I wrote this poem inspired from the recent strikes on Syria from the US, France and the UK; it’s also inspired by the song “He Got Game” by Pubic Enemy.

The title for this poem comes from a chapter in a book by Russell Brand called Revolution, a book that struck a chord with me when I was seventeen.

Aside from the strike on Syria, this poem is also about how easily we push buttons (physical and metaphorical) and how easily nations go to war.

Shouldn’t war and conflict be the last resort? Seems like it’s the first thing on leaders’ minds before anything else (all they see are dollar and pound-signs)

If May is Mother, than Trump is Father. Why’s this poem coming six times edited like conflicts are something to be welcomed not discredited. I’ve never freestyled but MP calls me Gas Mark 6, and I write them like sunshine. I wake up to news of a Syrian strike; May’s issued it like the Third Reich, free from democracy –

more like bureaucracy in this New Imperial Age. It’s all the rage; on this laptop screen, what does this all mean, this mess I’m seeing? Syrian civilians screaming vocal javelins, certainly signs of immorality, the human psyche unravelling. So where’s God in this crisis, as world leaders play chess games like this? Look at the papers, follow the wire and you’ll see why all they do is lie.

More than our eyes can see and ears can listen, year by year politicians fall foul to capitalist dispositions. Receiving invoices from terrorists for chemical munitions. Foolishness continues to run riot through world neighbourhoods in the view of us, every war is a preview of what they do.

Thieving like cuckoos, flexing their arms making and breaking umpteen numbers of laws. Bear witness to the heartlessness of the USA, France and the UK. Trump tweets, Tony Blair chants. Clickity clack, choosing to forget about the result of the Chilcot Enquiry and fifteen years in Iraq.

Hell, was it something I said? All these leaders care about is zooming in on money and oil, not the welfare of the countries they spoil; it’s almost cartoonish. The news readers recite from a script, like they’re Gods blessed with knowledge from an encyclopaedia. And this time, yes, this time – thank God for the invention of the internet, Facebook and social media.

Thought of a freethinking public got the government tripping over themselves. But what happens when you destroy chemical factories? Sounds like more harmful chemicals rooted into the earth’s battery. How much are Syrian communities worth as authorities get away with murder, smiling with bile and impunity?

Seems nothing to lose, everything’s approved. And when refugees come knocking, we close our borders, blocking them and leaving them to dock in No Man’s Waters. White execs in suits don’t even have to work, press a few buttons and quit the next day receiving a fat pay out with the clout to proclaim being a victim #WhitePrivilege.

The system will take care of Trump and May, whilst the media will blame Syrian civilians for Syria’s problems, like when the housing markets crashed, we blamed the homeless and immigrants, not the fat cats. None of us, not one, own ourselves, as we pay rent to the one per cent and corporate presidents.

The top one per cent own more than half the world’s wealth. You know, your Murdochs and Rockerfellers who are some of the leaders in these acts of brutality. The politics of war and whips. I’m really sick of corporate media blaming poor people for these bourgeois-funded conflicts – Vietnam, Syria, Iraq. Scams, as politicians grow rich and wealthy in the haze of napalm.

Media telling me I have to beware. Of who? The terrorists in suits or the ones we create, arming them with weapons, sending them to war every few years. Cheering in front of pieces of cloth, The question is, can we start a revolution that is written into the walls of every region and city – from Delhi to New York to London to the West Indies?

Photographer: Neil Thomas

Since Trump seems to think it’s mission accomplished, since Mrs May thinks democracy is beneath her, since they affectionately push buttons with ease –

unto them I affectionately say,  bitches please.

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