Friday, 30 May 2008

The Captive Mind

There’s something sticky on the floor
Maybe it’s me
My slipper’s reluctant to lift
Makes me wonder who’s in charge

Forgotten what I’d gone to get
Head’s not so reliable these days
Something sticky in my brain
Maybe it’s me

The lack of serious programmes on tv
Concerns me
Admit it in your poems
Admit it, you’re all poets for god’s sake

Stop clinging to the rocks
You’ll perish there
Let go and experience the panic
Of being swept away

There’s a blindfolded man
With a book tied to the side of his face
It isn’t me, I’m not the worried
Maybe it’s you, yes you, the reader

The disinterred search for truth
Disinterested, can truth ever be?
One of history’s ironic jokes
Truth, disinterred, Katyn, grandma and grandpa

The lack of serious tv, the sweep of the gnawing dead
The price you’ll pay is the past you’ve lived

Introduce strangeness to your life
You’ll find it is your future, and endurable too


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