Poem: Some Write, Some Speak

Some write , some speak by Andrew Stergiou

Some write , some speak, some refraining,

others in hesitation neither write nor speak,

you idiot, you fool, you bastard,

wishing matters to be as they are not,

desiring words never heard,

unheard we die waiting for word,

a word any word, some word,

angrily scribbled by repressed and angry means,


we are reminded to be calm, to calm down,

to speak civilly, without a question of politics,

positively thinking,

in terms which can be understood,

in pain, in agony, in suffering,

without the partisan politics,

in the greater sense of gangs and politicians,

beaten in remorse, the words are soft and sorrowful,

dead, there are dirges of tears and sweetness,

clichéd, in clichés of clichés,

in mythologies spoken over time,

in histories to drown out the tears,

anthologies in forgetting the human being,

blood and flesh, sticky and discoloured,

where in after life,

gods become legends after death,

deities become gods,

heroes become deities,

as citizens are once again forgotten,

lost in the catacombs of cities,

amongst the graffiti cursing,

shouting fool screaming at the emperor,

hysterically ranting at the mufti,

degrading demeaning the Sultan,

viewing the King, his majesty as the citizen,

arguing over the size and the shape of the peace table,

fools are not fools but idiots,

idiots are not idiots but jesters,

jesters are presidents and kings,

in the proper respect and decorum,

befitting the office of “human beings”

tortured and dying on a bed of death,

of green grass fed with rivers of blood,

speak nicely you will be dying soon,

speak freely get it off your chest,

excusing the follies in protocols of silence,

When the dead and dying do not give a Fuck!

So don’t listen,

your presence is not required,

ever, or any more.

for you rather have your pompous pretensions,

rather than be addressed as knave or fool.

where the suffering has been so great,

where the pain has been systemic,

pain and suffering is embellished,

through propriety,

blurting out obscenities,

whilst obscenities speak,

in rivers of sincerity,

suffering confused and tormented,

Artaud understood,

that convention betrays.

with or without the drugs, money, power,

in the unbridled sadism of civility,

the convention of fate laughs,

laughing at worshipers,

in the divine temple of madness,

twisted to face the unspoken realities.

Some write, some speak, some know.

I myself spent nine years in an insane asylum and I never had the obsession of suicide, but I know that each conversation with a psychiatrist, every morning at the time of his visit, made me want to hang myself, realizing that I would not be able to cut his throat. Antonin Artaud

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