Every Us

The weight against

my left arm;

the calm;

deliquesce into dreams,

& all other words that can never reach

across the distance between us:

 

return,

return to me,

don’t

leave, don’t

leave 

only empties,

& drained memories

of masochistic anarchy,

romantic naivety & 

 

a weight lacking against the left:

 

how can I dream of anything without

human heat beside me,

beneath

the bed sheets & between

transcendent moments of butterfly wing

flickering eyelids unfurling

into the purity of attention

beyond

the iris reflection?

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.

What Is to Be Done?*

Another year slowly ending,
heavy eyelids
        closing.

The City is freezing.

The City is everything.

No fells to see, just poisonous beasts
with pistol engine organs;
no forest or beach,
        only felled trees
become cardboard boxes to meet
manufactured need.

I’ve seen Lilacs
beneath a cracked & dirty screen,
but the cruelty of April
        means nothing to me
since mixing memory & desire
is now
how Capital
conspires to control us:

Data is Damyatta
        & compassion
died when concrete foundations,
built over the bones of Moloch,
became home.

So wide-awake, or still
stubbornly clinging to sleep,
        we divide
along newly drawn lines:

in a world run by cunts,
the terrifying truth
is that our very existence
makes us all complicit
with a system
        built upon suffering
        & destruction.

The years will violently begin
        & our eyes must
        open again.

The seasons
        have forced our predictions
        to confront us;

now is the time for new values,
now is the time to choose:

        Which side are you on,
                &
        what is to be done?

 

*What Is to Be Done? – Vladimir Lenin

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.