…at first

you feel a fire sweeping up across your brow,

a hot sheet that paradoxically leaves you in a cold sweat and anxious,

yet blazing with something indefinably incandescent and uplifting…

you feel sharp, a crystal, lacerating presence in the milling crowd…

…this…this is…righteous


… it’s just tense, edgy and antsy to begin with,

a needles and pins-prickling posture

but eventually, your furnace roaring and patience spent,

it vents itself in a snarl, a curse through bared teeth

and with some ferocity, and violent in its velocity,

a windmilled molotov arches out into the troubled night…


…arm muscles crack with recoil,

then a moment’s reflection as the missile is judged

briefly for sighting, trajectory, pace,

before reloading, igniting and resighting

(and for a triumphant glimpse at the looks on their faces);

but just before it strikes the blue phalanx parts,

re-forms around the tiny inferno and beetles your way,

its heavy duty batons crashing out a rhythmic, bellicose tattoo

against the edge of its bristling carapace…


…now you turn and flee in your turn too,

s cat   te   rs h  o t,

as though in full rout, before tactically turning again…

…then practice rewards you as you regroup, form up into a missile…

…and run like hell towards the blue line, whooping, as the cry rallies,

“let’s kiiillll those fuckin pigs”…


…in fiery consequence

your lighters flare; fuses burn and a tracing arc of

pop bottles incendiary with pent-up hatred is hurled,

and flowers madly against their shields;

soon the street – every mouthgaping shop,

every hunched and huddled car – is bonfired with anger, screaming


had enough!

had enough!

had e-fucking-nough!


…this is it, our time has come!                                                              

This time we’re going to make these dumb puppets of the state

take the full brunt of our hate;

boy, we’re going to fuck up these hired thugs,

these uniformed golems - they aren’t as tough as they seem;

the time has come to feed them all into the thresher;

we’re going to tear down their prisons and storm their palaces:

we’re going to put every manjack of ‘em up against the wall…

…and their cringing, chinless masters too!…


…oh, it’s our turn now boy;

can’t do this? Ha! Says who?

can’t do that? Ha! Just watch!

can’t do jack, Jack…well not any more…


…that’s it, no more pulpits,

no more parasites,

no more parliaments of fools;

let’s burn the whole rotten bollocks down

and put Betty and Co. on the dole:

it’s time to sell off her baubles

and auction away her crown…                                 


…fuck this pandemonium of control freaks,

this reptile house of republicans, we’re not as bovine as they thought;

now we, the people are going to speak with our own voices:

we’re going to make our own mistakes,

our own justice,

our own damned choices …

◄ This Earth And I

The French Kiss ►


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Laura Taylor

Tue 17th Jan 2012 10:12

Spot FUCKING on! With you all the way. I love this - your choice of words here is brilliant, and I am 100% with you in your polemic, brutha!

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