Writing about my life. When I'm well it's math and code… But when the schizy demon rises it's prose and poetry.

Arbeit (poem)

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Instead of moving up another level in game-reality
by getting better at wasting enemies as meant to be

something moved me to ahimsa – harmlessness

while in the west we still fight the devil of our projections
in the grip of an inherited piety

ahimsa makes a home for the sensitive soul
the one that each of us really can be

whether those once sensitive were thrashed out of it
in the bootcamp of capitalism

treated and incarcerated for the crime of natural awareness
and left without work, like I am

is this falsest of myths…
that there is such a thing as a truly normal person
ever promoted with any meaning or justice?

these questions I need answered O normal one

although even admitting confusion
a fight against my delusion

has me castigated and pursued
by philistines wearing white coats

but through madness I get gifts that you don’t, some mystery
I get to take a peek into the secret margin notes of history

these incessant imaginary conversations with voices

are they in my life’s margin? are they true?
a private torment? a thing of use? not to you

the great pilgrimage that each of makes
no matter who
towards learning to love

sociopaths, narcissists write poems in locked units
during art therapy groups
poems about spring flowers

yes no-one is denied that path
despite you and your prejudice O normal one

you who would barricade our road to the Temple

you who say so casually “he is not all there”
when years ago it was “he is touched by god”

and your paymasters, doctors, petty judges of all kinds

keep you on your narrow highway
you were with Franco in his day

the way you glare at the revellers past those houses
it is like a vow to destroy joy wherever it arises

as they dance in anarchy in ragged rows
the dark disapproval in your eyes shows

because you belong
and will not let me belong too

because you deserve
and will not grant me the same right

the way you look at me
like there is something wrong with the way I move

children call me “weirdo” and you laugh too
I suppose there will always be men like you

your eyes are unyielding

they are as hard as obsidian
when I accidentally meet them

you stand next to a gateway

it says above it in iron letters “work makes you free”
But I forgot in which room my appointment’s meant to be

I’m confused – is this the doorway to the Jobcentre?
or something quite different you’ve asked me to enter


Written by Luke Dunn

November 15, 2017 at 8:00 am

Posted in Poems

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