Books don’t belong on shelves
In a library
Laden with dust
And false promises
Books don’t belong as a showpiece
Something to impress prospective fucks
‘Oh you’re reading Mrs. Dalloway
Well allow my legs to open’
Books don’t belong on screens
Where the sensual smell
Of paper and print and a person’s soul
Is locked behind tubes and cells
Books don’t belong in libraries
Shuffling and shoving
For the attention
Of the masses
Books belong on the bathroom floor
Pages still damp from where it was dropped in the bath
Books belong on the floor and in bed
Pages frayed and folded, over used and loved
Books belong in the excited arms of children
Their heads full of what could be
Books belong in our bags
Taken with us for fear of separation
Books belong in our hearts and our minds
Memorised and absorbed
Books belong between the fists of a father
And the silent sigh of his child
Books belong in the eyes of the vulnerable
Moments before the unthinkable happens
Books belong in the hands of the daughter
Gripping their mother one last time
Books belong in the barrel of the gun
The sheath of the sword
The ideas of the dictator
Books can save us
Or books can destroy us
You choose.
Stuart Buck 