The Once Idealistic Prisoner

by Eric Natking


His body lies defeated

hugging himself

rejecting the waxed concrete floor


The noose loosens around his neck

The blue evaporates from the pores of his lips

His once defined figure strangles his bones

His beautiful cheekbones long to be crushed like chicken bones under his weight


The mouth of the knot of the bedsheet, as luck would have it,

Fell before his eyes, laughing at him

He turns away from his defeat

Crawling like some crippled stillborn, bloody,

Underneath his bed, to hide


He shivers with anger

Embraced by his cowardice, his failure

That which is weakest for him is idealised

As he lies, thin as a junkie, shaking like an abandoned pup

He appreciates no rhythm, nor tone, nor pitch


The humble trumpets playing minor progressions abandon him

The poetry tattooed on his wrists bleeds away

The memories of paintings burnt as a youth melts

He hugs himself

and shivers

and tries to embrace the incessant screaming


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