The fifty ninth intifada

First they decentralise
secondly they marginalise
then they criminalise
and all the lies make you
believe
that you’re the
bad guys.

Nothing changes what is and can be,
democracy
was a pipe dream in
Ancient Greece
which was sold on and we hold
on to the dream.

Criminal records play a very poor tune,
the sooner you realise that what lies
ahead is not what you thought of,
you’d be better off dead, but
the triumph begins when our sins are absolved by
the abolishment of parliament and the reinstatement
of choice,
what choice do we have?
what more do we need?

How about enough food to feed the family?

If I could weave you a story then I’d spin you a yarn.

The potter and his pottery,
dull clay on the wheel
can you feel how the spin turns and starts to begin
when a shape takes its form and
is that not sheer poetry by the potter
and his pottery?

No one kills you with kindness, but with kindness they will and the World will become a still place ruled over with one face, stern, unartistic, sick and pliable the people are liable to fall under the wheel again,
can you feel again,
is this not another poetry by the famous,
is it some adultery by the nameless,
add ‘lise’ on the ends of all words and
are they not shameless?

Blameless?
I don’t think any of us are.

© 2015, John Smallshaw.