I walk my life, a subway station
Where dirt consorts
The air around.
It pounds my nape,
It flames my mind
With sights and fates
And sounds.

Above, a tram goes up the alley
Tinged with canary hue.
Below, my wit:
What void, what valley:
It sank, in Tagus mused.

I take a seat, doors screech behind.
O, what wondrous whiffs?
Of metal beams
Attriting loudly
Against metal wheels?

To a halt it cuts my chain of thought,
Rivals my dream, they brawl.
'Tis from the gallery
Of broken hope
The beggar man crawls.

Intemperate horns his entry announce,
Dysphoric scenes aground.
He comes detuned
Near clears his throat,
Lethargic voice resounds:

I beat my cane
In wrongful rhythm,
'Cause wrongful
Was my life.
My voice hurts from
All this singing:
'Twas morphed into
A sigh.
I longed, I longed
For all my sinning
Was ought to be repaid.
Deserved so much,
God took my
Will, my sight,
My love, my
Name.

So tell me, vagrant,
What did He take?
-Said I-
Who has loved you?
What is your will,
What name did you go by?

I used to be a man of soul
Whose heart beat strong and dign,
I used to write
And then I died
On the 10th before July.

He took my coins for all my service
At wars:
At land
At sea
-The waves still have her,
Laying there still,
Waiting away from me!-
Said he-
I will my love,
My fire, passion
-My young Natercia!-
Most darling of all nymphaea!

So God is just after all,
Replacing sin with grief.
No need for me
To pay the man:
God has done the deed.

The deadbeat coins of his cup
Turmoil ever so slightly.
I leave my dream,
Doors shrill again:
'Tis time to end my journey.

You ever notice how it's hard to appreciate giant bronze statues when you're hungry?
I rumble

an empty stomach
I need to be filled and a thousand dollar plane ticket leads to an attempt to do that

It gets blasé after awhile

"Oh, you're church doesn't have gold mosaic ceilings? What is this trash?"

I'm surrounded, guns drawn
by an endless litany of priceless art and artifacts

but

I find more inspiration in the teen trying to herd pigeons than the golden horses on the Venice balcony
more from the father trying to teach his baby daughter that cigarette butts aren't a thing to be picked off the ground
(there are some conversations you don't need to speak the same language to understand)
than the ancient cannons in the Salzburg castle wall
the cannons used in some ancient battle that truly represented the blah blah blah
A long time ago men died here, killed each other, defending their home so that years later privileged ***** like me could stand around it and take pictures and not give a ****. All for the low low price of 10 €.
If you stand very still you can feel the ground shake underneath you
the collective drone of the tourists rumbling
Mouths watering on feed me your culture
I step into a building older than my country. In the bottom is an H&M

I fill myself in the simple message poured out of a spray can on a Munich subway wall
I ♥ U

or perhaps, what filled me the most
Thanksgiving dinner
was some graffiti scrawled in shaky hand at the base of a statue in Barcelona.
The graffiti was in French

"Je suis malade"
I am sick

We've been betraying our children for generation after generation,
government turned state education into indoctrination,
media no longer speak the truth; experts in fabrication.
How the **** am I supposed to show allegiance to my nation?

Fascists masquerade as liberals to silence anyone
who disagrees with their agenda, will the day never come
when people wake up and realise this **** just can't go on?
There can no longer be Right and Left,
there's only right and wrong.

Immigration, regulation, European legislation;
fighting over **** while they indulge in self-congratulation,
laughing in our faces while we're running the rat race.
Working fifty hours a week to put food on our children's plates.

Do you really think they give a **** about democracy?
Do you think they care about the suffering of you and me?
Do you really think that anything is what it claims to be?
All you have to do is open up your eyes, it's plain to see.

It's an illusion.
It's all collusion.
Make no mistake.
Let there be no confusion.
There's only one solution.
This is my conclusion:

We need a revolution!

#
When the tide begins to turn
will you flee to higher ground?
When the sky begins to burn
will you lay your weapons down?

Incarcerated in our own land
yet we keep them on their thrones.
Emancipation only comes by our own hand
then together we'll atone.
#

Don't want to do this by the bullet, the blade or the bomb.
If we use violence then we're giving them what they want.
Any excuse for the use of firepower.
Send in the troops whilst they regroup up in their high towers.

They won't hesitate to slaughter us like animals,
and so it's evident that we need a new kind of war.
But if necessary we will still take it by force.
This is a New World Order we're fighting for.

Our greatest weapons are our minds and our eyes now.
We need to read between the lines, see through the lies now.
Draw the digital battle lines. We can rise now!
Are you with me? Had enough? Do you despise how

we're being asked to select our own dictators?
But if we refuse to elect you, you ******* **** takers,
and we can keep our resolve, with you repudiated,
you shall not be absolved. No adjudicators!

We're disillusioned
with this intrusion.
This is your fate.
This will be your occlusion.
Our world's reperfusion.
Inevitable conclusion.

Hail the Revolution!

#
When the tide begins to turn
will you flee to higher ground?
When the sky begins to burn
will you lay your weapons down?

Incarcerated in our own land.
Yet we keep them on their thrones.
Emancipation only comes by our own hand
then together we'll atone.
#

Thine ever-faithful children born
Amidst thy mirthful knoll and lawn,
Rippling rivers, bubbling brook,
Known in tale and glee and book.

Made up of kith and kin alike,
Bridling horse or riding bike.
Be it by lake or under tree,
This people surely known to Thee.

Folk which temper from hewn rock,
Few have known more hardened stock,
Though brother-wars and streams of blood,
They fought gale and raging flood.

To whom owe we our yore so long?
Carved buildings and pretty song,
A stead of kings and noble lords,
Standing firm with swords and boards.

From glacial seas of Northern hearths,
To scorching plains and bloodied sparths.
Traditions range from meal and brick,
Tilling soil and healing sick.

Rich glories befall this folk,
Crafting metal, stone and yoke.
Humble start of pain and ill,
Overcome by might of will.

Where does it end, our precious land?
Warding foes from sea and sand.
Those granted gifts from bloodied mitts,
Forebears strengthened by their wits.

In many ways those heroes fell,
Sharpened axe or fired shell.
Unmatched fury in the soul,
Evelandish men with rage like coal.

Stand once again, O noble folk
Let not this foe thee string and choke.
Recall the glory of thy yore,
Richest lord or begging poor.

My Europa, ever-Queen,
Snowy peaks and hilltops green.
A thousand tongues which touch thine ears
Ripened over untold years.

So all tales come to be,
Yore’s unending symphony.
Taking in its last drawn breath,
No mighty cry... but silent death.

Sky: a repository of adjectives
―land's fast mirror
―stripped of uniform
―thought to body.

Greece: a repository of alternatives
―Civilisation’s fast mirror
―never fully constituted
―thought to Europe’s body.

And all this water between us
―greasing the dialogue
―speeding up the dissolution
―co-operating.

Isn’t it always cooperative?
After all, the trickster
is nothing without prey;
the entrepreneur nothing
without an audience.

Down through Buckingham
Atop the trolly named
"Splendor on the Rhine"

Between a sea of ruffled feathers
A caravan that bewilders all in sight
People seek a goblet of truth

All the tricks and games give way
To orphaned eyes that cry
Sending all the pain away

my ex-lovers mouth is not a
place I'm proud of lurking
drowned in alcohol and cigarettes
he said
were from all the stress of working

Do You know
what Brexit is?

When I'm about to check-in
It seems to be some fun to wonder
Will we let you back in?

I've lost my accent
to the rainy days of summer here
Grown paler in the slanted rays of sunlight
I've cried
And slept
And loved on a double decker bus

But all you think -
You say:

You know,
England is my home
Ha! How small, this world!

Then, at the passport control,
If you ask me
'where'd'you go?'
I'll reply:
I'm going to yours.