Blues’d streets mean sheets

Beggars be choosers but media cheats

Casting segregation lines tween sex engendered and the free endangered

By bullets from mouths and knives from tongues

By advertising dialogue that dictates us how to belong

To ground up slammed styles that clap back at natural smiles

To organic cotton eaten by the moths of consumerism

And spat out by a brexit false patriotism

This jism

This cataclysm of decisions made rash

And itchy of skin

Which all of us non-conformists find ourselves stuck in

This proxy vocation of a pretended nation

That is more divided than our Facebook status’s confided

That kissed cheek with blistex lips and practically bent at the hip

To allow this disavowed problem to be all of ours somehow

So I choose my nation to be more than a complication, to be a banshee cry that threatens the why and brings you my clasped handed friends

To work out hard on how this one ends.

A Cry For

The beatin of my war drum needs a little high hat
a taster of the sour flavoured words just been spatI don’t believe in violence

but nor do I a world filled with negligence

This insurgence of most urgent intervention

needs peace lords to provoke and strengthen,

to fatten the heart and pound the chest

to light a fire under asses normally at rest

So we can be believers in a cause a change a possible something

rather than sit on our thumbs

accepting this numbing ungracious succumbing to a life led meekly

aligned with a non-action that threatens weekly to incarcerate our ability to have thought flexibility, 

a muscle death of the gravest kind,

the savage dissuasion of an active mind.