Somebody keeps pulling on the rope to swing the bells
They toll for me.
Don't touch it. Don't say it. Don't do it.
Don't doubt it. Don't think. Don't ...
Somebody handcuffs my steps,
determines my boundaries.
Before I fully understand free will
there is a slap on my head
and phosphenes like stars
command my orbit.
Before I recognize differences
there is a slap on my hand
right hand, not left hand,
its isolation without trial
to fear wrongdoing
to allow them to remote-control my existence,
conditional on demand, frightening.
An aborted freedom escaping
into the sewer
trying not to get it on the seat
attempting to prove an alibi
for being alive
No one cares, not even myself.
Somebody pulls on the rope to swing the bells
They toll for me.
It's dirty. It's ugly. It's bad. It's poo. It's sin.
deception makes them ring in a low tone.
I do what they say,
and not what they do,
and not what I want,
and not what I think.
Through fragments of this duplicity
and this duplicity
I would be able to rebuild myself and Myself
into another hypocritical being;
the intentional perversion of the self proclaimed truth,
the liar paradox to reign
through tricks and cotton swabs.
When the remorseless hours run counterclockwise,
I would be happy of imaginary experiences,
consistently depurated, consistently believed to be true.
Would I dare to examine the society in which I've been educated and raised?
Would I dare rip my skin, my flesh off of my bones?
How could I blame them?
How could I possibly judge them?
Social order and obedience
in confabulation, in conspiracy, in complicity
Somebody will keep pulling on the rope
to swing the bells; they will toll for me:
the one who guards his own cell.
Cause I'm the jailer, and the convict, and the crime.