Hail the laborers at the mill, hail the jokers with witless tastes
I ain't going to work on any ordinary farm, of the ordinance and well-ordained
They sabotaged lifts and all walked but nothing was gained
They huffed and puffed and blew themselves to absurdity
They planned and plotted only to see boredom engulf the crowd
Ne'er to do the foot-slog, ours is to laugh at the Wigan pier
What is idle rest, I laid my hay long ago and made my peace
With the catatonic curses, and scatological invective

If the mill laborers know what I know
They will see wasters working hard to make more waste
For theirs is to work and fret, berate each other and work
From birth till death to ghosts already remembered
Above the antique mantel
An educated mind would entertain the thought of numinous reminiscing
An excellent habit, to focus at the elephant that cumbered the room
The dearth feeling that was filled with scarcity, memoirs lay strewn

Like the law and edicts, that flustered the mind
Clinton and his economics liberalized my mind, but, piqued the market
I read these in papers of the age of dying punk, and gregarious bylines
Witty writers pen their names in bold, on pen and paper meant for the literate
A kind spirit lies in the artist within
Reminders and unneutered plants are willfully disregarded, with the milk untouched
Spiritualism is stolen from my doorstep, sold to ragamuffins and rapscallions

Exchanged for the dream of more reading, with an understanding of the antiquated climate
Dostoyevsky, a small-time Russian who stole the hearts of many, living by his word
Told us of crime and punishment, with a large intelligence and deep heart
The darker the night brighter the stars
In the empty sky, I offered my confusion
Failure is not our punishment for laziness, its other people’s success
It’s our hunger that floats on the surface of other’s hatred, more like oil and water
Russia was a bed of gelid ice, unable to tell the approximated difference
I make approximated decisions with calculated assumptions, and all my dreams turn to ashes
Years past, and this knowledge brought me peace in my last try at catching the sky
Catching falling stars, and preserving nature
Some poets of the fall, prefer the winds of change instead of sprig icicles of spring lust

The gold that flows, through our elaborate veins,
The crop that is known, by many names,
The gift that alleviates, our daytime pains,
The commodity that plays, one too many games.

Our world is nothing, but a bottomless mine,
Simply waiting, for the wrath and plunder of humankind,  
Oh labourers please, wait your spot in line,
For it was not you that made, this incredible find.

You’re a fool to think, the system needs a redesign,
For your fate and this chain, are forever intertwined.
Stay in your corner, as they wine and dine,
For it is you not them, contained by this chain’s bind.  

Posing as a gift, that elevates their daily grind,
The brown gold is no longer, part of your bloodline,
It was their chains after all, that made this incredible find,
For it now flows away, from the Plateau’s skyline.
  
You continue to hope, for these chains to be redefined,
But to imagine you even exist to them, is asinine,
Yet you believe a consumer movement, would be so inclined,
For you forget that chains were made, to always confine.

If you are a bad child
in the eyes of your parents
they sigh
oh, what shall

become of you?
Others are harder, they scold
you and demand respect
for the authority

of faith and customs
They think you are a nihilist
because they don't understand you
and because you do understand

you cannot argue with them
But you try
to explain – no matter how nil
the rules are, there is one anyway:

do the others justice

I probably love the truth
And the Truth is poetic
I propose that poetic lines be banned
Does that sound poetic

We go about ordered lives
No waves, ripples, just surging
Tide, not noticing undercurrents
Disturbing depths, interfering
With our status quo, dragging
Under, the unwary who are tugged,
To where disturbance manifests.

They swim, fools, against
All odds, knowing they'll drown
If they once show weakness
But something drives them,
Until they surface for breath
showing themselves, rebellious
Causing foaming surf.

Mexican waves follow, courage
In numbers, crowd not individual,
Becoming the storm that has always
Been Brewing, flooding into the comfort
zone, telling the truth becomes a
Revolutionary act, that we know in the
End brings still waters again.

Your peace must be achieved not through violence but with it, Alongside it. Wield your violence without fear of its power. Love must know pain. Rebellion must know blood. Peace must know violence. You have nothing to fear when kindness sings behind your battle cry.

Candle wax, renegades,
cigarettes, and lemonade.
Maybe it’s time to engage
in our ******* crusade?

Ink wells, stormy skies,
footsteps, little lies.
Revolution in her eyes,
our boats in harbor never tied.

Metal clangs, laying down,
boots soaked, name is drowned.
No longer pushed around
but too dead to make a sound

the first time i choked on tear-gas,
we were standing in the heart of the Empire.
the scent of capsaicin still smarted
as we fished our medic bags for water-bottles
to flush our comrades’ eyes. we did not weep
for the revolt. we were at peace even as we knew,
beyond a shadow of a doubt,
we were ******.

the black bloc, three thousand strong,
had raged through the streets of D.C.
overturning dumpsters, torching limos,
taking hammers and crowbars
to Bank of America windows
with gleeful abandon, a sense of endless,
militant joy. it would be
anarchy or annihilation.

the spontaneous insurrection
of the antifascist demonstration
was an inferno hotter than the dumpster-fires
we’d left like signal-flares in our wake.
for a moment, there, we could feel
the ******* quaking as our feet
shook the Earth, stepping
in-and-out of Lovecraftian shadows,
eldritch horrors of doom gloating over us.

but we’d been kettled,
cordoned by cops in riot gear,
cut-off from all possible routes of escape.
faceless phantoms clutching cudgels
to bludgeon our conflagration
into submission. and then
the call came. “this way! this way!
we found an exit!”

immediately, the cops swarmed in,
their momentarily vindictive arrogance
shattered by the freedom that rang
like church-bells in a half-a-hundred voices.
“this way! this way! we found an exit!”
motorcycles turned down the alleyway,
sirens screaming, echoing off the tenement halls
and only one of us possessed the sense to intervene.

for a moment, she stood alone.
a single figure, holding up her hands
and shaking her head, refusing to let
the ******* advance. but courage
is infectious. a moment later,
another joined her, then another,
until all of a sudden a half-a-dozen
of us stood shoulder-to-shoulder, shouting,

“no pasaran! you shall not pass!”
we waited for the billy-clubs to rain
hell upon our shoulders, but still
we remained steadfast, anchored
by the weight of our conviction
and the hope that even if we fell
the rest of the bloc would escape
to wreak havoc another day.

Drinking away the cold reality,
sipping away at the truth,
smell of revolution in the air,
the township rebellion weeps,
radically violent love,
surpressing undignified hate,
**** the cop in yourself, stomp the ghosts in your head,
destroy your masters,
Sweet negation, oh sweet negation!,
Burn down the walls of infinite discontent,
Live your life,
Live for yourself,
The forever insurrection,
The creative nothing,
We are the unique,
Guillotine your captures,
Free your mind, free your body, free your beautiful life!