Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, politics, Writing

The People’s Republic Of Unrest

I hope this finds a home,

in your head.

I hope you can hear,

the censored solidarity,

sent into silence,

by techbros,

who believe in freedom,

until it pays not to.

2019-08-15 00:13:39.768

I hope your heart beats,

out loud,

without fear,

healthy and unharvested,

playing the lullabies of liberation,

as you run,

racing to your place in the revolution.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, politics, Writing

Springtime For Britain

You nervously call your mother in law’s racism,

casual,

because she teaches at the local primary,

volunteers at the scouts,

with your aunt,

who still says half caste,

no matter how many times you slap her hand,

like she is a naughty dog,

who did a piss in the kitchen.

img_2978

To you,

they are casual,

80’s comedy characters,

political correctness gone sane,

safe,

“oh what are you like” type of racism,

thinks black hair is beautiful,

but crosses the street when she sees a black man type of racism,

just saying what everybody thinks type of racism,

just wanting Britain to be British type of racism,

casual,

cuddly,

“can’t tell her off because she’s from a different time” racism,

you tell yourself that it’s not really racism.

img_2977

Of course,

we know that racism is only real,

when a sentence does not begin with,

“I’m not racist, but…”

We know that racism is only real,

when it is found in rallies,

with a fascist front man,

as charismatic as he is cringeworthy,

but somehow adored,

for just saying what everyone thinks,

saying it how it really is,

says he wants Britain to be British again,

but he’s surrounded by thugs,

that’s the difference,

that’s absolutely what makes all the difference,

red on his banners to tell you where he comes from,

red on the floor to tell us where he intends to send us.

Also,

there is milkshake,

that’s another dead giveaway that you are in the depths,

of very real racism.

img_2976

You can see it,

after a while,

condemning him,

in a series of tweets,

as if he is nothing to do with you,

but you can’t see how he has possessed your aunt,

your mother in law,

even yourself,

as you click retweet on a Katie Hopkins video,

after asking your tired, token minority friend,

if it’s okay,

knowing you will ignore whatever she has to say,

assuring yourself that you normally wouldn’t,

but you say,

“today,

Katie Hopkins has a point,

because,

fuck Shamima Begum”,

and you say,

very loudly,

to anyone who will listen,

that they know you,

and they know you’re not racist,

but just this once,

it’s okay for you to give your voice,

to the never ending echoes of her monetised hatred.

img_2979

I’m always astounded,

by how quickly we forget,

that the war against progress,

was not only fought by armies,

or thugs at rallies,

but by the people who invited hatred into their homes,

sitting down with it,

as it oozes onto their once clean carpets,

slurping tea with a hurried whisper of

“maybe he’s just saying what everybody thinks…”,

before you know it,

you,

and your family,

sit huddled around hatred,

chanting like a cult,

that “you’re not racist, but…”

cozying up,

nice and casual,

getting comfortable,

with casual racism,

as if it being casual makes you better than Hitler, Franco and Farage.

img_2980

I may be a half caste,

but I am twice the mind you are,

because I never deluded myself,

into thinking there is an acceptable,

cuddly,

cozy,

casual type of racism.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, politics, Writing

Tea With Theresa

The heir apparent.

The dashing deputy.

Beauty on a billboard,

posters pasted over blood splatters.

It doesn’t matter,

women can drive now!

The blood pools from many different places,

including the veins of his own land.

 

 

Theresa May is a feminist.

THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE

She holds the hands of a million men,

who wound women (and children, and men).

Jeremy Hunt says we have shared values.

Prince Charles will dance for them,

so the children,

the journalists,

the activists can laugh one last time,

before they leave with the parting sun.

 

 

Fifty thousand Yemeni children,

starved to death,

in 2017,

but we are starving,

to sell their killer fighter jets,

because everyone knows,

death feels divine,

when the last thing you see is the Union Jack.

 

 

Tell your boss, the deed was done.

 

 


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Drowning In Us
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