Arbeit Macht Frei

please see "authors note" below for disclaimers

One year too late.

The pistol carcass drives it's slates into me,

Gunpowder, treason, intent.

The sea-shell crevasse, the unintended monsoon.

Rolling together like the '97 rover tyre wheels, 

Clenched in moist grit and pulped sand.

Work. I drive myself into you,

Calloused slave hands rushing windswept ash, dirty Jew left-overs,

Into your bones, cartwheeling across the marsh

Make martyrdom. I make you rich, squalid,

Sorry you ever met me, grey eyes, blood type

Lichen, sucking out the world between my dirty girl teeth.

Free - and then I caress a sigh, a perfect withdraw

My fists lean free of the pellet. We, not one of us are free 

As long as our lungs live the way of a dulled dry raison, a solitary nun-

I hang my body free, out of glass, 

A perfect Me-shape, by mortician's crafting,

A perfect bubble of a girl, of a stew

Burn it up, I do, I do-

I become not one whole, but thousands

I am at the beach, the children make castles out of me.

I meet you there, behind the bow-tie fences,

I prick my fingertips, a perfectly unconscious beauty,

I sleep lips parted eyes shut hands coiled

I take to the shelf, hands bondaged, 

With all the other silly toys, disillusioned force-fields,

Teddy, one-eyed drone, asks how you've grown

I maximise the steel promise

The thick reel, fat goose

Falling away like spoons

I am egged now -- a sunshine bouncing girl,

Loving you the way loving is supposed to go

Hungering, longing & lingering, ache ache, Ach, Ach,

I go for miles now, my knees bobbling for you

The old strut of lore on my lap

Giggling like a spluttering infant

Beheaded the sincerest way,

Sweet smile, earnest eyes, jelly jaw

The gingerly criss-cross marking out the muscles

My abdomen reaches for you,

An out-of-body experience, an earthly roar,

A quake of up-and-coming thunder

The lightening breaks on the pearl gates of Heaven

And up-rises Hell like cattle, red eyed,

Ready to charge, bells savaging

The old ocean of the throat catalysts one more time,

Brown, bad man, when will you come? I have hungered

Long for your reflex, ionising fay. 

Author's Note

firstly -- i mean this to be construed in the most respectful way. i know this may upset or offend people, and if this be the case, tell me right away, and i will be happy to remove it and offer my sincerest apologies for any upset i may cause. i appreciate and respect the world's great miseries and realise i am an unsanitary teenaged girl who cannot condone them in this or that -- i do not want to offend, i only want to make art, but i realise that humanity's torments are by no means my lease on that.

Also, a note about one of my spellings:
the word "bondaged" was spelt so on purpose - try think of the double meaning, try think of the story i am trying to tell. if you know even a little of this, relate it to that, as well - it will help you in not one, not two - but three ways.

Reviews

[A. Amos]

Writing is an art which have no boundaries to share your expression, I believe in finding postivity out of negativity. I admire your writing and for me your a wonderful writer, keep creating the magic because your born to be a writer!

[Arrinae]

I enjoyed this piece, and I have to say this: it doesn't matter if you offend anyone, for they have no right to demand you take it down. As a writer, you can write anything and everything, the only opinion that should matter is yours.

No one can tell you what to write, or when to do so. Only you can tell yourself that. Only you know, when you have somehtign that you believe is worth writing down. Who cares if others are offended.
The world may now be turning into a place where everyone is more concerned about hurt feelings, rather than good dicipline and the messages and lessons that can be learned from hurt feelings, but there is no reason in being offended over something that has no real affect on you.


Honestly it irks me how so many people nowadays are afraid to be themselves, let alone teach their children right from wrong for fear of 'hurting their identity'. Sorry about the rant, and thank you for sharing this ith us.

[Amorette Duvannes]

I appreciate what you're saying, and thank you for it. I didn't expect people to feel so strongly about the author's note when I wrote it - I felt like people would read the poem and immediately be outraged by the way I dared to make a cheap, watery mimic of something so frightful and destructive. I'm lucky, and indebted, to the open-mindedness of people that have allowed me to acquire constructive criticism and general feedback from other writers here.

However, the point I was making was, in and of itself, nothing to do with me or any mental or emotional suppressive tendencies on my part. Nor was it anything to do with an identity crisis or a weak front I was too afraid to support with more solidity -- I merely meant that I knew I was toying with something that was a reality long before I was born, and should it be wrongfully depicted in any way, I'd like to think I knew where the dichotomy lies between art or expression, and general respect for the public and those who have suffered before me.

Thank you very much for your engaging comments and for taking time to glance over my work; it really means an awful lot to me, which is not something I can express with actual, real words.

[Arrinae]

Its not a problem, and I understood it very easily, and not because of the fact that I am currently in the military.While I dislike history quite a bit, I know more than anyone I know about World War Two, aside from the heroes that lived it. To be honest your words are fine as they are. There are many, and far deeper and shallower ways of describing things of such horror. But it is so tragic and horrific a incident that mere words to describe it are very hard to come by. So people describe it as best as they can, again in their own ways regardless of how vivid or simple.

[Chris]

"Work Makes You Free"

I held no illusions to your subject. Finding you HAVE thoughts to express can be surprising and overwhelming. Being listened to can also be scary. You were heard.

[Amorette Duvannes]

You're right. It's daunting. Suddenly, strangers want to know where you've sprung from and your peers in the realities are unknowingly perceiving you to be something air-headed - which is a minimising contrast I am too... inexperienced[?] to deal with. But I am terrified witless of having nothing to say, whether or not people want to hear. Thank you.

[Chris]

Do you want a fair "hint"?

[Amorette Duvannes]

What would that entail?

[Chris]

Listening mainly...

[Amorette Duvannes]

Yes, please. I was asking about the nature of your "hint", but I would like to know nonetheless.

[Chris]

We learn every day of our lives. Always be true to yourself and ask questions and seek answers. Don't always accept face value nor always expect the worst. When people are speaking don't spend your part of the convo thinking what or how to answer while the other is talking. Wait for them to finish and then THINK on what was said and on your own thoughts...and THEN answer. And one last, raised voices are SELDOM heard... speak with care, clearly, and thoughtfully.

[Chris]

Few of us have world altering thoughts but many DO ASK quite important questions that need answering. AND make observations of people, times, places, and events that bear up to further thought and review.

Sometimes you just have to muddle through with us as best you can. It isn't easy but life never was fair and won't be changing anytime soon. You're becoming the person you can be, I think you'll do just fine.

[Amorette Duvannes]

I am enamoured with the idea of something great - it is the curse I cannot contain. But I know I'm naïve, and I know I have done nothing to warrant the dream into being an actuality. Modernism has taught us that to be great is to be renowned, and to endure all of time -- instead of telling us what you have just told me. The simplicity of your "hint" is one of the harshest realities the unfairness of life could give -- but it was not futile. And, thank you.

[Christoph]

I'll be more offended if anyone actually asks you to delete this. It is every bit your right to use anything you please as inspiration, and your right to offend with your art. In my opinion, if you don't offend anybody with a piece of art you probably aren't saying anything.

This is a deeply layered poem that I honestly can't quite parse in places, but what I glean from it is very powerful. As if it is questioning everything and to me it feels indecisive as to which way to turn. Angry, but not stubborn and unmovable, seeking answers rather than trying to claim to know.

[Amorette Duvannes]

Thank you - I assume you got the context of the poem, though I never actually specified. The bow-tie fences, the shelves -- all part of the Nazi concentration camps of course. I've drawn references to the Death marches, the burnt Jew skin, and the "brown, bad man", the soldiers themselves. So I fully understand if anyone is upset with it - because I cannot just take from humanity what I want when I have no means of understanding truly what it meant. Thank you all the same.