Monday, 18 May 2009

The Interrogation

The Interrogation.


Like the sound of a rifle bolt,
Dragging a round into the chamber,
A tape recorder I think.
I cannot see, a blindfold
Of black cloth blinds my eyes.




The spools in the cassette tape turn slowly,
Grinding like a power drill into bone.

A door creaks open behind my back.

Three sets of footsteps enter the room.

A chair is drawn across the floor,
Squealing like a rat in a trap,
Its back broken by the mechanism.

The shuffling of papers.

The sudden rasp and flare of a match,
A splutter of light through the cloth,
Splinters. Nothing more.
Like white phosphorous sparks from a bomblet,
Burrowing into skin.

The usual routine.

My hands are handcuffed,
To the wooden arms of my chair,
As if under orders,
The metal chafes and cuts,
Deep into my flesh.

The wheels of justice are in motion,
Mocking justice.

The interrogation begins.

Name, address and date of birth she barks.
I cannot remember.
I must not say.

No Comment.

No comment.

No comment.

Then a punch breaks my nose,
The bone cracks and splinters,
Blood gushes down my face,
Warm and salty as the sea.

No comment.

No comment.

Each breath tastes of iron,
Drawn through a thin grill of gristle,
And blood clot crusts my lips,
Sticking like napalm To my skin.

No comment.

A fist strikes again,
Rising and falling,
As a flag on a parade ground,
At dusk and dawn.

No comment.

I take the salute and its torture,
Until pliars pull my teeth from the gums,
Leaving them as empty as a trench after an advance,
Each tooth lined on the table,
In a row like dead soldiers,
Casualties left on a battlefield.

Sign the statement.

Sign the statement.

A leather cord is tied around my neck,
Tightening until I pass out.
Time and time again the torture ends and begins.
Until I am awoken with buckets of cold water,
Poured over my head.

Sign the statement.
Okay I whisper, from a distance
Far away from myself.


Like the sound of a rifle bolt,
Withdrawing a fired shell from the chamber,
That tumbles with a tendril of smoke,
To the earth after the firing squad finishes,
The session ends with a whirr of rewind.

The handcuffs are unlocked.
The chair kicked away.
Blood rushes into my hands,
My fingers, swollen, scream with pain.

I fall to the ground and break my arm,
With a dull crack,
like a grenade in the distance
On the cold concrete floor.

I am pulled by a leash like a dog.
Hands drag me by my hair into the daylight.
I can hear the roots being torn from my scalp,
As my people are torn from their land.
As humanity from a heart during war.

Shards of light enter my eyes,
Through the dark material,
As glass shards from a car window screen,
Shattering when hit with .50 calibre rounds.

I can smell flowers,
Roses in bloom,
In a garden somewhere,
Cigarette smoke,
An American brand of course.

I hear a voice, an Iraqi from Basra like me,
he is complaining to another man,
He wants to go home to his wife and kids,
He is sick of this job but it pays the bills,
I hear hate in his voice.

I hear footsteps draw near,
Perhaps I have killed his family,
with one of the bombs I have made,
left his children dead or maimed,
in the name of Allah and Iraq.

I hear the sound of a safety catch retracted,
Nothing more.

The same process everywhere,
Every day,
In some prison cell,
We call freedom.

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xthemusic said...

"No comment"

Exactly what i was thinking.

Anonymous said...

This was years ago you cockend. Seriously, you have failed to post one up to date blog apart from Charlie Brooker's article. Are you Doctor Who? Are you stuck back in time like in Ashes to Ashes?

ugeine said...

That was so awful it gave me a hell of an erection.

Andraste said...

Another brainwashed idiot said: "This was years ago you cockend. "Oh right, that abuse of Iraqi's was so last year don't ya know. We have moved on to another trend now, being as we blindly follow without question.

For the truth visit: