Herded into the arena
bloodied by poverty’s lash
sand soft between our toes
as we march into the stadium of despair
mentally chained by our delusion of freedom,
divided into race, faith, nation, class
then pitted against each other
For our rulers’ pleasure
But many refuse to fight
Us – the truly dangerous ones
instead pointing upwards to the audience
of those that truly despise and fear us
Yet you who plunder our homes, invade our streets,
Women who tightly clutch their handbags
staring at the pavement in terror
for surely we are all vagabonds, cutthroats and thieves!
Suited men who’s bowels loosen
when passing our urban-talking youth
who defend their postcode by the same extreme violence
that the state metes out to them with impunity,
We who are crushed on every side
surrounded by avarice and greed
by disciples of the latest fad,
drinking alfresco skinny lattes on Westbourne Grove
the need to be scenes,
our wrath slowly being squeezed
accused of sour grapes, lacking aspiration,
Yet it’s our blood that makes your wine
with which you wet your lips
as you toss us your scraps,
we who slowly devour and destroy one another,
But Spartacus is rising
resurrected like a phoenix in the flames
our sight restored by tragedy
injustice the fire that burns brightly
inside compassionate indignant hearts,
shaking those who’s God is mammon
Yet it’s not your eye of the needle wealth we wish to pillage
but your fraudulent sense of privilege, entitlement, arrogance and ignorance
hiding in your bunker-like basements
whilst above, homes, communities are destroyed
as we stare at our Stalingrad-like monument,
united under the banner of hope and faith,
love for our children will ever be our shield,
God’s wrath will be stirred
by the death of his innocent ones
Millstones will be prepared,
the sea’s depth beckons
those that hide behind their cloak of guilt
for this slaughter ignited a fury in our hearts
we’ll stand against your legions
we’ve buried our dead
but we will never let you bury the truth…
M.C. Bolton, September 2017
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