On the bridge
The solemn man stands
With his hat in his hand
His soul is benumbed
His mind is confused
How can it be
That a convict can be good?
That a law-breaker can have honor?
How can anything supercede Justice,
That white-winged Goddess without a fault?
Perfect, in her icy coldness,
Who pulled him out of a disgraced life
Full of condescension and loathing
And gave him a sword and instructed to watch
Over those whocalled him names when he was little?
Surely there can be nothing in life above duty?
Surely…
"Surely my skull is about to crack.
I thought I escaped you. I see I was wrong.
Once more, who the bloody hell are you,
And why is your twaddle polluting my brains?"
One moment, Inspector, you're just about done.
"With what? With this mind-numbing claptrap?"
How can you say that, when this is a faithful rendition
Of your innermost thoughts!
"What would you know of my innermost thoughts,
You dim-witted underage bint?
How dare you reduce my reflections
To trains of clichés and pretentious inanities?"
Just three more lines, okay?
And we'll close with an ardent account
Of how Jean Valjean has compelled you to die.
And then you'll be free to proceed with the jump
And face your predestined damnation in Hell.
"Bugger off. And take with you your idiot sisters."
What sisters?
"The ones who've been driving me crazy all night
With their brainless antics. Since I made up my mind to escape..."
Oh! 'Escape'! That reminds me: the last line
Must end with this word, since the musical had it…
"And I have a question: why not Beranger?"
...I'm sorry, say wha?
"I asked you, why not Beranger?
If you feel inspired to render my thoughts into verse
You can scarcely do better than borrow from him.
Or from Francois Villon, whom I also adore."
I don't know who they are.
I am sure, nonetheless,
That they wrote whatever they wrote
With meter and rhymes.
I know nothing of that;
I am of the enlightened opinion
That poetry is an eathereal thing
(Did I spell that correctly?)
Which ought not be constrained
With constructions and schemes,
But must flow from one's heart like a life-giving river,
Uninhibited, free…
"…And unburdened with grace or with rhythm?
Even so! But I know not why you fight me, good sir!
Don't you see that I know how you feel?
"How is that? Are you prone to unwanted
Monumental inversions of ethical paradigm
That imprison your brain
In the clutches of cognitive dissonance?"
...I don't get it.
"Precisely."
Oh, you're making too much of a fuss!
Look, it's easy to write you!
Poetry lends itself well to your musings.
It is simple: position some Justice and Duty
On one side of the scales
And then place a convict
(Crowning him first with a halo)
On the other for counterbalance.
Voila! Insta-torment.
"You know, I'd be glad
To recite even Aimé Cesaire.
Or Rimbaud. Or Breton. Or perhaps…"
Will you shut up already? I don't know them!
All I know is your songs from the musical
And some e.e. cummings we went over last week
In Contemporary English and American Lit!
And if you're unhappy with that,
Then just go to Hell, mister!
"With pleasure. Adieu!"
...rustle...
...splash...
Mthrfckr.