Two days after my eternally loveable girlfriend and I surprised her entire family by travelling from the other side of the world and turning up in the south of France completely unannounced, we find ourselves dining in the naturally illustrious garden of Andre Bonaventure, Laure’s semi-estranged father. Its seven pm, the sun wont set for three hours more, and there’s fresh sardines on the menu. There’s a slight air of awkwardness around the table as we meet Andre’s new girlfriend for the first time, and I do my best to ease the tension by making small but witty jokes in broken French, usually aimed at our host, who responds well with smiles that indicate an approval of my improvement in his language. Since Laure’s family is somewhat dysfunctional due to long stories not to be told here, there is often the need for a small excuse to bring them together, and tonight it’s a small concert in the village adjacent. I was told on the previous day that it was going to be rock n roll, but now we’re discussing the band and apparently there are only two members. There seems to be confusion at the table as to the genre we shall see this evening, with various words like folk and punk being unsurely thrown round, or else it is the lack of command I have over the language which fails my comprehension of what is otherwise a coherent conversation. Once dinner is finished an elaborate cake is presented alongside champagne of course, champagne which instantly demotes the sparkling white wine I consume in Australia to the ranks of barely drinkable in comparison. After we’re done with desert I whip out my new Toulouse made hand-crafted acoustic guitar and begin strumming tunes more than reminiscent of Spanish influences, as I know it will appease my company. We’re only forty five minutes from the border of Spain after all. Andre is immediately stimulated and drawn, and begins to almost aggressively demand that I learn to play an old Spanish anarchist anthem which has recently become his latest obsession. Under the influence of the alcohol he has consumed, he begins loudly and proudly singing, encouraging and wildly gesturing for me to accompany his melody with chords, in a song which I’ve never before heard, which is obviously an unreasonable request.

In honesty, Andre is a very likeable but fairly ridiculous character. He is short in stature and he carries sixty-two years. He almost always wears earthy coloured hiking pants, leather boots and modest shirts, most likely artefacts of his twenty years as a guide up the Pyrenees Mountains. He has recently grown his hair to what could be considered long for an old man, and his new look could even be described as vaguely Einsteinian. He is an extremely keen photographer of the natural world around the mountains, and he has even published a book of his works. He possesses highly contemplated yet somewhat twisted principles, to which his strict adherence often sends him off on a passionate rant, no matter the company he’s with. He is charismatic, but he is volatile. After losing multiple people in his life due to his intolerable temper and inability to forgive, he is left with less than the lion’s share of love. He has an unparalleled passion for anarchism. Like a large predatory reptile whose attention is immediately and completely consumed by the detection of a small and mobile object, Andre is involuntarily drawn to any vague notions of socialism, anti-fascism or anarchism that might have arisen in conversation, and he pounces upon such moments with a respectable ferocity; to elaborate, to inform, to express and to discuss such concepts endlessly into the night with anyone who will listen, so long as there is still some red wine or l’eau de vie available to drink. Andre is always acting cool and calm, and he clearly projects an aura of could-not-give-a-fuck-ness about what anyone thinks of him. This is the image seen by everyone else, and indeed it may be true. But I, claiming to possess finely tuned powers of observation, detect faint whispers of regret and perhaps even sorrow buried deep in his soul. Yet Andre is just too proud, and I suspect he would rather die than admit to any truth in my words. Despite this detection, there really is something quite admirable about his attitude towards life and society, as well as the absolute realness with which he lives it. In the end, to anyone even mildly interested in radical characters, Andre is extremely likeable, and I am proud to have him as my friend. His entourage are dining with us tonight as well as attending the concert, and they include a poet, a cheese-maker, an English teacher, a poetry publisher, a newspaper editor and finally a gravestone maker, all of whom appear to me as both charming and wise. They are all lifelong anarchists, and have participated in countless demonstrations against the fascist elements of France’s recent governments, in both their local communities and the larger cities of France. They all seem to be well read, and can recall with precision and accuracy the detailed history of most class struggles that have occurred in the last few centuries, the whole world over. As I find myself growing more and more politically conscious at the age of twenty-six, I realise that I may have stumbled upon this group of people at just the right time. Desert is now finished, and Laure and I, along with Andre’s entourage, pack ourselves into two cars heading to Encausse, a small and nearby village.

The venue is a large and run down café/bar type thing, a common business model around these parts. Made of old stone it looks no different from any other building in this village except for the crowd of ten or so sprawling from the entrance onto the street. It would be safe to say that Laure and I don’t necessarily fit the part here tonight. Laure is a beautiful twenty six year old woman clad in highly fashionable attire, such that she’d be much more appropriately placed in a Parisian or more likely Melbournian designer store. I’m sporting my standard Jim Morrison style, with rather skinny brown jeans, leather boots and a white Indian style embroidered and button-less shirt. Most other people here are dressed like half bums. Tracksuit pants, thongs and 30-40 year old flannelette shirts seem to be the norm. Perhaps due to our appearances, we are greeted with somewhat polarised responses, receiving either distrustful stares or enthusiastic handshakes. I have a buzz going from all the drink consumed over dinner, which I would like to maintain, so I ask if we should go inside and get a beer. But as always, the Southern French are in no hurry and so I’m barely acknowledged as this motley crew of anarchists continue to unroll their meet and greet. I notice that there certainly are some strange looking men and women here as people slowly roll up to the café. There’s a guy who must be 7 foot tall who greatly resembles Zack de la Rocha and there’s even an aging Ozzy Ozzbourne to be found. There are punks, dread lock hippies, gentlemanly dressed old men and even a few good ol’ fashioned mullet touting bogans. Ha! I didn’t know there were bogans in France! But now that I think about it, mullet does sound as though it might just be a French word…

As more and more people arrive the awkwardness and stares slowly subside. Then the casual observation of my surroundings is interrupted by a perceivably magical moment. The poet of the night, the man who shall sing for us shortly, steps outside to join our group for a cigarette. He could not be dressed any plainer, all in unmarked black. He uses a single crutch to aid his awkward hobble. Despite his balding, he grows long and wild grey hair. A few people greet him but most are in awe. The conversation being had before his arrival must have been vaguely political and to dispel the unwanted awe that he must have detected, he re-kindles the conversation. He offers a power-dragged cigarettes worth of poetic wisdom on the topic before excusing himself to prepare for the show. The crowd is again in awe and Laure is particularly taken back from his words – “Wow… that guy is a real poet Mitch… What he just said was beautiful but I’m sorry, untranslatable…” - He is Jean-Claude Lalanne, and he has been writing poetry and playing music for 51 years.

At this point I demanded in French that we get some beers and some members of the circle agree and follow me to the bar. The bar tender is a large and jolly black woman who seems at least as drunk as any other patron in this venue at this stage of the evening. We sit back outside and enjoy cigarettes and what is very cheap beer whilst looking on as more bundles of very odd looking people roll in. At some stage two large vans covered in poorly executed spray-painted graffiti, whose interiors I can’t see, but I assume have been converted to mobile homes, rather chaotically pull up and park incorrectly perpendicular to all the other vehicles in the carpark adjacent the café. Two whole families of punk/hippy hybrids fall out of the vans with children, dogs and all, and despite being French, they are actually all quite reminiscent of Brad Pitt and his Pyke family in Snatch. I’m a cynical man, and I must confess that I can’t stand this particular breed of human. They are dirty, inconsiderate, perpetually loud, disorganised and genuinely bad at raising children. They’re dressed in hippie attire of the South American style which can be found at every local market of the Midi-Pyrenees region and they proudly sport bizarre combinations of filthy dreadlocks and provocatively shaved regions of scalp, both men and women alike. There are enough of these characters with a similar appearance that I can conclude this is actually some kind of sought after style… Madness…

Suddenly, a huge wallop of bass drum and clambering of undistorted guitar chords make us aware that the concert commences, and we rush inside to see the show. What I see on stage is reasonably strange. There are only two people. The poet described earlier whose hair has managed to grown even wilder, standing on the right, and on the left, it is his musical accomplice, nicknamed Mousse [her real name is unknown], a thirty something woman who lacks both expression and femininity. Her face is plain with emotion and she casually looks about the room as though she’s really quite bored of the whole scene. Her guitar however is rather impressive. She plays nothing complex, simple and well known chords with predictable progressions, but her rhythm is impeccable and consistent and the sound she has found is unique and pleasant. Then, eight chord changes in; Jean-Claude begins to sing. His voice is fucking enormous. It’s an eruption. It carries the unmovable power and deep rumbling of a volcano. I must admit that I’m instantly impressed and even somewhat blown away by the pipes of this sixty eight year old man. He now wears reading glasses and peers over a music stand presumably presenting his lyrics, and he almost desperately leans all over and relies on his single crutch to remain vertical. The crowd love the old man and are already dancing, holding their beers high in the air and what few of them who know the lyrics are singing along. There are maybe only twenty people in the bar, but more are finishing their cigarettes or just arriving and thus the bar is filling rapidly.

Mousse wears a Dylan style harmonica brace and she pumps out simple but quaint melodies in each vocal break. These harp riffs lend a playful element to what otherwise is largely punk driven music. The first song is finished and the crowd, now forty strong, erupts with yelling, cheering and general hoodlum noises of appreciation. Jean-Claude has already broken out in a vicious sweat, and after clearing his face of the stuff with his forearm in what was the slow motion mannerism of an actual giant, he reveals a grand and genuine smile, potentially indicative of the thoughts: “Yes! This is where I want to be. This is where I belong!” He pauses for a quick “Bon soir… merci beaucoup…” Before ripping back into the next tune… “Une deux trois quatre!”

I mentioned that Mousse is playing both guitar and harp, but now she’s playing the bass drum with her right foot as well. This is a total of three instruments that she’s playing simultaneously, and I’m impressed. The second song is not significantly different from the first, at least not in its melody and style. As the music races on, Laure attempts frantically to translate some of the lyrics into my right ear. And she does so very well. Most of his words contain notions of struggles for freedom or ideologies either vaguely or explicitly associated with anarchism. Someone at the bar just bought ten beers for pretty much anyone who wants them and is handing them out to the crowd. I grab one and thank him, there is certainly a sense of comradery to be felt this evening, and for an instant it precipitated in this gesture. The second song is now finished and Jean-Claude takes a moment to address his audience in spoken words. His adrenaline and beer have now rendered his voice unbelievably deep and coarse, as he proudly and unabashedly cries out “Sixty-eight years old and still fucking! Thanks so much to Viagra!” Laure translates, but even I understood this one. The crowd absolutely loves it. Someone in the crowd palms him a beer. He skulls half of it and then suddenly slams the remainder down onto his music stand before violently and awkwardly ripping off his plain black t-shirt and throwing it behind his head, as though before it was holding him back, and now he can truly be himself, pulling shapes that previously he could not. This may be difficult to properly explain in writing, and hard for my reader to believe, but this small physical act might just be one of the most rock n roll moments I’ve ever witnessed, and I’ve been to a lot of concerts. His revealed physique is far from flattering. He has a large and round belly, spotted with coloured lesions which might be linked to some disease that I’m unable to identify, since I’m no medical doctor. He has now no need for his crutch, it’s been tossed away, and he’s half hobbling, half Jagger-prancing around the stage, flexing what muscle he has and pointing to the ceiling as he counts in the next song. For sixty eight, his energy, enthusiasm and power are nothing short of impressive. The songs rumble on, one by one and the beers keep flowing into all the punters hands without anybody really caring about who’s paying for what. After forty-five minutes there’s an interval. We drink more beers and chain smoke cigarettes.

Before the second last song Jean-Claude paused to tell a somewhat romantic and sentimental anti-establishment tale. As I understand it, he had been a poet and a musician since before the age of sixteen. One day in the early sixties, he was humbly and modestly singing a protest song whilst busking the streets of Paris. His song was speaking out against the French occupation of Algeria, and all the horrors associated therewith. For this simple and poetic one man protest, he was picked up by the authorities and promptly thrown into jail. Interestingly, I had always thought of France as the country where resistance and protest were constantly resonating in the psyche and heart of its citizens, but from stories like this, I learn that perhaps we can find oppression wherever we look. In any case, it’s quite obvious that this first brush with the authorities left quite a scar on Jean-Claude, one which perhaps he vowed to honour every day since that event. My perception of him crystallises as hey now begins screaming out to the crowd: “Fuck France! Fuck nationalism! Fuck patriotism! Fuck Sarcozy!” [Sarcozy was not in power at the time but the bitter taste of his terms must still be on Jean-Claude’s tongue]. With every exclamation his fist powers high in the air and he has the whole crowd completely under his control as they synchronise and feel with him. In this moment, Jean-Claude Lalanne is both a musical hero, and for knowingly doing what he has done for forty years, despite no prospect of fame or money, he is also a beat-nick hero.

After his final song, Jean-Claude looks simultaneously exhilarated and exhausted. About to leave the stage, he changes his mind and walks back to violently claw the microphone. He turns his head back to face the ceiling, and begins to sing with such passion, Leo Ferre’s Les Anarchistes at the top of his lungs. But fuck, he actually has a great voice. He’s crooning now, in the typical French style of the sixties, with long droning notes containing high frequency vibrato. He singing is completely bare, with no music to hide behind, and it sounds fucking beautiful. The song he is singing is Ferre’s famous tribute to the fierce ardour of the old Spanish anarchists. I look around. Andre and all of the other old anarchists mentioned earlier are singing along with him at the top of their lungs in a moment of real passion and empathy for one-another’s political mindsets. But all of the youth, including most especially those poly-canine owning, semi-dread-locked Pyke’s, stare somewhat confusedly as he wails. This last fanatic and almost obsessive display leaves me with absolutely no doubt Jean Claude’s commitment to anarchism and indeed the arts in general. But as I sip away at what is probably the last beer for the evening and watch over the boisterous crowd, I can’t help but detect what might be something of a disconnect between the wise old men, and these rebellion hungry youths. As I understand it, anarchism is a very serious political and economic philosophy which many individuals and cultures believe, is a legitimate rival to the currently dominating systems. Many an academic has studied and considered the potential benefits and ramifications that might result from such a system, and anarchism has even reached brief periods of fruition [for example, Catalonia in the Spanish civil war]. Since Leo Ferre has long been considered the most original and greatest anarchist/protest musician and poet in the history of the French language, then to me, it should follow that anyone considering themselves as a serious French anarchist would have to be at least vaguely acquainted with the work of such an artist. But no, Jean-Claude’s display received only blank or curious stares from the youth all round. After the show is over, we slowly make our way back to the car, receiving very friendly and even embraced goodbyes from friends of Andre’s. But the punk/hippie/pyke crews are all over the place, dominating the atmosphere of the carpark with drunken shenanigans. Yelling seems to be the only available form of communication, dogs confusedly run wild amongst chaos, motorbikes are performing burnouts, middle aged women possessing hyper-wrinkled faces are vomiting on the pavement, and all the while, the children of these adults look on with disapproving but jaded stares on their faces. From what I can see, the true message of anarchism did not quite traverse the generations. The true message, may have been lost along the way.

Thank-you for taking the time to ready my piece, please see my personal details below:

Title: Prince Ringard 

Genre: Essay/non-fiction/memoir 

Word count: Approximately 3300 

Author name: Mitchell McInerney, but I normally use the nom de plume Dylan Waters, because I loathe my real name and the constant mispronunciation thereof.

Why your project is a good fit: I really like essays and non-fiction short stories. My favourite writer is George Orwell, and of all his work, his collection of essays stands out as superior to me. Like him I find the essay format the best way to prove a point, but it would seem to me that the essay as an art form is somewhat fading in today's world. I write essays and nonfiction stories constantly, and I see much value in collections thereof.

Target audience: anybody who sees that there are many things wrong in the world, and would like to share understanding of humanities problems, and work together to identify solutions. 

Your bio: I am a 30 year old scientist working on Alzheimer's disease, and I am tantalisingly close to receiving my PhD in pharmacology. 

Experience: I have been writing constantly since the age of around 12, almost always for personal enjoyment, and I have rarely taken things further than this. I often share my work with friends, and receive fantastic feedback from them, but only over the last year have I attempted to get anything published. So far I have published 3 scientific papers (one of which received great praise from the journal editors) and two non-scientific essays on prose's sister blog site. 

Likes/hobbies: Music - I play saxophone, guitar and piano and I produce my own electronic music as well as jamming with friends. I have a passion for knowledge and science as well.

Hometown, age: I am from Melbourne, Australia and have just turned 30 years old.

Delirium sweet delirium

My second home, my second night

In the midst of my pondering I lose direction, to which I have no objection

My second home, my second night

In the mean of my thought, oriental confusions spitter and spatter, but for me it does not matter,

My second home, my second night

In the flow of my consciousness, the compass be frantic and stoned, In this place I am alone,

My second home, my second night

Delirium sweet delirium, for just how long will you occupy my desires, naked and embraced with callused hands? For just how long will I stare into your fires, with eyes glazed and left unwanting? Is it you behind the blue velvet veil delirium? Driving my every action, residuous and haunting in your calling? Or do you politely accept the formal invitation of a vulnerable acquaintance delirium, oh my sweet delirium?

Subtly pushing against the momentum of my contemplation, the words erode beneath my feet and I collapse with grace and without defeat, oh delirium!...

Clouding the path of my judgement, aggressive in your intrusion, and all for what? A grandeur illusion! Delusion. Delirium.

Convoluting my manifestations, with work that is crooked and ill, but still I push on, never free from, the craving I have for your fill; OH DELIRIUM!

Jaded, faded

Tainted, fainted

You are remotely familiar to the rest, you are vaguely defined by the slipperiest of words, you surround me, you engulf my soul with an endless shadow that acquires me, assimilates me, and I become you, you sweet thing you, my second home, my second night,

Delirium.

Delirium sweet delirium

My second home, my second night

In the midst of my pondering I lose direction, to which I have no objection

My second home, my second night

In the mean of my thought, oriental confusions spitter and spatter, but for me it does not matter,

My second home, my second night

In the flow of my consciousness, the compass be frantic and stoned, In this place I am alone,

My second home, my second night

Delirium sweet delirium, for just how long will you occupy my desires, naked and embraced with callused hands? For just how long will I stare into your fires, with eyes glazed and left unwanting? Is it you behind the blue velvet veil delirium? Driving my every action, residuous and haunting in your calling? Or do you politely accept the formal invitation of a vulnerable acquaintance delirium, oh my sweet delirium?

Subtly pushing against the momentum of my contemplation, the words erode beneath my feet and I collapse with grace and without defeat, oh delirium!...

Clouding the path of my judgement, aggressive in your intrusion, and all for what? A grandeur illusion! Delusion. Delirium.

Convoluting my manifestations, with work that is crooked and ill, but still I push on, never free from, the craving I have for your fill; OH DELIRIUM!

Jaded, faded

Tainted, fainted

You are remotely familiar to the rest, you are vaguely defined by the slipperiest of words, you surround me, you engulf my soul with an endless shadow that acquires me, assimilates me, and I become you, you sweet thing you, my second home, my second night,

Delirium.

We are

The desperate leftovers

Clinching at fragments of the night

Essential belongings casually misplaced

Strewn all about the Northern suburbs

In chaotic moments, bare and humble

We are

Indulgingly the world’s greatest critics

Inevitably our own undoers

Yet endlessly satisfied with petty reflections

Of those who passed through, without malice or intrude

We are the shreds of screaming life

Teeming with unsubstantiated attitude

The essence of ignorant youth

Half dead and far less than half enlightened

In a place of neutral existence

We are

Embracing the carelessly placed flames

With vague shrouds of notions of safety

We are the pieces that the night threw away

Wandering aimlessly

Navigating through lost without handles

Misplaced limbs - a possible cause for confusion

We are

Experiencing vague notions of romance

Chosen to fall witness to this sunrise sky so red and orange

The heavens are on fire and well alive with indiscriminate whispers of god

We are

Slaved to those neurotransmitters residual

In the haze of an ether of a dream of a lunge

And then of someone else’s dream again and again

Endlessly, perpetually, falling away from our right minded occupational habits

We are

On the verge of inescapable collapsation

Simultaneously indestructible, essentially complete

Yet irresistibly fragile - all the while and twice more

We are relentlessly charging forward to hopeful and virgin territories

We are on the precipice of knowing

We are chasing those moments of perfection

With the passion of infinity

We are

We are

The desperate leftovers

Clinching at fragments of the night

Essential belongings casually misplaced

Strewn all about the Northern suburbs

In chaotic moments, bare and humble

We are

Indulgingly the world’s greatest critics

Inevitably our own undoers

Yet endlessly satisfied with petty reflections

Of those who passed through, without malice or intrude

We are the shreds of screaming life

Teeming with unsubstantiated attitude

The essence of ignorant youth

Half dead and far less than half enlightened

In a place of neutral existence

We are

Embracing the carelessly placed flames

With vague shrouds of notions of safety

We are the pieces that the night threw away

Wandering aimlessly

Navigating through lost without handles

Misplaced limbs - a possible cause for confusion

We are

Experiencing vague notions of romance

Chosen to fall witness to this sunrise sky so red and orange

The heavens are on fire and well alive with indiscriminate whispers of god

We are

Slaved to those neurotransmitters residual

In the haze of an ether of a dream of a lunge

And then of someone else’s dream again and again

Endlessly, perpetually, falling away from our right minded occupational habits

We are

On the verge of inescapable collapsation

Simultaneously indestructible, essentially complete

Yet irresistibly fragile - all the while and twice more

We are relentlessly charging forward to hopeful and virgin territories

We are on the precipice of knowing

We are chasing those moments of perfection

With the passion of infinity

We are

You always perpetuate - the same old shitty clichés

Like a mindless fool for the mob

Never a thought you can call of good

Nor that you can call of your own

Never nature nor art nor peace be your reason

Never gentle nor loving nor grace be your mode

Never truth never soul never just you expose

And personal liberty - is completely out of the question

Always calculated and cunning and strategic of progression

Always controlling and confusing and aggressing the weak

Always striving to dominate - for fear of losing it all

And what is it all?

It’s nothing.

It doesn’t exist.

It isn’t real.

It’s what drives you to wake up in the morning and what eases you from stress to sleep in the night

But it doesn’t exist.

What a shame - a shame of a life

Your purpose does not warrant your existence

I am sorry for you, for the monster that you’ve become

You can’t feel like I can

You can’t feel the ecstatic peaks of my love grip

You can’t feel the particular vibrations resonating in your temple

You can’t feel the Whitmans and the Allens and the Dylans massaging your soul

Yes you could once, but you chose to throw it all away, in single pursuit of your filthy vice

I protest your masculine cause from my living room

With eyes glazed and strings in my hands

My hair is long and rich and it covers my eyes so that I don’t have to look on at your chaos

My protest is passive and maternal,

I simply refuse to play your game

But even though I do not interfere with your precious machine,

For you that still just won’t do

You try and force me to grip the wheel as it rolls,

Try to place my feet on the rungs

But upon my refusal, to fury you turn

And you threaten me with the full force of your institutions

But still I refuse, so you turn to me square,

A promise of hatred and cruelty in your stare

You kick me in the face with boots heavy and rancid,

But I do not cry in pain

I do not flinch, I do not flex,

I lift not a finger to oppose your cause

Rather I fix my gaze upon yours, with a chard of knowing in my eyes

And you recognise this stance, from somewhere deep and distant in your past, long since forgotten by so many of your kind

You stress and perplex and search desperately for the correct response, grasping frantically all the way through your experiences so limited

My face bloodied and broken, I laugh to your confusion

To which you respond , the only way you know how

By raising your cane high in the night, desperately clenched by your knuckles so white

It will sail through the air, and come down through the room, and strike me with malice once more!

“Why don’t you fight?? – Why don’t you resist??”

You scream in confusion and rage

Still silent I lay, and my smile it transcends as you collapse in a heap on the floor

*

And after making you wait, for the right moment’s grace

And to let my words heavy on like a stone

I open my mouth and calmly I utter

I

Love

You

You always perpetuate - the same old shitty clichés

Like a mindless fool for the mob

Never a thought you can call of good

Nor that you can call of your own

Never nature nor art nor peace be your reason

Never gentle nor loving nor grace be your mode

Never truth never soul never just you expose

And personal liberty - is completely out of the question

Always calculated and cunning and strategic of progression

Always controlling and confusing and aggressing the weak

Always striving to dominate - for fear of losing it all

And what is it all?

It’s nothing.

It doesn’t exist.

It isn’t real.

It’s what drives you to wake up in the morning and what eases you from stress to sleep in the night

But it doesn’t exist.

What a shame - a shame of a life

Your purpose does not warrant your existence

I am sorry for you, for the monster that you’ve become

You can’t feel like I can

You can’t feel the ecstatic peaks of my love grip

You can’t feel the particular vibrations resonating in your temple

You can’t feel the Whitmans and the Allens and the Dylans massaging your soul

Yes you could once, but you chose to throw it all away, in single pursuit of your filthy vice

I protest your masculine cause from my living room

With eyes glazed and strings in my hands

My hair is long and rich and it covers my eyes so that I don’t have to look on at your chaos

My protest is passive and maternal,

I simply refuse to play your game

But even though I do not interfere with your precious machine,

For you that still just won’t do

You try and force me to grip the wheel as it rolls,

Try to place my feet on the rungs

But upon my refusal, to fury you turn

And you threaten me with the full force of your institutions

But still I refuse, so you turn to me square,

A promise of hatred and cruelty in your stare

You kick me in the face with boots heavy and rancid,

But I do not cry in pain

I do not flinch, I do not flex,

I lift not a finger to oppose your cause

Rather I fix my gaze upon yours, with a chard of knowing in my eyes

And you recognise this stance, from somewhere deep and distant in your past, long since forgotten by so many of your kind

You stress and perplex and search desperately for the correct response, grasping frantically all the way through your experiences so limited

My face bloodied and broken, I laugh to your confusion

To which you respond , the only way you know how

By raising your cane high in the night, desperately clenched by your knuckles so white

It will sail through the air, and come down through the room, and strike me with malice once more!

“Why don’t you fight?? – Why don’t you resist??”

You scream in confusion and rage

Still silent I lay, and my smile it transcends as you collapse in a heap on the floor

*

And after making you wait, for the right moment’s grace

And to let my words heavy on like a stone

I open my mouth and calmly I utter

I

Love

You

Desire is probably the mental activity with which we humans occupy our entire lives. Desires such as that for a better job, for more sex, for a bigger house, for that irresistible food, for ownership of that new material object, for popularity and status, are only some of the countless everyday desires that go on to incessantly pester and plague our minds.  

Perhaps life as a human is just one continuous patchwork of desires, only ever briefly interrupted by tiny periods of satisfaction brought about by realising those desires, which are themselves the threads holding the whole worthless blanket together.