regrettable place

people like to fabricate, i liked to fabricate,
in which case it would surely be tempting if i
was making it up for sensation's sake

in a calm, picturesque, rustic building,
we see it from the inside,
as a dank, dark, dishevelled
hovel whose rafters are shadowy,
people take refuge in this place
that is not even fit for animals

the shocking evidence of the loneliness and
poverty of the setting, are truly enraging

crimes rarely get examined
as murderers and drug-runners roam free,
a working class mother dressed in rags,
whose sad face says there is
nothing divine about this situation,
her baby lies on a thin mattress of cardboard

if there is the hope here of a new life,
a redeemed world,
it is a desperate hope only half-believed
in by the poor who gather in a
disgusting structure to see
one more child born into a cruel ghetto-land

a series of records of court appearances
and convictions, are the only direct evidence
that exists of what kind of man i was,
a violent and dangerous one,
who once beat up a man over a garbage plate

do you realise how much strength
is needed to strangle a man?
it can take as long as 10 minutes,
and sometimes the victim slips out,
bites and kicks, some even manage to break free
for a while, in a street fight, 20 years ago,
i through a man down, his head was bleeding,
blood came out of his eyes and ears,
i fled, moved about constantly,
fearfully drifting where no angels
and saints dare to go,
i was grotesque

my admission makes me a punk,
for whatever his offence was to me,
it was not worth the beating,
no apologies, he was a belligerent,
aggressive punk, too

resisting my demons, for the poor,
for the suffering in all of us,
these streets are too tough
even for the toughest artist,
i started to delve into the evidence,
it is hard to find any probable answers
to this everyday reality of crime and brutality,
it shocks me, it makes me cry

i cannot offer anyone anything
but my creative efforts,
i can offer up, visceral images of suffering
to make the crowd sit up and take notice,
but it is not likely that the streets
will fill with the resurrected victims
of assassinations, murders, bullet holes
vanishing, bombed bodies
whole again, strangled throats unmarked

i am no altar boy, i am a savage truth-teller
whose art speaks to people in contemporary times,
i have an appeal to the conscience of this ghetto-land;
i will do whatever it takes, by any means,
i make a humble promise to do something good
for the people in this regrettable place