written and performed by Alex Malina

here is the MP3 link: socialnerve.org/sections/001.mp3

This story isn’t about London,
Where George the Second roams the halls,
It’s where brutality is found in
The plastic walls of Washington memorials and other fascist saints we praise, their names . . .
And what will happen to their fate?
A million poor, a million slaves?
Against the ground we scrape their face
to start a race, to start a race of misery across the plains and other foreign lands, trespass
and people run like hungry rats
vote hypocrites, vote democrats,
and people listen to their raps
on how to trap, on how to trap the agony of slavery upon the human race, with grace, for gas. . .
thus is the nature of a poet,
amid the changes of the tide,
I have to change my words to bullets,
Or simply hide, or simply hide my wicked anger boiling up, won’t hold it in, I’ll let it out . . .
We have no freedom just because
the upper class won’t rescue us,
in tangled stratagems of time, of who to love and who to trust
of whose your friend and whose your boss,
whose system hinges on the claws
of lawless beings with no cause . . . .
to prove to us that it’s all false,
the chores that toll on all of us,
the plight of angry cannibals,
the flight of solid metal bombs,
on us
Imperial and Cannibal you call and set your eye patrol on all of us revolting us
with mind control, with mind control , with mind control, with mind control, with mind control . .