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THE
MORAL MAZE
He
smears the wall with shit and phlegm and blood,
sprays
it with piss and rubs it with his hand,
shouting
obscenities and high on smack:
a
Pollock which takes bollocks to expand.
This
man, your prisoner, banged up for life,
a
crazy killer, lets his mural dry,—
and
does it have a meaning? Does it fuck!
Pretend
his act makes sense and you would lie.
Crap
is just crap. He wasn’t
put in here
to
make a contribution but to rot.
Parole
him, he’d go out and kill again,
not
using tears to wash the world, but snot.
When
free his pleasure was to knife and rape.
He
is tattooed with HATE and swastikas.
Don’t
try to send a therapist or priest;
he’d
tear a bible up to wipe his arse.
He’s
mad and bad, he’s everything you’re not.
Think
of the worst, imagine what he’s been,
and
in disgust you’d throw away the key
and
not blame this on a defective gene.
Castrate
the bastard, you would safely say.
He’d
smear his faeces in whatever cell.
Anger
you know but not his murderous rage.
This
is a temper born to live in hell.
Alan
Marshfield
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