Monday, January 3, 2011

Pulp Poem of the Week

Whenever the gray fog lifts for a second,
there they are:
the wall,
the tower.
They scare you stiff,
they make you mad,
but there's less than nothing
you can do about them;
and when you can't stand it any more
and the fear and rage get you moving,
get you started doing something,
there they are again, waiting for you:
the prison,
the nuthouse,
the lead box for your bones.
Ryu Murakami
Coin Locker Babies
(trans. Stephen Snyder)

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