The Freedom Walk [a poem for our time]

Posted on Updated on

2019-02-15

💥 T H E … F R E E D O M … W A L K 💥

Freedom doesn’t write itself with airspray on a toilet wall;
for only through deep work and trouble
(living as we do in 3-D rubble) can it come at all.
If left to find its own sweet way, inevitably it will
end up lost, alone and subject to decay
(at unrecoverable cost — a price for which so many 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
(belittled 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,
appeal to the bourgeoisie;
yet live their lives ungratefully,
delight in all profanity,
dance to the tune of powers-that-be,
string pity up perfunctorily,
stamp on flowers petulantly,
pretend to care despondently,
subdue their wives stoneheartedly,
then penetrate ungraciously,
ejaculate ungasmicly,
relate to all mendaciously,
imprint 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
who you have systematically bled
until they had no choice except to
fall in line with blinkers on their eyes,
or others who you’ve stigmatised
ad hominemly, bitterendly, condescendly,
(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)
[a fact which in its fullness must be told]
or waft its perfume near the stench of mould
or raise its flag where lies are sold
or where truth merely masquerades
or where greed’s tyranny (or 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?)
whereby coldly calculating merchants’ left-hands
glibly sell you “freedom” (faux-democracy)
while right-hands have their grip around your throat
without you even knowing that they’ve ripped
your coat and shirt from off your back
and sent you blindly reeling down another track
appropriately called “Eat Dirt” — an epithet
you proudly tattoo on your heart
(the ugliness which hides beneath your shirt).

Contrary to what mostpeople 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 wall)
until we grow a king-sized dick (our spiritual sword)
as overcomers who resist their thrall — our words
like spears which deflate their empty disaccord
and prove, therefore, their spiritual dicks are small.
Yes, women too! Expand that clit!
and make a stand against your captors’ magnet pit,
(it’s little more than just a cartoon-whip)
whether an ideology or a human so-called being,
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 will be embedded in your will
(for this must be your own
if freedom is to be your lifelong home).

That walk alone (though mostly unbeknown
to most of us) creates enough momentum
to attract the gaze of angels’ admiration.
Then they reach into our world with
hands of filigree which act just like placentas
linked to angel freedom centres
then you boldly will create the place
which you can call your own
in which you freely utter, “I am home”.
Though first your duty is to find the Source
of all true freedom rather than the ones
which masquerade as revolution
(just another form of prostitution
in the world of politix and prejudice),
or they disguise themselves as “exercise of rights”
(when “duty” is of infinitely more importance
than the marks of impotence which force
themselves on others [for they think their
petty protests are not only theirs
but everybody else’s empty fights]).

So let no human
mutilate your essence or your secret scroll
(on which your acts are evermore engraved)
and let no other merely human person
make themselves your master or your lord,
claiming that by them you must be saved.

For if you just capitulate to cudgel’s every whim
and run with herds and swim with tides,
you don’t deserve the gift of soul
which must be exercised to keep yourself
adrift and unenslaved,
unsullied,
clear,
and whole.

© Alan Morrison, 2019

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