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Batter down the richest door

May 29, 2017 - 22:51 -- Admin

Batter down the richest door

Mateship sailed, soiled,
The myth of men,
Of outback fuckers
In a world of cities
And out of luckers

The equality of fools
Of shared nothing
The solidarity of tools
Honed on the loneliness
Of space

The great white plains
That exist in heads alone
Explain too much
And so cannot be
Explained

Howard’s beggars
Line their streets
The neat array
Of destitutes
Denied a life
For profits call
A shadowed hope
A tortured fall

The armied stand,
Old, hand in hand
No one helps
No one cares
They take their place
They part their hair
Of what remains
With brylcream smiles
And fevered air

Memories of the dead
Arise
Like ghosts
Before their only eye
Both them and us
There are two sides
Coffined
In the living bog
Of war

The sick man walks
The doctors’ street
Row upon row
Very neat
But he cannot enter
The houses closed
Only the propertied may pose
For deeper images

The battered woman
Kids akimbo
Searches, shelter-skeltered,
And broken limbed, for home
The empty are full
The full emptied
By government largesse
The gutter is her mattress

The embers die
The black woman cries
She remembers
The world without
The white man
The doubt gone
Disease and suicide
And poverty
Spiritual, material
Have blossomed
On the land that is not hers
Anymore

In camps far away
Concentrated behind
The blinds of openness
Are those who sought help
Thrown from the good boat mateship
Like all the others

The kings and queens
Of mates
Rule us
The rich men and women
Hate us
The crippled, the poor, the black
The women in the back

Their loudspeakers blast
Fairness and freedom
We rotten away
Caught in the sway
Of their money
And their power

Come rise,
Rise against
And for
Against them, for us
For freedom from and freedom for
Let’s batter down
Their richest door
And give their gold
To us, the poor

A work in progress
John Passant 29 May 2017