Guantanamo

Orange, a ball burning bright as the sun sets across the desert, smoldering in its brilliance. I can only stare and hope,
Such beauty, startling, unsettling in its setting.
Hope for what ask’s my neighbor?
A jar of orange thick cut marmalade.
He laughs, Is that all, no luxuries, fast cars, girlfriends or riches you can only dream of, a big house in the county, children, there is so much to hope for.
I know but I want only a jar of marmalade.
Why?
Then I shall taste freedom again.
The two men fell silent their eyes focused upon the ball of orange.
Then they came with their bullying ways, the handcuffs, the hoods, the shouting, men at arms, men at war, whose fucking war?
We suffer in silence, like animals, no one to speak up for us, where’s the RSPCA?
Human right activists, even fucking journalists, hey anyone out there listening?
My face is now hidden inside a mask of cloth, head bent forward, arms behind my back, handcuffed together, forced down, sit upon folded legs, trussed up like a pig, but not in clover, no, rather more Duck a la Orange, sickly sweat. You know what, this really hurts, fuck it’s bloody painful, fucking Nazi yanks; my muscles complain: you want the truth, they fucking scream out in fucking agony. Yeah this is the real thing, Butlins, eat your heart out. I struggle to breathe, the cloth smells, another’s sweated fear or is it mine?, I pondered on this thought for some time, nothing else to do, time brings bile, bile brings relief a strange quandary, still I have no answer to that, only that it smells.
Head jam man, you’ve been tangoed, my mind reads my thoughts. The darkness lends itself well to such moments, plucking odd thoughts at random, a role it seems to relish, brain drain, to much knowledge. I try to piece together a theory in the order of chaos, but I can’t, so I smile to myself inside my little cloth hoody
Voices verberate around me, one seems louder than the others, nearer; is it directed at me? I’m not sure, so I shall ignore what doesn’t make sense anymore, my mind has taken over, I am glad. Any resemblance to myself is just a coincidence, a figment of your imagination.
I am in limbo, my body is dancing, lithe and strong, sliding under the arms of time, backbone curved in grace, moving to a rhythm, Mick Jagger cavorting with a microphone, cant get no satisfaction. I smile, I like this image.
Number, Number, what’s your fucking number?
A cruelly aimed Military boot hits the small of my back, unexpected, unseen, inside my hoody there is only me; I fall to one side, my body jerking in spasms of pain, no control anymore, leakages, urine escapes, lucky to be free.
Winded by the acuteness of the situation, I cannot answer; my mind has no answers anymore.
Another blow this time to my head, darkness, even darker than inside my hood, I fear this time the lights really have gone out, will the stars shine tonight, where’s Mars in all this dis-order?
Your fucking number, you moron.
I feel metal hard against my head, unforgiving in its coldness despite the heat in the compound.
For the last time you fucking bastard, what is your number?
My mind tells me to say the number, but I can only say” Yeah you fucker, mines an ice cold beer, is that clear enough you fucking moron”
Silence
Did I say that, or am I dreaming, where’s my friend, maybe he said that.
Inside I smile, it’s ok, my friend is just playing, he’s funny, hey don’t forget your number.
A gun clicks, I can feel the steel against my head, cold, hard, it makes me shiver, no mean feat in the fucking desert.
Shit face if you don’t answer me, for the very fucking last time, I swear I’ll fucking kill you, what is the fuck is your number?
Glad he can’t see my face, I am smiling a lot now, laughing even, laugh in the face of adversity that what my mum used to say, piece of cake, god was she right, cheers mum; I really do love you you know. But this is only a dream, I shall wake up soon.
Look the Cavalry’s arriving, Clint Eastwood, leading, a big fat cigar in his mouth, maybe its Che Guevara, hey I really don’t care, just sort this fucking American shit out, So much for the American dream.
They drag me away, no shouting anymore, just silence. I don’t object, suddenly it all seems so pointless, maybe I’ve given up, the last kick in the balls, kick a man when he’s down.
They call it the dog pen, the solitary confinement area, only safe place for madness say’s one of the voices, every dog has it’s day, guess he just had one too many. No records, no files, infact the less said the better, who the fuck cares anyhow said the officer in charge, they’d only blow themselves up anyways, fucking terrorists, good riddance.
Blood oranges, kinda leaves a bitter taste eh.