Crooked Hands
Photos and Poems
LONDON
Eighty thousand
stamp on London
firing slogans
and gunshots
towards the sky
—————————————-
to where
great great grandsons
look on
from their dismissive
patronising
arrogant textbooks
———————————
Holding capitalism to ransom
screaming for truth
The last patient intake of breath rolls down the lungs of the people
picking up the message on it’s way through
turning a faint, dark red
———————————
the kind of sickness that brings revolutionary health
the kind of hatred that helps
the kind that is covered in love
numbers are only numbers
deaf ears
crooked men are burnt at the stake by the Thames
just like old times
no need to test their power in the river
the devil has already made his presence well-known
they die of petrol, bank notes and a spark
there is music
we live on and we are not slaves
the message is loud and unclear
but we work it out
food, music, wine, love
history
millions march to London
we live and die trying
to move these mountains of money,
volcanoes of passionate greed
