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Poetry (ART & LIES)

from the book Art & lies by Jeanette Winterson
In the dark places that do not need light, where light would be a lie,
overstating what is better understood invisibly, it is possible to resist Time's pull.
The body ages, dies, but the mind is free.
If the body is personal, the mind is transpersonal, it's range is not limited by action or desire.
It's range is not limited by identity.

I need the dark places to get outside common sense.
To go beyond the smug ring of electric light that pretends to illuminate the world.
'Nothing exists beyond this,' sings the world, glaring at me from it's
yellow sockets, 'nothing exists beyond now.'

I challenge the stale yellow light to a duel.

That which is only living can only die.

The spirit has gone out of the world.
I fear the dead bodies settling around me, the corpses of humanity, fly-blown and ragged.
I fear the executive zombies, the shop zombies, the church zombies, the writerly zombies, all mouthing platitudes, the language of the dead, all mistaking hobbies for passions, the folly of the dead.

There is no distinguishing among the dead.

Eat the same apples, day comes, night falls.
Read the same newspapers, day comes, night falls.
Turn on the television, day comes, night falls.
Assert your individuality with one voice.
Day comes night falls.

The world is a charnal house racked with the dead.
The dead have no need of words, no desires that appetite cannot satisfy.
The dead, their greedy mouthes, empty, their tounges torn out and hung up to dry.
The dried out shrivelled up babble of the mourgue.
The sealed room where the same old words are everyday tortured and killed.

Too bitter? perhaps, but I have found that human nature is bitter, twisted roots of wormwood and gall, the buried death-in-life, that still fears the grave.
Having killed part of me, I fear it less than those who do their murdering with unconcious hands, the daily suicide that preceeds all crimes.
Love of money.
Fear of death.
Twin engines of the human race.
Foolish then to search for wings?
Inhuman even?
But I dream of flight, not to be as the angels, but to rise above the smallness of it all.
The smallness that I am.
Against the daily death the iconograhpy of wings.

She had been bricked around with lies.