Each anticipated day arrives &
elides into the past,
as we wait,
but for what?
How long will it take
for the pattern to change?
When will the cycle end?
With no past the future
becomes a desert &
the desert grows,
with the slow
of midnight mist…
with no future
the present becomes a test
you will fail unless
to fight against
& dance instead
with the absurdity
I am a person
from my creative capacity;
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
valuing my life
according to the demands
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
So when the moment arrives I’ll be there;
& joyfully destroying
what should always have been ours,
before the perversions of power &
stole it from us.
Then as the old world dies & the new one is born,
I will scream:
“Ni patrie, Ni Patron!”
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
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.
The game is rigged, every decision made
into a mistake, chained
& 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.
Only those who know how to truly love
know how to hate:
we wait for them to despise us,
a prophecy possibly more fulfilling
than anything they’ve offered us before…
Life has become an idea; vapour
rising from the surface of a shrinking
lake, never to return again.
Our first fuck was a clumsy mess,
but am I wrong to see the dignity
we’ve since spent building beginning to crumble?
Who’s the most humble, the pessimist
or the optimist, & is it naive
to believe that the only worthwhile thing
is to keep giving a shit
despite the odds?
‘cos I’m all in now; no backing out:
you’ve got everything I can give.
So it’s time to ride or die, to fight or hide;
to fucking decide & then fall,
if we have to,
on the hill where
we’ve chosen to demand the impossible
& laugh at the improbable.