Friday, February 3, 2012

Through Old Spectacles: The Jail (Poetic Prose)

There is a common compulsion (duress) to a floor of a jail (perhaps a prison). A tang or aftertaste, of the herded, and their smell: a craze caused by a drumming against a door, a crazed drumming: the compulsion of abandonment.
There is an occasional and stylistic strangeness about a jail cell, its iron doors, and its clang. Corridors are like alleys, rare passages that slowly decay the flesh. A new-world in pedigree, for the rare-breed, —it is all timelessness. You never adopt—to this drama (which often, too often, you may describe as a dream—count the days), describe as a story as it were, where exists a fifth wall to the room you’re in, which would otherwise be a stage (and is in your dream) with a backdrop, a deep one, where if only one had wings, could escape (and perhaps one does develop them for a moment for flick of an eyelash).
Here presents the on stage of enforced unnatural restlessness, movements regulated of the incarcerated. Here comes together inmates, people who would never by any other chance have got to know each other—; where resides no common bond, class or opinion that will be allowed to harden.
You battle down the nausea, avoid the hyenas. Better than this you learn your psychological limits, for in this environment: in its alleys and cells, and behind its never ending walls, there are all kinds of animals: the Fighters, the Judas’, Mr. Clean, the Fixer, the Bully, the man that peeks over your shoulder, to see if he can…seditious minds; many not susceptible to psychological analysis, too indefinable, the etcetera.
All in all, one becomes so utterly un-at-ease while just waiting for the axe to fall, or the door to open, metaphorically speaking.

#3362 (12/30/2011)