Ni patrie, Ni Patron

I am a person
    dislocated
from my creative capacity;

                        alienated

from my species-being;

labouring only to survive
& increase the size of someone else’s
already obscene amount of wealth.

I need to break,
        need to escape
from the endless imposition
of regulation upon my body;

remorselessly repetitive demands
always controlling
        quantifying
        valuing my life
according to the demands
of profit.

Time is alive & so am I,
& we both deserve our freedom.

I don’t want to trade my daylight
just to create surplus value,
I want to waste time on my own terms;

I want to waste my time
        with you…

So when the moment arrives I’ll be there;
        burning cars
        joining riots
& joyfully destroying
what should always have been ours,
before the perversions of power &
history
stole it from us.

Then as the old world dies & the new one is born,

I will scream:

“Ni patrie, Ni Patron!”

Fight

Collective suicide; walk hand-in-hand
with the death-drive
toward to the end-times.

This is this it.

Only some receive what they deserve &
the rest of us must suffer the
consequences.

This is it.

Nothing left now but to rebel
or lay down and die…
so decide, will you fight or not?

This is it.

Dare to demand the impossible
that was always possible
& still it.

This is it:

            we have nothing left to lose.

Dignity

The Seagulls used to be Angels
according to a Nordic legend that
I probably don't understand.

They have become this way, it seems,
because we simply,
                slowly
forgot about them.

& as I stand outside in the warm night
                smoking,
I can hear them squawking
a seething, teeming mass of white feathers

& cold hard beaks poking at discarded
styrofoam chip boxes,
                ketchup packets
& chicken bones:

all the detritus out here by the coast
in one of so many forgotten towns…

The thought that these
strangely mechanical seeming
beasts could once have been
our sublime idols seems oddly appropriate:

Now that we have
desire as disposable convenience
what need do we have
for the Magnificat;

for prayer or pilgrimage,
supplication, meditation & incense
or any attempt, no matter how naive
to transcend the brutish fact
of materiality;
existence & mortality?

So the seagulls scrabble among our waste
like avian beggars, safe
only because wings bring freedom,
& ignored or else quietly despised
by the normal
& respectably employed,

like the homeless people
who hide & die
behind the houses
& in the filthy streets.

Dignity is denied to the forgotten.

Losers of the world

The game is rigged, every decision made
into a mistake, chained
                        to debt
                        & to regrets;
the boulder becomes heavier & heavier.

No matter how we carry it
                        – in the stomach or on our shoulders –
the weight will break our backs one day.

Violence is the only way to break the chain,
only through solidarity can we regain
the dignity they stole from us
                        before the game began.

Fear holds us back,
                        but we’re always afraid anyway, so:

Losers of the world unite!
All we have to lose are our lives.

#First World Problems

Swept along by the causal tide,
riding the waves of time

or

if the numbers cease to speak
& the edifice crumbles,
revealing only a single peace-
full temporal ontology,

what then?

How do we end
or continue, or begin to
make sense of it all without stories we
can now only read
            but never believe?

I think a 12-hour shift
constantly on your feet,
making pointless shit for foreigners you
will never meet

could answer that question:

“I don’t care anymore.
All I want is to feed my family
& sleep beneath a roof & between 4 walls…”