They’ll call us the lumpenproletariat

Man was
his material(s).
Working man cannot feel electrical signals
in his hand. Black coal, labour as a historical process.
Pylons are the soldiers of a hidden army. 
Propaganda of classless
society should be flayed,
it’s hiding a nest of immortal centipedes. 

Fumigation! of iron factories
won’t seep into your well-fitted doors. 
The murderer is inside, 
shot and stabbed principles, 
half-full glass of blood
(you’re in a fugue state now).

Principled by nature, dulled by nurture. 
Sacrifice the ageless
(glass half-empty, if you’re listening)
representation of mathematical structure. 
The material will decay, 
but the Earth won’t accept it.

A child
once saw the infinite engineering potential
& thought to himself - I’m poor. 
Poor is experience.
Poor is character growth
(poor is the silence at the dinner table).
Poor is the hand that grabs 
the pylon wire, now this is what it means to 
die for your country! 
The lights of a house, owned by a man who wields the mirror, 
(he’s one of us, see?)
are always on.

If I am to fight, 
is discomfort the only worthwhile pursuit? 
Capitalism must be terrified 
of my absolute discomfort
(what can you do, eh? We’re just normal people).

Poet and activist
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