Saturday, March 18, 2017

Our Death 31 / Discipline

Destruction of self is never voluntary. But our judges claim not to know that. They stare at us as we walk past. Something inside us freezes them, and after we vanish, their eyes close. We keep on walking, our deaths concealed inside our mouths. In a way we protect them, our judges, for if they could hear the hoarse and desperate alphabet our broken mouths keep hidden they would crumble, and never again recognise the things they claim to believe. There is nothing worse than a judge. They have whispered specious shit to us for all our lives. Our lives measured in canisters of teargas. In blockades and bombardment  For centuries they have been standing outside our doors. They do not believe in doors. The images we carry. Secretive, in the false cellars of our mouths. Poisonous as oceans. The terrified  night of the middle class.

That there will be no light. Day breaks too late. Too early and too late.

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