(i.m Bobby Sands who began Hunger Strike against the British Empire on March 1st 1981.)

This is my body

my pale body

my hairy body

my stinking body

my body with its moles and leaks

my body with its scars and sores and sweats

my body with its itches and its aches

my longing body

my weeping body

my body whipped

my body bruised my body crushed

my spat on body my pissed on body

my punched and kicked and electrocuted body

my shivering starving body in a cell

Surrounded by bars and floodlights and grilles

watchtowers and gates and electronic locks

walls inside walls inside walls inside walls

corners where light is slung like a swift axe

shadows pregnant with nooses and saws

barbed wire puzzles,riddles of broken glass

snares of bayonets,mazes of steel pincers and claws

guarded by needles in pipes arrows in clocks

and eight-legged poisonous cameras

by mics attached to Beetles

by double-shifting psychopaths and cannibals

drunken teenage marksmen on the roofs

german shepherds laced with speed

stallions with serrated hooves

besieged by self-reloading magazines

rapid fire repeating headlines

morning artillery and main evening shells

battalions of experts in think thanks

heroic newscasters riding on elephants

khaki battalions of correspondents

the black watchers of Reuters and the BBC

stormed by blowtorches,fists and boots

by electric wires and twine and LSD

by white noise and burning cigarette butts

by a black hole pointed at my mother’s head

by great white sharks circling my Dad

by a mushroom cloud painted over my wife

by tidal waves aimed at my kids

here is my body

my famished and shrivelling body

where I am making my last and unbreakable stand

where slowly, by the ebbing minute

by the shrinking hour

by the days pouring sand in the canyon of my mouth

by the days piling silt in the river of my mouth

by the days spilling lava in the valley of my mouth

I am lightening

I am losing gravity

I am loosening the ballast of my flesh

I am ungluing myself from the spools of myeyes

and untying the knots of my hearing and touch

and slipping the hooks of my taste and my smell

I am winding out of pain’s net

I am winding out of the shrouding of sense

and I am going down to the very core of myself

to be safer from their tortures

than at the centre of a sun

safer than a cave in an ocean trench

safer than ice in mountain’s heart

and there beyond the blind horizon of events

in a prophet’s cell

in a house of pure light

I am giving birth to my invincible death

dave lordan

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