Freedom doesn’t write itself with airspray on a toilet wall;
only through deep work and trouble can it come at all.
If left to find its own sweet way inevitably it will
end up lost, alone and subject to decay
(an unrecoverable cost — a price for which we foolly pay).
Ask any dungeon-dweller and she’ll translate
the scrawled-out ciphertext from broken hearts to runes
while men with pigeon chests presume authority
(put down by their dads from birth so now their
adult thrust is grasp-at-any-form-of-seniority
to block the pain and gain some pseudo-worth).
They strut about, despise the free
live their lives ungratefully
appeal to the bourgeoisie
delight in all profanity
adore their wives stoneheartedly
dance to the tune of the PTB
stamp on flowers petulantly
string pity up despondently
relate to all mendaciously
print their graves indelibly
then think that will excuse them from The End.
Freedom isn’t freedom ‘to’ do this or that
but freedom ‘from’ the skein of moral acrobats
the jerks who practise tit-for-tat
the must-have-this or must-have-that.
Freedom doesn’t come through winning wars
or moving boundaries — widening shores
hiding all your filthy secrets in a drawer
painting over smudges on your wall
winning fights or spats or brawls
firing guns at ragheads gooks and reds
or others who you’ve stigmatised
and all because they won’t play ball
resisting rule’s control freak call).
Freedom cannot shine on tarnished gold
(for that’s what we in all our vain unglory have become)
or waft its perfume near the stench of mould
or raise its flag where lies are told
or where truth merely masquerades
or where greed’s cruelness crust pervades.
Freedom’s now a dirty word
a floating turd on lakes of lazy madness
a gaudy bauble thrown in human faces (faeces?)
by coldly calculating merchants
who sell you phoney freedom with their left hand
while the other hand has gripped your throat
without you even knowing that they’ve ripped
your shirt and coat from off your back
and sent you blindly reeling down
another track entirely called “Eat Dirt”.
Contrary to what most people think and
cutting through the rot which they have learned
and all the poisoned water which they drink
freedom is a road which must be earned
It’s not a right!
All of us enslaved to systems we despise
deserve no more than we now get
(for we submit our freedom to their thrall)
until we grow a king-sized dick and fight
with it (our sword) to span the heightless wall.
Yes, women too! Expand that clit!
and make a stand against
your captors’ magnet pit at work at home
or even all the self-harm things you think are fun
(for freedom-stealers sell us worlds
of make-believe wherein we love and need
a plethora of shiny screams disguised as dreams).
JUST WALK AWAY!
as if that was the only walk which can be done
no turning back or looking over shoulders
wishing you could run
because of all the consequences
which you know will surely come.
Just walk away without a trace of bitter gall
don’t drape a victim’s shawl across your back
for then they have you still
their hooks are in your will
and this must be your own
if freedom is to be your home.
That walk alone (though mostly unbeknown
to us) creates enough momentum
to attract the gaze of angels’ admiration.
Then they reach into our world with hands
of filigree which act like a placenta linked
to angel freedom centres
then you soonly will create the place
which you can call your own
in which you freely say “I’m home”.
So let no human
mutilate your essence or your scroll
(on which your acts are evermore engraved).
For then you don’t deserve the gift of soul
which must be exercised to keep yourself
adrift and unenslaved
unsullied, clear and whole.
© Alan Morrison, 2013