There’s a patchwork of placards
And a river of marchers
Flowing by the Thames
And the endless succession
Of classrooms and basements and bars
Where we devised the making of a new world.
But sooner or later
You also have to stand alone
And suddenly, everything’s slow.
Heart thunders in my ears,
Utterly legless but pulled up by my
Grandmother’s hands and jostled
By the ghosts of my class to SPEAK!
To say something, point somewhere,
Anywhere but backwards
In the face of all this savagery,
The manifestation of all they warned
Capital would be
And already seeping into the bones
Of the Next Generation.
“Pessimism of the intellect optimism of the will”
But it probably isn’t never too late
For the Beast to be killed
So we sort of need to move on this…
And it’s not like I had nothing to say
(How can anyone who’s seen any of this
Have nothing to say?)
So I stood
Kept me upright:
“We’ve had enough of the bombing
And the lying and the thieving
And of living in a world where
Nothing is held sacred
Nothing is free
From the mechanised grip
Of the Company
Of the politics of hate
That consumes all matter
And tosses it like so many
Dead bodies on the
Altar of Infinite Growth.
The Priests of Progress
Gather around their acronyms
And their projections
(Which never go down)
And perform voodoo
Against the body politic
Feeding the market on human flesh
We’ve had enough of that too
What an insult!
This, the end of the line?
This violent, garish,
This all-encompassing apartheid
Of all people from all people
And the planet
And from knowledge?
This carnival of spiteful caricatures
That calls itself a ‘discourse’
Little more than a
Chorus of slogans masquerading as
Enough of that too.
Don’t talk to us about freedom
From the Penthouse Suite on the 43rd floor
You, who climbed up there
On the backs of blacks,
And the dreams of great women,
And the fingers of the factory kids,
And kicked away the ladder,
Now you’re going to talk about
By… ‘equal opportunity’?
And opportunity to what?
Climb over each other to kiss the ring?
Trade ipods for the right to sing?
Drop democracy for the right to vote?
Settle for this
And surrender hope?
His Priests of Progress assure us
History is ended and we have no choice
While we still have a voice.
All photography my own.