When they kick at your front door
How you gonna come?
With your hands on your head
Or on the trigger of your gun
When the law break in
How you gonna go?
Shot down on the pavement
Or waiting on death row
You can crush us
You can bruise us
But you'll have to answer to
Oh, the guns of Brixton
The money feels good
And your life you like it well
But surely your time will come
As in heaven, as in hell
You see, he feels like Ivan
Born under the Brixton sun
His game is called survivin'
At the end of the harder they come
You know it means no mercy
They caught him with a gun
No need for the Black Maria
Goodbye to the Brixton sun
You can crush us
You can bruise us
But you'll have to answer to
But oh-the guns of Brixton
When they kick at your front door
How you gonna come?
With your hands on your head
Or on the trigger of your gun
You can crush us
You can bruise us
Yes, even shoot us
But oh-the guns of Brixton
Shot down on the pavement
Waiting in death row
His game is called survivin'
As in heaven as in hell
You can crush us
You can bruise us
But you'll have to answer to
Oh, the guns of Brixton
Oh, the guns of Brixton
Oh, the guns of Brixton
Oh, the guns of Brixton

There was a fire yesterday,
it spread across the airwaves.
From nation to nation, pain and grief,
for the boy from Brixton left us here.

Heartbreak ravaged the lovers and friends,
for the boys time had come to an end.
An immortal in many of our eyes,
reality burned us as we cried.

Till night fell and the streets flooded,
flames smothered and flowers budded,
under the stars he adored for years,
people sang and danced and cheered.

For the boy from Brixton left his mark,
and then retreated to those stars,
leaving us with his songs and scenes,
his fashion, his love and everything between.

A lad insane with a powerful passion,
in touch with sound and all his visions,
on course for a final collision,
with his home amongst the stars.

As the BNP has seemingly, been swept aside
by the rise of the EDL & now UKIP, in England

This piece, that I wrote, some years ago,
still holds weight, as the immigrant debate
is now, still being used for political games ...

Same bullchit,
just some different names and faces
and .... NOT JUST IN ... The UK ... !!!

LISTEN ... LiISTEN ... !!!
" Middle Class " ... England ... !!!

Come On Now ... !!!

It's NOT ... immigrants ...
Bringing England ... down ... !!!

It's ...
Your Own ... Government ...
That's Causing ... FROWNS ... !!!

Charles Clarke's ... A Clown ... !!!

He's been ... found out ...

His Home Office Crew ...
Haven't Got ... " A Clue " ... ?!?
where ... Immigrants are ...
from ... " Foreign Grounds " ...
who now ... walk around ...
Right ... next to you ...

So ... Of Course ...
The ... " Working Class " ...
are in an ... " Angry Mood " ... !!!

and now ... are singing
the same ol' tune ...

"Get the immigrants out !
They're stealing our jobs !
and are nothing more,
than slobs who rob !"

Well ... for some ...
That's ... TRUE ... !!!

There is ... NO DOUBT ... !!!

but let's ... talk about ...
Those ... " Wearing Gowns " ...
and those who ... RUN ...
Your ... English Towns ...
whilst ... Robbing People ...
of their ... " Pounds " ... !!! ...

and  ... What about those ... ?
who ... Sit and Smile ...
whilst employing some to teach ...
who they knew were ...." Paedophiles " .... !!!!!

"But, its' the immigrants
who are ****** worthless !"

"Well, I suggest,
you watch ministers, more !
and immigrants less !
Unless of course, they're Americans
like Condoleeza and George !"

Then ....
Instead of fighting wars
on ... foreign shores ...

Helping George to ... " Hoard " ...
for his ... " Monetary Frauds " ...
So His Friends ... can hold ... MORE ... !!!

The Home Office could ... ENSURE ...
that immigrants who are ... KNOWN ...
to break ... SERIOUS LAWS ... !!! ...
are shown ... The Door ...
that's marked ... DEPORT ... !!!!!

The Labour Party ... CLEARLY ...
has got some ... flaws ... !!! ...
from ... Inept MP's ...
in the ... " Commons " ...
to the ..... " Lords " .....

Whose HYPOCRISY ...
SHOULDN'T BE ... ignored ... !!!!!

Like those who say ...

"Crime figures are down !"

with proof that's ... SHODDY ... !!!
and a body like ..... NODDY ...... !!!
and a pair of ... " BIG EARS " ... !!!

Yes i'm back to that ... " Clown " ... !!!
who in effect ... has said ...

He will ...

" Stop terrorism
on our hallowed ground !!! "

Please excuse ...
My ... " Skepticism " ... !!!

But ...
when letting immigrants ...
with ... " SERIOUS CONVICTIONS " ...
walk away from ... " Extradition " ...
and .... " Prison Supervision " .... ?!? ...

Mr. Clarke would seem to be ...
a man of ... CONTRADICTIONS ... !!!

So ...
"COME ON NOW PEOPLE" ...
........... LISTEN ...........

It's really ...
NOT ... My Mission ... !!!
to make you sign petitions ...

But ...
CERTAIN ... " Resignations " ...
would help the population ...
REJECT ... their thoughts of ... HATRED ... !!!!!

So ... " Come On Now !!! " ...
The Government is ... " FOUL " ... !!!!!
and should ... " Throw In " ...
The ... " Proverbial Towel " ... !!! ...

and take up ... New Positions ...
WELL AWAY ......... from public vision .... !!!!!!!!!

because ....
Their Brand of ... government ...
Feeds ... " New Age Separatism " ... !!!!!

which ... CLEARLY NOW ...
is causing rise to ...

... FUNDAMENTALISM ... !!!!!

from those who court ... " Religion " ...
to those who preach ... " Division " ...
and ... Teachings of ... RACISM ... !!!!!!!

From groups just like ...
The ... " BNP " ...

Nick Griffins' Plea ...
is ... VOTE FOR ME ... !!!

" I may just do !!!!!! "

Like those who choose
to ... Walk in Shoes ...

NEW and IMPROVED ... !!!

They now ... Don't Use ...
Those ... STEEL CAPPED BOOTS ...

But still are ... CLEARLY ...
Quite ... " CONFUSED " ... ?!?!?

Until it come to ...
Using ... " TOOLS " ... !!!!!

"You know the drill boys !
We've got new toys,
the first **** in view
you know what to do !"

How many of them ?
Now join ... Police Crews ... !?!

to use ...
Their ... NEW SUIT ...

To ... Institute Abuse ... !?!
  
I guess you ... " Bourgeoise Crews " ...
are now thinking ... " Oooooohhh " ... !?!

Well ....
NOT ... as much ...
as those ... " Immigrant Youth " ...
who've seen policemen ... Act Uncouth ... !!!!!

Vote ... BNP ... !!!!! ...
If you really want to ...
for all the good ...
This will do you ... !!!

The Rich ... will still ...
"Look Down" ... on the poor ... !!!

from the ... " Top of the Hill " ...
whilst storing ... pounds ...
and ... " Dollar Bills " ..

You're ...
" Foolish If " ...
You think ... They Won't ... !!!

whether immigrants ... STAY ...
or ... immigrants .... GO .... !!!!!!!

IT'S NOT ... just blacks ...
who'll face ... Attacks ... !!!

They're ... " Pretty Radical " ...
and that's a .... FACT .... !!! .....

I wonder sometimes ... ??? ...
Are they ... " Government Backed " ... ?!?

because ... if they are ... ???
Will they ... KICK US OUT ... !?!
with a ... " Bag of Cash " ...

because ... Right Now ...
That wouldn't be ... so bad ... !!!

So vote ... BNP ... !!!
That's Now ... MY PLEA ... !!!!!!

They may ... FINALLY ...
Set Immigrants ... FREE ... !!!!!

FREE from ... LIES ...
in ... This Country ...
from those ... You ... VOTE FOR ...
YES .... " MP's " .... !!!!! ....

Men like ... " Clarke " ...
" Prescott " ... and ... " Kennedy " ...

How about those three ... !?!

An ... INCOMPETENT LIAR ...
and ... Confessed ... " Alchy " ... !!!!!

I'll let you ... " Decide " ...
who applies to ... each ...

I'll say it again ... !!!
In Fact ... I'll ... REPEAT ... !!!

My ... " New Found Line " ...
Just ... ONE MORE TIME ...

VOTE BNP ... !!!!!!

As I said ... before ...
I may now do ... !!!!!!!!!

and that's the ... TRUTH ... !!!
cos' i've ... Never liked red ...
and am Black ... NOT Blue ... !!!!!

But ...
What about you ... ?

DON'T BE ABSURD ... !!!

It'll make things ... WORSE ... !!!!!

The only ones who'll ... WIN ...
will be those whose work ...
is ... " Driving A Hearse " ...

I suggest you ... Take That ... " IN " ...
and REMEMBER ... those words ... !!!!!!!!

If it comes to that ...
Whites ... " Joining Klans " ...
who make ... Racist Attacks ...
with tools like an ... AXE ... !!!!!

I suggest you think back ...
to ... " Notting Hill Frictions " ...
Toxteth ... and ... Brixton ...

Remember when the ... RIOTS ...
were the news on ... Television ...

It wasn't ... Much Fun ... !!!

Well ... Nowadays ...
Some ... " Carry Guns " ...

I'd prefer ... NOT TO SEE ...
Riot Violence ... on streets ...

Some of you ... SURELY ...
Agree ..... with me ..... !!!!!

I'd rather find ... SOLUTIONS ... !!!
That ... DECIMATE ... " iLLusiOns " ... !!!!!

because it .....
Wouldn't be ... " Wise " ...
to ... incREASE FIGHTS ... !!!
and face a ... REVOLUTION ... !!!!

We Need to build ...
" More Unions " ... !!!

That Help ...
" Depose " ... " Collusions " ... !!! ...
Employed to spread ... " Confusion " ... ?!?!?

This piece of prose ...
may make some ... FROWN ... !?!

But ...
NOT ... as much ...
As ... Government Clowns ... !!!

Who ... choose to leave ...
The Masses to ... THIEVES ... !!!
and .... POVERTY .... !!!

and a ... Health Service ...
Now on .... It's KNEES .... !!!

When you look around now
Don't you .... Agree .... ??? ...

If your answer is ... NO ... ?

You must ...
LIKE TO BE ... Clowned ... ?!?

which leaves me thinking ...

" COME ON NOW ... !!!!! "

Evolution echoes
in the hollows
of the guarding oak tree.
Salvation in it’s roots,
intertwined like fingers in prayer.
Possibilities outline
hillside silhouettes.
Paper-thin illusions
are found in textured walls.
The flicker of the street-lamp
matches the pulse of my heartbeat,
and the shadow on the asphalt
color the hue of my dreams.
Rooftops and light-bulb skies
paint me temporary.
The contradiction of leaving
to staying
throbs.

here's to the glam rock messiah of outsiders and misfits,
the androgynous man of the stars with the music.

born in brixton,
he traveled the universe by spaceships and soundwaves
with wild hair and one eye dilated.
book-loving and queer,
in love with the thought of turning 50.
the world had never seen a man
living different lives at once,
but here the starman came reinventing himself:
ziggy stardust, thin white duke, aladdin sane, major tom—
all different selves tied together by his heart.

he lived his earthly mission, rightfully so
that even the gravity of the world could not keep him put.
so on and on he strummed his guitar and crawled on stage,
in spaceboots and dresses, in porcelain doll makeup,
reaching out to all the nobody and somebody people

but one day his cosmic vessel
was taken down by a secret sickness
and halted his mission here on earth,
and so the streets and little bars smelling of cigars
were flooded by the ones who mourned,
who looked up to the stars,
wondering where their starman went.
the world had never seen such an electric creature,
but here the star man came in music and dance,
saying it was alright to be weird—
to embrace strangeness
in a world where every earthling wanted to be the same.

and perhaps, he isn't really long gone:
his time here may have ended
but now he is out there, somewhere,
on some distant star,
watching over the Earth as he always has.

She ran a boarding house in Boston,
But they used her size to terrorize men
And lead them to the lock-holes.
Or was she a lady clad in black ruffles,
Presented to the Queen in 1844?
Perhaps she was a racehorse
Foaled in Harlem and won a prize.
She had peddled drugs and run a gang
In the chaos of Civil War,
Black Mariah escaped from the darkness
Of Edison’s studio to roam the world,
But in it found herself re-imagined.
They named police wagons after her
It’s said, but no one knows the truth.
Did she cross the battle lines again,
To tread on civil rights?
Or swing the batons in Chicago
And fire rifles at Kent State?
She seems to take time out to charm
Gruff-voiced men who sing her praise.
She prowled the streets of Brixton,
In 1983, with truncheons at her side.
Through gas clouds, dragging men to jail.
Black Mariah is with us still,
Helping to create tyrants and traitors,
To stop the mouths of those who defy
She’s an accessory to the killing.

We’re the salty dogs of mo-der-ni-ty,
Robot starfish programmed so expertly
(And we’d like to state most em-phat-ic-ly
There’s no cannibalism in the Royal Navy.)

As we sail the blue waters virtually,
There’s a thigh for you and a femur for me
(Just a wee little joke, as you can plainly see;
There’s no cannibalism in the Royal Navy.)

We sing along to Yanni and John Tesh
Though we’d prefer to have them in the flesh
(It’s their haunting tunes we find quite tasty;
There’s no cannibalism in the Royal Navy.)

We serve the nation and prove our worth,
Map the sewers of Brixton, gnaw on Colin Firth
(He treads the boards in-spi-ray-shun-ly;
There’s no cannibalism in the Royal Navy.)

When our duty’s done and the day is through
We have a most proper naval bar-be-cue
(Though we replace officers most fre-quent-ly
There’s no cannibalism in the Royal Navy.)

Down on the South side watching all
the wide boys,
plugging in on Electric Avenue
watching the streets and who
walks by, who stands there waiting and
wondering why.

Brixton,
easy on the eyes,
sifting through the lies they told as
worlds unfold before me,
Starbucks and coffee,
skimming news in the 'Standard',
just because it is free.

Taxman?, relax man
the money's in the post,
this is South West Nine and
there's plenty of time
for all that.

dear elise,

in three months rosa's cheeks won't be so rosy anymore and you’ll be standing over an urn watering the ashes in the hopes that your sister will grow back without the thorns.
she’ll leave them buried behind in parts of your heart that you never even thought existed and it’ll sting so much you’ll be screaming at family or rather
the people you’re supposed to call family
to not bring flowers to a flower’s funeral

(i’m digging my fingernails into the dirt and wondering if
god wilted too.)

your sister thought she could hide it behind her petals but she couldn’t and that means you should have watered the roses more, that’s what mum will tell you for years to come, and she’s right because it was her ******* garden you walked right into and tainted with god knows what. because of you, she’s going to cut off her green thumb and bury it somewhere in the corner of the flower beds so it wilts with the rest of her. it still smells like rot these days, why?

why does it feel so different? the kids still drive down to brixton to set their own bodies on fire (**** the witch! **** the witch!) and she still tells you to chew your words twice, maybe three times but be careful not to let the thorns slit your throat on the way down, rosa is too fragile to be wasted on your mouth. you can still change; you’re only fourteen. i’m hoping you will start finding beauty in the spray painted graffiti, the red streaks burrowing roots in your daydreams and cultivating a new garden in the comfort of your head
it’s just much easier that way having a keepsake all to yourself--

please keep her safe in the urn under your bed

It started well, so cleanly
Soaked in Lush stuff she soothed the aches
Whilst wife was meanwhile cooking a treat
Cider soaked pork and apples
The taste was tremendous
Precedent set for the night ahead

Feeling cool as ganstas we bopped and grinded
To hip-hop only Jurassic 5 could please me with
We were few female amongst a crowd of masculinity
And we relished the imbalance
Flirting my way to the front of the bar
I reignited my relationship with the favourite Jaegar-Bomb
And there dust settled upon the cleanliness

Things turned hazy but in a good way
Post gig we flooded onto the streets of Brixton
And drank the finest foreign beers from an overflowing alehouse
The company was our long-missed men-friends
And yet we still meeting more
As we shared the ingredients to ***** our lungs
They asked for 50 shades of grey in return for rizla
So I rose to the challenge in my half-cut state

This time is was always my intention to wash the weekend down wildly
And starting Thursday this premature session could progress to only place
…the Queens Head
Where dust turned to grime as snapshots of evidence
Prove it was on the credit card that those Jaegar-Bombs were paid
Time and time again
We had become team-mates and it was time I fed them
So we muddled back to my place
Trumpeting our voices through the building
As I served slow roasted pork from glasses
Apparently felt good choice
But next day our melted fingerprints disagree
Our heads also disagree with the antics
And it takes two rounds of tablets to numb the pain

Before later forcing recovery as in Shoreditch we start again
Gathered at Bettys we watched music played
Our rumps rested on armchairs upon the pavement
We continued drinking until the early hours of the day
Then searched for somewhere to take us on the dance floor longer
After only brief grimes of movement and Jaegar
Our night ended abruptly to our dismay
Instead had my first take of kebab
And went north where *** took the night away

Once again woke next morn in bed with man-friend
No memory but surely not in a **** way
Now the skies ******* a mocking mirror of our livers
It seemed a sign to sink further
And the finest ****** Mary led the way
And together sat on sofas we philosophised subjects that we deemed great
Then we ogled sparkly get ups
With prices that we couldn’t afford to pay
So went south to join more friends whose film we met to celebrate

The beginning of the end of madness
Needed cocktails-all we could tolerate
We had formed a tribe of friendship
And we hunted somewhere to prolong the rave
By now all sense of cleanliness long-time washed away
So a downstairs dive provided venue fit for our friendships to extenuate

Then outside met a generous stranger
Who offered tastings that lead our minds astray
Our insides dirtied beyond belief
But sprits high so when we stumbled upon a private party
We were welcome guests to join their birthday

What happened next I needn’t say
For inevitably it had become Sunday
So ***** now we were beyond grey
In wife’s bed I lay
Whilst my insides showed their dismay

This would take some cleaning

There's still a hint of menace in the air from the
tapas bars that seem to spring up everywhere and
on
Electric Avenue,
there's few would argue 'bout that.

The night not flat but straight line curved, and keep your eyes peeled,hyenas prowl,stiletto heeled,
Coldharbour harbours much.

A touch of music and my eyes slant,
might catch a glimpse of Eddy Grant,
Once,
the new messiah with tunes to set the world on fire.

Mo's the man to go and see
(what you mean the guy with the Masters degree?)
that's the dude,
can chew up words and swallow them and yet the humblest of the humble men,
find him down
the Brixton Soup Kitchen
no whining,*******' ,
just getting on with it,in the thick of it
serving to his brothers,sons and fathers,mothers, sustenance,initiative indeed to live and give and love and feed.

You may think you've seen it all
but
you ain't seen nothing yet
not until
you get down Brixton way
see what the guys there do and say.
pure gold.

He enters. A stiff morning jowl
can be heard clicking.
And, in early grievance,
the second man’s clock speeds its ticking.
He lies lulling himself (lamenting)
while lockjaw bends down,
knees cracking.
Behind the fold that blinds the floored man
a “D” engrained from cigarette ads,
After smell of the first’s wafts over.
An emphysemic growl is left ringing
on the ground; tumultuous hacking
kicks in like the cops that reside down in Brixton.  
Wheeze, hack, and cough, and cough. And cough.
(Silence) bearing down from the **** erectus
leads Remington to the Clark of the floored man’s
pounding chest.
Rest, rest; he tries to protest, but the cavalry
can’t hear his signs of duress.
And now slitting wrists, from inside the veins;
the invisible smoker never could be restrained.

the clouds just hung there like traitors. No movement. The numbers won’t add up. We’re divided. No release. Lights ricochet against the water like wounds. Cut my heart out & paste it to the cardboard cutout i’ve been reduced to. No movement. Decorate it with glitter- the expensive kind like you like. i have no eyes. The clouds just hang there but still they seem to manage change. Am i just the same? is that a question or a creative form of denial? Can you deal with this?
Plot your next move. You are the chess player & i’m the queen.
But you’ll never really get me.

There is no real ending. Time has lost her breath. Maybe i don’t know me. Running in place but i’m on empty. No rules to our love. No designated direction. No reasons. i’m the champion of failure, pushing my own face down in the mud. I’m the maker of destruction enjoying every last bit. Wishing lives came equipped with erasers. Happy being sad. (i will not call you. i will not give in.) Wishing on half-broken street lamps. i always knew you could never mend a broken heart so why do i keep trying. That’s not a question. it’s emptiness, everything.

i am my own prisoner. i know i know IKNOW.

*Taken from "I Killed Alice in Wonderland" by Brixton Bell. © All Rights Reserved.

Through scent of frankincence
heady as she
I see her move
with Eritrean grace

Ebony skin I feel
moves my senses
Her jebena
shall ever hold my heart.

Being a UD means nothing to me
an undesirable, whatever please
stop if you want freedom of speech
if freedom you don't truly preach

Let's hear it from the sides Babylon
let's see the truth never Ions wrong
let the truth out jah basket
and give your righteous licks

Make time when you want to
you know you need to, have to
and when you come down
near by Brixton town

You see the poor in the streets
wicked Babylon complete
and the people that live here
are not as white as sheets

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

P Diddy, ha
I remember him as Puff Daddy good or bad he
was the bom, but
P or not to Puff a point and be the Diddy play a joint or two down in Brixton town or up in Crewe,
do you give a krap for rap by any other name but puff the last out blast your brains out, sing and shout, his name, is Puff, no magic dragon drags him down, he burns the stage,  he wears the crown and I am still in London with a clown beside me on the number eight, a bus because I finished late and the underground was shut, but the clown tells me it's all a joke and then I wonder was it him that spoke or was it me, I blame it all on Mister P and puff my chest out anyway.

They stand, the two of them, enveloped. Their bodies the segments of an orange before
ripped apart by delicate, hungry fingertips.
It is rush hour in Brixton and as she leans against this
unsteady machine, he holds her as if her limbs might fracture and fall
and land at their feet,
as if they might become neighbours to the newspapers and trodden gum that have
made their home there, *****, discarded, at ease.
Silhouette quietly nestled into his frame, sharing shadows
she, is elsewhere.
Gaze transfixed by a small being in front. A tiny entity that holds all of her undying
attention. Her lips bitten down to their core,
skin replaced by yearning and fear and a tenderness that you could touch.
The child’s tangerine lips waver hesitantly and then burst open, releasing a giggle
that sounds like fallen dust in sunlight, if it had a sound.
The space between them becomes a mirror, so much that the infant’s mother
looks like she has just learnt the definition of the word ‘envy’.
The tube falls into the station, and the passengers are squeezed out:
a frenzy of rushed beings in their most natural, narcissistic state.
From across the platform in rush hour, the train leaner is a mother.
And in her arms, oblivious, her lover.

I meet Grace outside Brixton station
Her eyes roll upwards when she speaks of Jesus.
She is pushing the pamphlets of the Lord.
Sword raised and on a mission.
I think I know how this will go.

But does the cleaning up of SE9
The tidy line of once sprawling back street garages,
The neatening of shuttered-down shops
which exhale reggae and ***** and
The popping up of suprisingly good architecture,
Signal a shift in the redemption business?

Grace asks me if I've ever felt envy
I say Yes Grace regularly
She says God will forgive you.
I say I have already forgiven me.

We struggle to win the same ground for a while,
Battle over paths to peace
Go round and round
Up, over and underneath, what she thinks, what I think.
Until with sinking heart and flailing energy.
I move through wild eyed bag ladies
To another piece of street.

She got under my skin did Grace.
Reminds me how stone-carved my faith can be.
Creating certainty, even from mystery.
Perhaps we sin in the same church,
We probably shop in the same covered market.

She was tragically sad in a way that I was but couldnt afford to have tattooed on me because im african and no one has time for internal misery when there are kids with flies on the look out for something to unempty their bellies, you know stuff you see on telly  
She had blond curly hair and we had the mutal understanding that bus rides were where we went to check on our selves, see how well we had supressed the demons for that day or week or past ten years
When I was going through my episodes I'd reinvent myself by establishing a new laugh
"Does this make me sound happier"
She would decide she was moving to india but never really left the university or ended up in brixton
Thats heres india if you cant afford the real thing
We would go for months without speaking and she would show up At my door with dark brown tresses dyed to conseal the misfortunes, unrequited loves and abortions
And I would put together the potions to help us through. No bus rides. just camomile teas and rouge lipsticks  
Sit at cafe rouge and pretend to be happy old ladies meeting to exchange photographs of our grandchildren

Mixing it up down in Brixton
fixing some lines in my brain
Windrush is busy,
not peaceful,
the
poetry flies all the same.

It's a give and a take it
the day's what we make it
I choose to make it
my own.

mixing it up down in Brixton
home to a few of my friends
giving it large on the pavement,
a candle that burns
from both ends

i am every girl tonight,
lost amongst ***** bed sheets
& the like. we grow
in seasons, hoping
that the world hasn’t left us behind
just yet.

i am every woman tonight.
trembling alone in an empty room,
the sullen lamp
with it’s uneven lamp shade
declaring the secrets of
my empty being. i see us
faraway now, maybe next
to an ocean,
this crippled earth balancing
on her stone axis,
always in motion.
to dream of you here
is better than death.

i am every lover tonight,
the simple confessions of love
not enough anymore.
& always you, your pick in hand,
chipping away more by day
at such an enamel heart
as mine. Even the words
aren’t enough anymore,
& maybe they never will be.

i am every dreamer tonight.
the clock moves us forward
without our say at all.
i might be someone
you knew once before,
hanging bravely from a museum wall,
light years from where we
are now. My skin composed
of the richest oils,
you reached out, fingertips
to thick smudges & precise curves,
a believer in who i was.
an onlooker, just passing by
on his way
some where better.

i am every girl tonight.
calling for you to come back
to my arms, only knowing
i’ll find sleep alone again.
& can you feel me? i say
when i really do wonder sometimes.
such fair skin, ******* exposed
for no one but this ashtray
with too many secrets to tell.
each sentence forever unfinished.
exposed for no one
but my own reflection.

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Elegy for a life of war,
21 guns of Brixton firing an all night salute, the bitter irony not lost on anybody, as the very last gang in town tucks switchblades back into leather jacket pockets and decides that violence just can't pay the bills anymore, our brothers and our sisters and our fathers and our mothers will be expecting us home and we will carry our scars back to them with pride, we will talk about this fight for the rest of our lives, where we went wrong and where we really made the ******* feel it, and maybe one day we can win, but we have lost so much blood we owe ourselves a night of sleep at least, in the morning we will be powerful, we will be crass, we will be unstoppable, we will light cigarettes as the flames engulf London and creep across the Atlantic to tickle American nightmares, we will watch all the young punks in their new boots line up itching for the damage and the energy, we will kiss them each and every one as we send them off to die for the cause
I heard your rallying cry coming through the radio when I was a kid, and I want you to know that I will be ready any time you call, and I will come armed to the teeth
And Joe, when the riot comes, I will save you a place among the chaos

Hey! Play it really low
War in control, when we were young
And now we are old, the chrome guns
Are the same as the charming wine of the nuns
The metaphysics of the majestic soul
Is just an entitlement, it's strong in this one
She says "I deserve this." unable to hide her inadequacies
And reservations about presidential fools, like the rogue agents
Like me and fela grupi, till the clocks run out
The guns come out in the Brixton Sun
Time for gun control, like the paper planes
That fly like the paper dreams
The taste of thin rhymes that you had your singles on
Singularity, I interest your plural discretionary warning
I have been given many caveats by the ladies at the Taco Bell
The eatery still welcomes the immigrants, like the American Government
I felt better about changing my mind, regarding the tall sights
And the people digging ditches and splitting the bleeding cigarettes and marijuana bills