Calling Citizens Of The World (After ‘The Great Dictator’ By Charlie Chaplin)

So I wrote this poem inspired from a song I co-wrote nearly ten years ago (available on request) at Performing Room in Northampton.

Additionally, this is also inspired from the film The Great Dictator, written and directed by Charlie Chaplin and his speech in that film.

in 2016 my country split in two
48% voted stay the rest to leave the EU
in the wake of Brexit and Windrush
when we moan we’re told to hush hush

workers continue to suffer under the bourgeoisie
saving every coin so they can survive this austerity
men, women and children hurt and alone
many don’t have safe places they can call home

in halls of residence students sweat
whack to the knees crippled under government debt
you know these loan sharks in suits
playing judge, jury and hangman ready to drop the noose

these are images on a news reel
this history we’re living in now is sealed
it’ll be written with photo-shopped pictures
as you know that history’s written by the victors

you can see lies written into faces
discussion puts world leaders through their paces
they tell us what they want us to hear
but critiquing their actions fills their minds with fear

politicians thinking what they think is right
turning people against basic human rights
deporting British citizens and funding wars
street slabs acting as veterans’ floorboards

Photo Credit: T-Chick McClure on Unsplash

Black or White; Christian or Muslim; Gay or Straight
through othered visions the powers that be discriminate
destroying communities, minds and souls
they’re not yours not for corporations to own and control

Northampton, campus incorporated
degrees and education hyper-monetised…
Town Centre – litter-ridden, takeaways and charity shops
in addition to police on the beat and All Saints’ sighs

fake news, false media, forced slave labour
form systems that change narratives and model behaviour
it causes nothing but anger and distress
look at the world in protest and continuous civil unrest

like Goebbels and Lord Kitchener with propaganda
they use words and pictures to play on our anger
like Darth Vader they use the force to enslave us
using false media and stories to garner our trust

peace exists on Earth with the breathing and the living
not with us murdering those who are giving
don’t pollute the world with plastics and aerosols
pollute it with children who dare to be brave and be bold

humanity has been through so much pain
but those who’ve maimed must take responsibility
if they don’t things will never change
fix up and for once take some accountability

we should guide each other
like Indiana Jones in his quest to discover
one race – one people – one destiny
as we scout in pedigree and human history

Photo Credit: Annie Boilin on Unsplash

Citizens of the World, have your say
we’re not pieces in games chess for them to play
party politics’s been casting us in sin
boxing us based on gender, beliefs, race and melanin

those of you preaching what you think is right
turning people against basic human rights
experiences have given me perspective
it’s made me who I am and taught me to live

live in peace and your lives in tranquillity
live in peace and your lives in tranquillity
live in peace and your lives in tranquillity.


“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”

J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit

Semiotics: Observations Exposed

Semiotics is the study of signs and I wrote this poem inspired from ‘Motives and Thoughts’ by Lauryn Hill.

The severe lack grammar and punctuation is to show that thoughts and signs are not scripted. They just exist.

This is one continuous ramble with no structure. How we think is not always linear from point A to point B.


mumbling rappers confusion of sound
negative messages holding us down
time and capitalism socially constructed
human consciousness motives corrupted
impulsive reactions brexit and war
from slavery to windrush injustice galore

western media tools for
synthetic mythologies modern folklore
global newsreaders creating misdirection
claiming munitions are for our protection
wicked news anchors killing our brains
misleading us with newspeak again
war is economics designed for profit and gain

mr trump glows in the dark motives exposed
we can all see through his baggy clothes
this klansman confines kids to cages and woes
with human rights disposed written into code
Tory government party of jokers court jester logic
always answering questions with statements off topic

uncivilised people with colonialist knowledge
system decline and still wont concede
using religion as a saviour analysing behaviour
eton MPs kings and queens of corruption and greed
impulsive politicians on prescription meds
wishing brexit negotiations were all in their heads

ethical standards pride is the source
born with silver spoons on the back of a horse
imperial leaders led by whitewashed history
churchill and nelson racists it’s no mystery

Cackling Theresa May GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

global economy in for number one
banks hiring mercenaries and guns
war designed to kill fathers and sons
to the sound of cannons and drums
as number ten paints beautiful pictures
from myths into theology and scriptures

both west and east are after diamonds and pearls
as lies and deception take over the world
blind with hate deep in our hearts
neo-colonialism is a poison dart
deceive your neighbours so well get ahead
modern day deceit is what we’re being fed

Genocide

So I wrote this poem in response to when I was scouting for venues for Soul Food Poetry Northampton; certain places got edgy when I explained that some of the acts that we get read poetry about things like current affairs, politics, war, mental health and so on.

You can’t censor poetry, I don’t think we should censor people’s topics to make it more comfortable. However, we do ask for acts to be creative in how they omit swear words (as there’s sometimes children in the audience).

Art comes in different forms: poetry, prose, theatre, film, photography etc. When an artist’s work isn’t designed to offend, to censor it because certain people disagree with it / feel uncomfortable with it is wrong (to me).

Me performing at Soul Food Poetry Amsterdam
Photographer: Jadzia Kurzak

Surely, if they can commemorate bloody, messy conflicts, poets can talk about politics, war, mental health and other such things in their performances?

These are the same places where come November 11, are decorated with bits of bunting donning the Union Jack flag celebrating the end of World War One, as well as remembering those who have died in other conflicts too (harsh topics indeed).

You can’t have different rules for different people. My poem ‘Genocide’ is inspired from ‘What’s Genocide?’ by Carlos Andrés Gómez.


The pub managers told me we couldn’t perform poetry with profanity,
they said poetry has to be nice, digestible and pleasant,
they said you can’t read poetry that dealt with difficult subjects.

So I ask them:

“Raise your hands if you have heard of The Armistice?”

In congruence, they raised their hands
like mustard gas climbing out of a trench,
like raised bayonets at the Somme or Passchendaele.

“Okay, hands down. Now raise your hand
if you have heard of the Armenian Genocide.”

Vacant expressions blended with a curious ignorance,
like the quivering quiet at Gallipoli,
like throats coloured rotten with gangrene,
voices halfway murmuring,
like lone soldiers whispering from behind barbed wire.
Took place between 1914 and 1917,
massacred at the hands of The Ottoman Empire.

So, what is genocide?

 

They wouldn’t let me perform again
if I read these pieces,
poems that tell stories
of The Other during the World Wars,
works that raise bayonet
against Churchill and Kitchener.
Pieces of a real world war,
not just Europe as I was taught
in the hollow corridors of my schooldays.

I can’t teach grown-ass people
in the audience that the history we know
is part of a wider story
and that it’s okay to admit
the history we learn as children
is very one-sided,
that the nostalgic pride for
Britain’s past is often misguided.

How many glorified films
have we had about Winston Churchill?
A lot, yet he was instrumental
with Dunkirk and the Battle for Britain,
as he stands in Trafalgar Square staring
from the £5-note; though he
advocated for chemical weapons on
Iraqi tribes and called Africans “savages,”
talking about black and brown people
in the language of eugenics and averages.

So, what is genocide?

 

Your statues talk about Nelson’s victories,
but don’t talk about his endorsement of slavery.

World History books omit Medgar Evers and Emmett Till.
They don’t even mention King Leopold and the Congo,
titling it “Politics in the 20th Century”
calling them immigrants-settlers,
rather than land-grabbers and colonisers.

Like Cecil Rhodes, those De Beers
blood diamond mines; imperialists
and their measuring tapes
stealing tribes’ ancestral lands
in Botswana, Zimbabwe and Zambia
laying the foundations for Apartheid
in the southern nations of Africa.

You wonder why Black and Asian children want
to hide in lighter skin with blue and green contact lenses,
history books made them ashamed of their melanin,
forced to build walls, barriers and concrete defences.

So what is genocide?

 

Genocide is Morant Bay, Jamaica.
When the children of slaves
rose up in anger against the British…
A courthouse destroyed. Places were looted,
some were executed; it was a riot
in a place that no longer mattered
in the eyes of the empire.

But it’s what happened next:

the reason every Jamaican has heard of Morant Bay –
the reason why it makes the locals so vex,
the reason why that history is so fresh,
the militia swarmed in like wasps,
hundreds killed in this brutal act of vengeance.
A penance to show the Jamaicans who was boss.

Chantelle gave her daughter
skin-lightening cream
the day before she starts school.

She exists at the end of a gun,
at the end of neo-colonial rules,
European beauty standards raised at half mast

of a bayonet blade cutting fine lines
into her beautiful brown thighs,
killing the sanctity of childhood innocence…

being told “She’s pretty for a dark-skin girl”
in Africa, in America, in England
this place that place around the world.

So, what is genocide?

 

You really

want to

know what

genocide is?

This,

right here,

is genocide!

Cannons (After ‘The Charge Of The Light Brigade: A Sociolinguistic Interpretation’ By Nate Boston)

I wrote this poem inspired by ‘The Charge Of The Light Brigade: A Sociolinguistic Interepretation’ by Bedfordshire poet Nate Boston.

Additionally, this poem is inspired from ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ by Victorian-era poet Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809  – 1892).


Who can tell me who William Wilberforce is?
William Pitt? Thomas Clarkson? Josiah Wedgewood?
Am I not a man and a brother?
“I know I know,” came a voice –
“They’re the guys who ended slavery.”
I guess that’s a true story, but not the whole story…
no need for me to exaggerate this allegory,
because to British children of African and Asian descent,
Black stories, Brown tales, Asian past narratives dispensed…
are nothing more than unexplained footnotes in textbooks.

Look, time for an annual analysis,
ready to diagnose Britain’s historical paralysis,
not diagnosing the worries in me,
how Britain views
its nostalgic national pride and its history.
When it comes to that story,
I tell people to ignore the school books
they have been given,
because Britain’s story which is their story
is a book that has not yet been written.

Forward! Always forward!
One league, two leagues,
across perilous seas,
six hundred leagues, to battle!

Cannons!

British history is on every continent,
going from here to there
tooting trumpets, arrogance and dominance.
When it comes to this story,
I do not follow protocol; I do not follow
the half-truths of school history courses,
teaching normalised lies, ignoring how
Britain colonised with horses and naval forces.

Cannon fire all round,
bangs and whizzes,
sounds deafening
from the bellows of Lord Dunmore,
bodies wrought with rot and smell
into the jaws of Hades and hell itself.

Cannons!

I am not interested in five pages on the Slave Trade
when only white saviours are permitted,
not when we have Solomon Northup,
his captors acquitted from justice.
Not when we have Equiano and Nanny,
not when we have Tubman, Jacobs and Mary Prince.
I will not promote infinite whites fighting for abolition
when for screen time, my own people have to audition.

Flashed to sabres naked,
flashed to writhing white eyes,
battle under burning blue skies,
shattered and sundered,
slaves thrown drowned –
the seabed their new stomping ground,
the one hundred and thirty three
conjoined together swallowed by the sea.

Cannons!

I am done showcasing America’s Thanksgiving
whilst Columbus hides behind false fables,
as Washington hides behind Independence Day tables,
America – born from genocide… built by slaves,
tribes, immigration, refugees and more.
Let’s not pretend that that wasn’t a metaphor.
I’m not going to give Columbus the title of explorer.
Thief, outlander, coloniser is more fitting –
partaking in land grabs and splitting continents.

I hate to brainwash young children with these lies.
Check academia, check kid lit; how minorities
oft only see themselves as the set pieces in wider tales
but they’re in the details of news stories on BBC and CNN,
Black and Asian women, children and men condemned again.

The people with something to lose,
brewing wars with High-def cameras and news crews,
trying to convince you with their latest ruse.
They claim the perpetrators are monsters,
yet you have to ask if the narrators have something to gain.
Is there a narrative here or an ideology they’re trying to maintain?

Like captain and first mate
being pirates on the seven seas.
Cannons cannons everywhere
while horse and human fell,
a quelled quiet of thunder and lightning,
wind, rain and cold
whilst man protects his love,
not his life or fellow friends
but gunpowder and gold.

Cannons!

A history repeated
with the anger of an earthquake,
tectonic plates grinding against each other,
thrown into a pan and left to bake.
Starting off as a basic recipe book
and left to simmer, left to cook
and aren’t we quick to eat at the table
without questioning where its contents come from?

Cannons! 

Corpracide

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.