Mercy, it’s in our prayers
and it’s our biggest cancer,
societies poison, humanities pill,
it’s mercy, the sweet nectar of power
at mercies behest some plunder and steal.
Mercy, it both separates
and connects us to the animal kingdom.
The power of mercy
bestowed upon lords,
the bedrock of hierarchy
and so much more.
Mercy, the noose around the neck
of the 21st century serf,
the promise of subjugation
the promise of death by a thousand cuts,
mercy, so misunderstood in a merciless world.
What is constant in a world of moments,production is in abundance yet so many are still hopeless?So what is always in a world of ‘never’in a world of sometimes,what’s forever?Dreamt a thousand dreams.Hoped forevermore,for brighter days for the pooror just a chance at it,a shot at a future, a slice of hope,because while at times it shines here,the rains been constantand the joy has always been brief,yet the pains so constant.
𝒜𝓈𝓎𝒶 𝒱𝒶𝓁𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑒, 𝐵𝓊𝓈𝓎 𝐼𝓃 𝒲❁𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇
No silver spoon,
I only know drug antidotes,
only thing to ease my mind
when the demons call.
Five years my junior,
but the reason I became a man.
On these words I stand…
your life’s my only plan.
Jungle made of concrete,
seen no easy years,
life’s so unfair…
can still feel your soul in the air.
Radicalised by pain,
sufficiently conditioned to reject
the meritocratic myths and
barely interested in conditional freedoms,
liberal bourgeoisie notions of self,
the sort of ideas that pave the good intentions to hell.
The sort of hell fashioned by the idea that our practices,
our ways of organising are anything more than ideas…
anything more than the brain children
of those who existed in a society prior
– the sort of society that they themselves once wished to redefine.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴,
𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴
𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘷𝘶𝘭𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦;
𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯
𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘯.
𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘴,
𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘭 – 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥
𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘺𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘴,
𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵.
𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴.
𝘗𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴,
𝘪𝘧 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩.
𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘯,
𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦?
𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧
𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥
𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘺𝘦𝘴,
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘦𝘶𝘷𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨
𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 – 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦.
𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴,
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘥𝘫𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵
𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘴𝘰,
𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴,
𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴.
𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯,
𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘺
𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘺, 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦,
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺.
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭,
𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴,
𝘢 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦… 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦.
Split and destroy, divide and rule,
the ploy from a few to divide us all.
If it is the system that reaps rewards
and handles allocation; where nine tenths
have nothing because it’s captured and hoarded?
If the many must struggle for the gain of a few?
Then why not should one suggest, to take it from you?
Shame and pity for all of your flaws,
you have all you could want yet still want more.
‘Lies, damned lies and statistics‘
the story from the graph and the ground are so so different;
off with the platitudes,
time for solutions, the systems not broken – it’s working, we need a revolution.