The cell encompassed him, became in essence the world he lived and existed within and in his memory he could find no precious childhood, no past that existed before this place. There was nothing just him and four grey walls and one with a door, one with a small barred window set high.
What twisted memories he had, mere tendrils of concrete thought. A man is dying in a Hospital plagued with regret and lost love. A man robs banks and murders others, he lives in the shadows of the great Goddess although his time may come soon. Him, he, Within the Prison, No memory of his past or power. Another man, ageless who lives within shadow.He communes with Gods.
Often he would laugh and bury his face in his hands so the Black clad Guards wouldn’t hear him. Another hour in another memory he would be watching Fairies dance in the Clouds as the Morphine they pumped into him held him aloft and free, without much of a care, just waiting to die, blessed by the Golden airs of the Opium Poppy. Turned by the soft hands of hard tired Nurses. The fire behind me now, just a smudge of a glow against the Mountains, the snow beneath my feet hard and frozen and the small Brown hand of the Shaman held aloft.
Yet sitting upon the cold damp concrete he sends out these memories like young children. To discover the bounds and the ropes that bind him. Settling his mind somewhere he is familiar with, a gap between lives where nothing ever grows or lives but exists nonetheless and nevertheless to discover the limits.
Lets try to remember the shaded subtle spots in our lives and those horror filled times as thoughts expected not to see but to heal for the shadows lie and the heart doesn’t feel, just yet. What do you do now those times are past? It seems to me that we deny every reality but pick up your phone again to see what strange things you have done to me as I sit and listen to the Brothers clad in Black.They speak in tongues babbling inane shit talk under the door.
He sees a man sat on the edge of a bed and his life force is nearly spent and this man picks over the silent memories he has, the loves and the loss he felt and now utterly spent he regards them as lost moments. A chance lost maybe, and eventually all things end in jealous words, angry countenance, bitter movements under sheets.That stiff cotton weave twisted by weak hands, holding on tight? Or loathe to scratch and bite?
Try to see the Golden paths, the life we have is past and gone but pressure ties the bonds between us and is strong. We are edged and bright and the cold stills the night outside the Hospital. The anger you held up for me is lost in the pain I have now but send a text message and a forbidden word quick! Read it before he sees.
I will sit and let my head touch the floor and my heart bleed. I fear the spiral and feel the burn but don’t let your heart be lost and never fill with lust again. Besides our own griefs that of the street outside where the learned weep and the Holy plot their lies. Be content, for the children make Sigils in chalk on the concrete slabs.
I know your lips are dry again but I cannot believe we save ourselves by taking the sorrow in greed, filling ourselves with it, drunk on it. Ever present is the sore question in need of an answer but my false words turn around in forensic circles as you pick apart the false Gods from the liars and thieves.
I put a lock of hair behind your ear, and my hand catches a warm fat tear that tracks across your face but you turn your eyes away and this fluid errant phase is lost in the cold and the Police are driving past slow. They watch us.They are the agents of provocation. Pulse Police.
The mind of the Prisoner aches with the memories not his. He knows no slut Goddess, he knows nothing of the world these memories sit within. But deep within the Prison, within the bowels of it if they had an end, he hears the cogs shift and the beams that hold it strong and aloft twist ever so slightly.
A memory that is his? Alone?
Now I fear the end to come, the end a final road to travel down and this madness will end. A fear inside of what’s left to bear, or a scrap of paper and a stinking poem no one reads. A pleasure I suppose unlooked for, a crowd of cops, a deserted alley, what you did….abandoned me. To let an idle hand slip, a warm hand into my lap, to veil my eyes with delights and free things to love. Other hands are calloused with desire and hate for us. We see you for what you are, a simple lonely shining Star clad in your Red dress while upon the screen in Black and White they murdered and loved. While foul things called men settled in soft chairs, in clouds of smoke. They watch you touch yourself.