The Purple Rag

A cyanide corridor stretch and welter

A square pattern ground of metallic slander

The view was desolate, dry, and dim

Vessels of discomfort filled to the brim

I saw it from close and afar

And inhabited a boy apart

Picked apart, cut, stretched, starved, pummeled, disassembled

A deflowered little life slashed asunder

Could these be bits of me?

Get a longer arm with greater reach

Sharper teeth, a face of glee

Eating the tears of disarray

Confined to purple shorts

Knees bruised shivering indoors

White as a corpse lost on the course

Chased across floors in puerile wars

Among the mockery of ghouls

I was always afraid of the falls

In this childhood of trivial horrors

I disappeared

We all wore the same colour in gym class

Violets failed to bloom together

The rare hands of friendship gone

The flask of violence ajar

Poured filth onto us all

And the failure to be human

Was of no concern to anyone

The electric rain of taunts

Seeped into my timid wants

Spit, curse, growl, scream, push, laugh, defecate over this light

I cowered before them like I had died

As clouds of regret arise

I could not have done otherwise

But I feel like a part of me was taken

Reshaped in the echo of conclusions spoken

From this sea of decay and dysfunction

From shards of syllables barbaric

I escaped

Then I found new forms of hatred

My dear poisonous blanket

This hollow purple rag

I should rip it into shreds

I’m starting to resign myself to the chance

That I may never get revenge

Could my future hold violets?

I put them over these craters

Now their sweet scent lingers

I can see, feel, and breathe their lot of defilement

I contributed to this culture of deflowerment

Tar, steel, brick, aluminium, concrete, cast iron

Matters of destruction thrived and piled on

School, church, office, home, body, prison

Small seeds of change above ground arisen

It’s time to let go of this age of resentment

Human, person, fellow, soul, man, woman

This Samsara of outrage shall finally end

Who’s that one I’m looking for?

That walking reverberation

That someone of the marshland mists

That rover of chivalrous deeds

That one I always yearned to be

Little ashes poured over dark lilac openings

As I repeat moves of lethal offerings

A purple rag will be placed on my waist

To show my balance of savagery and grace

And the frailties of gentle winds

Are turning into tranquil gales

Right next to these remnants

And the constant deluge of tempests

Tombs, battlefields, bonfires, graves

From the shapes of brilliant waves

And from the silence of space

I made a life

The Purple Rag – A poem written by Ágoston Hajnal