Dear sir.
Respected sir.
Much obliged.
Kindly do.
Thank you.
Yours respectfully.
Your prisoner.
these words, these words are blankets
these words are blankets that keep us
that keep us warm, safe
we'd be silent,
we would, if we could
but we don't dare,
we shove the words down the mouths
of anyone who'd listen.
eat 'em up, real quick,
real quick,
words dangling
from the swords
that eat at our throats.
bless these words.
these words,
these words are melting,
melting fast.
silence is cold, hungry and grey.
tears make stains.
stains that don't wash.
washes drain
the pain in here.
here's to you,
you've set me free,
free and bold,
bold lines in black.
blackened nails
and hammered toes.
tiptoe closer,
that's my girl.
teeth aren't that important
to you, are they?
'coz i have none.
come closer,
that's my girl.
friends weep,
weeping helps.
helping hands
hold each other,
tight.
tight and hot
this rope cuts into dreams
of tangled colours.
that's my girl.
with fingers dipped
in secrets they tell
in rushes of light
in rainbows of paint
we'll paint.
scars are stars.
don't be afraid now,
come a little closer,
just a little closer now,
that's my girl.
there's a pile of old newspapers,
just use one of those.
i don't care how you dispose it.
just do it. NOW.
be quick about it. and don't you dare dawdle.
there shouldn't be a single crumb
of that colour in here, ever again.
You hear me? now get on with it.
that's right, wipe it all away.
clean. squeaky clean.
i won't stand for that nonsense.
no nonsense in here
not in here.
I do write.
But I'm unable.
I do paint.
But my hands are short.
I do think.
But I can't think more.
I would sing.
If I wasn't so soft.
I do hear
But there's a range.
I do walk
But I tire
I do love
But love's just music
And where is music
If not in bounds?
A prison's a prison no matter how small.
hack. hack. hack.
they're called fixed dimensions.
you can't hack. hack. hack.
into the insides of this skull and make it bigger.
and i've been dying to get out.
i'm brilliant at this.
spraying the grey matter with coloured swirls of chaotic imagery.
i've always been brilliant at this.
running around the insides of this brain with my paintbrush of emotive visions.
creativity. i'm a genius.
but a genius gets bored
with fixed dimensions.
hack. hack. hack.
there's not room enough for me within bone and scalp.
there's not room enough for me within tight walled in stories of beautiful colours and images.
Ugly. bright. bright. ugly. beautiful.
No. Not enough room.
There's a way out.
Hack. Hack. Hack.
And I've carved another one.
Layers and layers of breathtaking sculptures in this skull.
A gallery of the most beautiful images you've ever imagined.
This brain's ever imagined.
All me.
And all spaced
Within fixed dimensions.
Hack. Hack. Hack.
There’s paint dribbling down the rugged walls.
“What’s that?”
Two more strokes, and the broken lines have disappeared behind the red wash.
“What is this?”
He’s painting.
He’s tired.
“Who’s this?”
The cracks seep out into the drying brushstrokes.
Criss-crossing ancient networks of age.
Rot.
“He’s painting.”
They’re young.
Whites and sharp browns.
Liquid browns.
Following the brush.
Up.
And down.
And criss-crossing.
An ancient network of age.
He’s old.
They’re young.
But they know.
He knows.
They know.
Straight. Ramrod straight.
And charcoal dusky.
Who’s afraid?
He used to be.
They are.
Sometimes.
But he’s tired.
And they’re young.
And their eyes follow.
Up.
And down.
And criss-crossing.
Past the dribbling lines of spilt red.
In and out.
Across the charcoal.
The ancient networks of of age.
Cracks in the white wash.
Red wash.
Black and red wash.
Blood wash.
Sick wash.
Filth wash.
Yours.
And theirs.
And his.
“Who is it?”
And his.
His red wash of blood-paint.
Death-paint.
His strokes are dead.
He’s old.
And he’s tired.
They’re new.
They always are.
When they come stare.
At his life-paint.
On the wall.
Ancient networks of age.
Blood in the cracks of the whitewash.
Filth in the cracks of the whitewash.
Whitewash.
Whitewash.
Whitewash.
Wash.
Paint.
Paint.
Wash.
Paint.
On the wall.
today was when they first looked me in the eye; their hands calm around their rifles, their faces smug with the confidence of the power that allowed them this.
I walked with them silently, knowing that if i made so much as a sound, they'd shoot me dead.
Poetry and prisons live off each other; each giving off a little energy, a little soul to the other's existence. Most often, the very walls of a prison are built with poetry; each iron bar wrought out of pure emotion and torment where poetry thrives.
We'd make peace with these walls for them to allow our little games, games that went beyond these earthly tethers and soared like eagles on warm air currents. The poetry wasn't in the words we scrawled on the floor to spend the hours when we weren't getting beaten up; it was in the silly laughter that ensued after a particularly heady session of beatings, it was in the fact that the prison rats were, in fact, free in the real sense, and it was in the days when the tiny window showed us that there would be rain.
Now and then we remember the days when we'd see the laughter in stupid things.
The sweat of our palms makes our hearts wet, we weep for ideas that have blossomed right here, within these prison walls but have lost strength and collapsed on the front step of these cold stone doors.
"And were will we go then?"
"I don't give a damn, all i know is that we need to get OUT of here to DO something!"
"Don't be a fool. you know well that they'd rather kill you and bury you here than set you free..."
*sounds of metal on metal, bells ringing*
in a quiet voice, "They're here."
The blood sprayed the pain he felt when being struck with the whip. he stared with upside down eyes at the fat man who was sweating from his armpits who was holding the bold broken leather strip in his fist.
Suddenly, he spat on his face. Enraged, the policeman struck again, making him bleed some more. he laughed in loud, hollow tones that made the policeman's hair stand on end. this was something he'd never been able to deal with; the steely laughter of this maniac who loved the blows of his whiplash.
Here’s the colour.
Just here,
like a distorted spectrum from dull windows.
Speaking. Through we.
Where we sleep. Eat. Die. Rot.
In the filth we remember.
I remember you.
And I coloured you in
To speak to you.
I still want to speak
You’re sleeping
They’re sleeping
Chanting strange syllables that bounce off your nodding lashes in strange
In strange symbols of monotheism
And they’re speaking
In the space between my ears
Where I speak to you
Send you colours
The colours I hear
And I’m laughing
I’m dancing
They’re dancing
They’re free.
Prison paintings
Of pop stars
In leather jackets.
Guitar strings broken
Buckles swing,
Boots kick the pain,
Smiles and blood,
Bloodied teeth
Heroes of walls
Covered in words,
Chosen bricks
And full-moon faces.
Tired knuckles,
Fingers dipped
In shallow streams
Of ideals, gone dry
Shiny faces,
Crying, smiling,
Saying, screaming,
Paint is gold.
