Show me your solid streets

that carry the weight of hefty commuters;

(a dangerous swarm,)

and I'll show you

cracks in the earth's crust

that entire cities might slip through

and writhe in the burning magma of hades.

Oh if your shops were empty

with broken windows!

Life after death of capitalism

would make honey taste that much sweeter.

These faded warning signs

were the sages of damnation

and their preaching voice is worn and raspy.

Pavlov's politicians breathe trinkets and television,

making you salivate, ringing shiny bells

while they take the food from your plate.

we're in this together

but we really hate each other,

this big society's not room enough

for ego, immigrants, exports, production

and the stacks of disguises for the storehouses of hate.

We're in this together...

but never you,

it's always only me,

in a collapsing city

shouting about the feathers which stuff my pillow.

The Egyptians loosened their shackles,

those in Bahrain battle their immovable object,

the Libyans taste deadly suppression,

the Ugandans see nothing change,

and the Congolese call to account a rapist military,

and we're afraid of those sorts of streets

coming here.

The seemingly unstoppable force of ages

carries the immovable objection of humanity,

and when will we see the next regime succumb to revolution,

as it tries to cling to life with rotting flesh?

In another 50 years or so?

The policies are seasons of gold and blood

passing so calmly above the moans of the poor,

until the screams of the privileged parading shift

because we cannot be ignored.

But if the founding dead could

see what we have made of every change

they would wish to return unto the grave.

Show me your solid streets

and together we'll watch them

bow to the ocean and become sand.

The few solutions that do not mask greed

are fuelled by embers of disguised arrogance,

and they're all built on shifting foundations,

and it's only a matter of time.

Written 22/23 Feb 2011.


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