Time Transfixed - René Magritte
If my words are wings that hang on the air like winter breath; like fine blood mist that settles on my face after each pulsation, then let them take me far from here. [not back: you can’t go back when back is what got you here in the first place.]
Taste blood on the tide of sun-bleached uniforms and civilian corpses; destroyed culture and gangster alleyway surprise in desert camouflage; blood on my hands and blood in my mouth – you can’t tell me this is right.
If her words here on this pocketed paper that burns at my thigh; this message in a battle that once carried a faint hint of her; this mind bomb of folded and refolded and disintegrating paper; if her words still held sway, then I might yet hold that thread, that motivation to survive; to return.
If words might warm my feet; might thaw my static heart.
If your words were armed with justice and truth; if your self-belief were justified; then let them take me far from here; not back to the world you have created; the place that got me sent to this hell that we have created; here where everything is questionable; here where my fellow soldiers exhibit an ugly lust for blood and revenge, fuelled as they are with heavy metal soundtracks; playstation reflexes and incompetent leaders; ignorance and hatred for those who would rather we were not here to liberate.
Here where my faith has had its back broken on a cross of cordite and phosphorous.
If words are broken shards of a great design; the book of all; if they have any power at all, then let them take root in the minds of these children – integrity; humility; responsibility – let them keep their meaning; let their power be used to prevent the misuse of power; let them construct great buildings of thought that disavow the use of violence to achieve any goal.
If words were enough to convey this feeling; this hope; this despair; this lack of feeling; this rectangle of blue sky between the tank edge and pock-marked building; then whisper them now in the ear of this medic who, fear in his eyes, thumps at my chest with bloody fist.
If.
Taste blood on the tide of sun-bleached uniforms and civilian corpses; destroyed culture and gangster alleyway surprise in desert camouflage; blood on my hands and blood in my mouth – you can’t tell me this is right.
If her words here on this pocketed paper that burns at my thigh; this message in a battle that once carried a faint hint of her; this mind bomb of folded and refolded and disintegrating paper; if her words still held sway, then I might yet hold that thread, that motivation to survive; to return.
If words might warm my feet; might thaw my static heart.
If your words were armed with justice and truth; if your self-belief were justified; then let them take me far from here; not back to the world you have created; the place that got me sent to this hell that we have created; here where everything is questionable; here where my fellow soldiers exhibit an ugly lust for blood and revenge, fuelled as they are with heavy metal soundtracks; playstation reflexes and incompetent leaders; ignorance and hatred for those who would rather we were not here to liberate.
Here where my faith has had its back broken on a cross of cordite and phosphorous.
If words are broken shards of a great design; the book of all; if they have any power at all, then let them take root in the minds of these children – integrity; humility; responsibility – let them keep their meaning; let their power be used to prevent the misuse of power; let them construct great buildings of thought that disavow the use of violence to achieve any goal.
If words were enough to convey this feeling; this hope; this despair; this lack of feeling; this rectangle of blue sky between the tank edge and pock-marked building; then whisper them now in the ear of this medic who, fear in his eyes, thumps at my chest with bloody fist.
If.
8 comments:
This is one of the greatest pieces of literature I've ever read, your a true wizard of word play. For the first time my musical ideas are being influenced from the purist form of art, painting a colourful alphabet on the canvas of the mind.
Oh, man, Tonefish76 is right on the money. I reread this post again today and wept for the beauty of your expression of its untouchable truth and for its not being read by all soon enough somehow. The last "if" is the threshold between death and rebirth. Today, you are "a man, my son!"
I’m glad you guys enjoyed this. Thanks for your compliments.
Ironically, for me, it’s music that provides the environment in which to write.
Music is where it starts. Music allows the mind freedom to connect thoughts from diverse memory/sources – linking concepts that may to the rational appear nonsensical.
The rules of language appear to me to offer resistance to the mining of deeper meaning; the painting of imagery that bypasses our cultural conditioning.
Music engages the brain as if it were part (rather than controller) of the body.
I’m fascinated by the idea that words, if packed and interlocked in just the right, way may take the form of coal compressed to diamond, may become more than the sum of 26 letters of the alphabet.
Twice I have commented on your posts with music titles, it comes through. Maybe not the same song but connections more like notes than words.
Well me i like it makes me think i could not see the picture but Pisces your words as allways move me.Wish i could keep up better .Be safe walk in peace allways
I don't know if words have as many possibilities as tones or the visual but they sure have plenty, many not yet touched upon.Wielded by someone with your gift, we may find out!
But your concept is also important, going to that place of real blood, the red sticky kind, and pain and horror.Not just the abstract notions which so many use for refuge (politics, philosophy etc) So many fools think "war is hell" is just some macho slogan, they talk about "bleeding, suffering, sweating" (from a pro-war site i just visited) as some sort of transformative rite. They fetishize some imaginary because nothing real gives meaning to their pathetic lives. I feel sorry for them but i am also (obviously) angered by their vacuousness. Great work.
great post Pisces. Excellent stuff
Great prose...or is it poetry?
;)
Loved your ”you can’t go back when back is what got you here in the first place.] Taste blood on the tide of sun-bleached uniforms and civilian corpses; destroyed culture and gangster alleyway surprise in desert camouflage”
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