Travelling at the speed of thought

Diamonds on a wet day,
And it grabs my flesh,
In handfuls,
Dissolving the skin,
Scattter-rain,
Another day lived in the eye of the hurricane,

Mother's milk,
And a hard copy on the silk road,
Living under the bridge,
The incessant hum,
And that bike I sold,
To have my sun,

This battle's done,
Far from won,
And I descend down the hillside,
Stalked by the ghosts of a European memory,

The future careening down hillsides,
On all sides,
Struggling with the conception of pride,

As a sin,

I begin to wince,

And believe I can win,

Head full of theory,
And muffled violence stalking me around corners,
The first syllables,
Like the unreal pops of machine gun fire,
7 miles in the distance,

They said that this ground was clean,

But said nothing of the air,

And the roof of clouds,
Which tears apart intermittently,
And pours poverty, joy, distraction and heartbreak down on those below,

This is the summit,

Somewhere I never thought I'd be,

Those chemicals flushed out of my system,
Seem like a nuclear disaster of another time,

Still contaminating the grain in Europe's last dictatorship,

Minimal,
A prism of light reflects ideas yet to come,

And those whom understand themselves as being 'down to earth',
Prophecise about the spin of the globe,

And the rest,
Walk,
And sing,
Sit still as sun turns to wind,

Which blows their concentration on matters of social change,
Into the horizon,
Like dust,
Which will collect on an overburdened shelf,
Crammed with Marxist literature,
Hope and pessimism,

Under which a girl,

And her mother,

Move their hands rapidly,

Spelling out in sign language,

The shape of things to come,

Cellos echo through underground halls,

Revolutionaries meet,

Unaware of one another,

Those having finished work

Loosen their ties,
And pull a numb hand trough their hair,

The sky rolls,

The ages roll,

Underneath the ground,

A hiss can be heard,

And sensed,

And the flow begins once again,

A red vein,
it had never stopped, merely slowed,
And there are ghosts in this brick,
This concrete,
And spring-turning-to-summer haze,
Who had always been aware of this,

They sit on the spires,
Religion dismissed,
Glasses high on their noses,

And admire a world changing,

Holding their non-breath,

Feeling, and not feeling the change that is to come,

In the same way that one grips the palm of one's own hand,
To brush away grains of sand.

Money knocks,
Money burns,
Solid melting into air,
Solid,
Hard,
That knock at your door,
Impossible,
Those nights lived away from your 'means',
Concrete,
The ground,
And them broke down dreams,

Got no money,
Got no more,
Got no weapons,
Ya get struck to the floor,

And if we ain't got it,

Then it looks like it's war,

'Cause we want something else,
That your money's not for.

Putting on my red shirt,

Today,

Underneath the smoke,
Low-hanging sky, so grey,
Scent from the burning tyres,

As they cleared away,
The barricades we made,
But we stay,

Fight another day,

We don't play,
We say,

And remain to say,

We keep our red shirts on, but hidden,

Forbidden, but still living,

Into the hills, and so far away,

Never giving up, still angry,

And we'll have our day.

You got freedom,
Freedom to experience right-wing hate,
As they march past your home,
Screaming that you're different and unwelcome.

You got freedom,
Not to work for a newspaper,
Without a university degree,
And a favour from a family friend you don't have.

You got freedom,
To reproduce what the owners believe,
Or risk your job,
That so few achieve,
And you fought to have.

You got freedom,
To express yourself,
After work,
And before the kids come home for dinner.

You got freedom,
To be taught the skills you need,
To build someone else's dreams.

You got freedom,
To be marked out of 100,
Told how right you are,
And filed accordingly with the rest.

You got freedom,
To wander the supermarket,
And head straight past the finer things,
That your wages don't pay for.

You got freedom,
To accept the fact,
That those who earn 100 times your pay,
Deserve it,
So that one day you might be them.

You got freedom,
To believe in dreams,
That will never come,
Because it's easier to believe in utopia,
Than a small step forward.

You got freedom,
To have your opinions given to you by society,
And told they're your own,

You got freedom,
To be an individual,
And face the world alone.

You've got freedom to live in a reality,
Which challenges the notion of basic human equality,
In its structures,
Every second,
Of every day,

And you're free to accept that,
The only times in life you'll be happy,
Are those when you close your eyes and forget about the war going on outside,
Any way,
We can.

I believe in dialectics,
And not love actually,
It takes a nation of millions to smack me into apathy,
Tragedy waits,
As the king falls hard,
And equality skates,
Because her wings are scarred,
And far do you go?
To clear snow that clearly suffocates,
To mark out the daily battle between love and hate,
It's the last chance,
The cold flask, of broken down electrics,
And an encounter in the metro,
With the dance of the dialectic,
And it's so eclectic,
The hectic sights,
As chiapas sighs again,
The currents run,
And things are done,
The city's sun,
A pen,
And no-one listening,
To nothing voices,
Poverty glistening,
Boxed-in choices,
And a realisation,
It's all quite frightening,
This politics is right-wing,
And always worth fighting,
It's likely,
The struggle is desperate,
Never-ending,
Back from the blast crater,
Hands trembling,
Assembling fragments,
Scattered in the debris,
Spectres, electrics, and parts of a TV,
Freely,
Lying,
Next to the final victory,
A heart shaped book,
Never listed listed in the dictionary,
A solution,
Not pissed on in revolution,
A conclusion,
Never batted around,
And allowed to grow bitter,
Glinting in the sunlight,
Tucked tight,
And done right,
The tomb of forced monotony,
The flowers resting heavy on top,
Of basic,
Human equality.

Like an artist,
Paints heartbreaking landscapes which evoke your deepest emotions,
While the world looks past the fact that he beats his wife,

An economic system,
Erects towers of glass and steel,
And puts humans into space,

While at the same time,
Allowing people to live in misery and die of hunger.


What do people see when they look at his paintings,

Beauty or oppression?

How does the wife look upon her tormetor,

And the art lovers,
When they gaze on our society?

And the oppressed,
Do they look upon the inequality with open eyes,
Or is it hidden behind that same glass and steel?

Layers of paint,

And the dream That one Day,

They might be on the other side,
Part of that composition,
Beautiful,
Like the rest.

This is words for the wordless,
These words,
Are for the wordless,
The wordless night,
Full of words,
And bass-tones,
The verbless,
South Lonbdon chill night,
Awash,
With doings and happenings,
Spectres,
Transpirings,
Sceptics,
And anorak,
Coat-jackets,

This is that chip shop neon,

Reflected in a crisp packet,

This is that crisp tick,
Riff,
The one that sounds,
Like lighting a spliff,
And tastes like it too,
In the midst,
Of the caps,
And pricey bottled beer,

And speaker stacks,
And twats,

And matt black,
Tones,
Two-tone trainer-shoes,

That half-smile,

From El Producto,
Under a low smokeless ceiling.

And it's outside,

On the bus,
Jake,
15,
Head plugged into his phone,
Hurtles past a well dressed queue,
Headin' home alone,
With his tunes ,
In his head,
His mind,
Back on the bus,
Number 25,

It's Peckham,
And Bow,
And the fox you can smell,
And polystyrene crunching on concrete,
Like a snare,

Right there,
It's the hood on your head obscuring your hair,

It's everything,

I swear,

It's repetition,
Yeah right, ya heard me,
Repetition,
Repetition.

It's the engineering works,
Men in orange jackets,
Sub-aqua, sub-woofers,
Week long bass-tones,
Tinny bus waves,
On mobile phones,
Record shop battles,
And Brixton overground,
Flickering yellow sodium,
In the light rain,
Caught with your own damn booze,
Again,
Internet radio,
Too much light,
A pain,
That rubbery stuff,
Like rubber tarmac,
Vinyl matt,
They lay on the ground where you lost your hat,
Left on the swing,
And now the kids sit,
Swing,
And bling-bling,
And sing sing,
And rap rap,
And battle,
Battle battle,
Attack,
Spit for their lives in the midst of the black,
By the high tower,
Where dishes cling like moss,
Spit for the Lewisham P4 stop,
Fuck the DLR,
They know who they are,
And you know who you ain't,
And they'd kiss for a car,
Kiss the stars,
Or the lips of a spirit,
A spirit,
Or bar,
Or a ghost,
Or a JD,
Crutches on tar,
And you,
If you could hear,
What the horizon sounds like in the dark,
As it whips past your vision,
Slow,

(But oh so fast),

Would know.

This is a time of meaningful reflection,

Coloured by transmission,

Reports gathered,
Lamentations expelled,
Natural gas,
Dust on ice,
An abyss,
Long filled,
A street lantern disregarded,
And surrounded,
By a cast of mourners,
Trite,
Quite rightly,
Bathed in the rays of an awestruck guardian,
Lost ways,
Paving slabs,
And stabs in the back,
Violent trills of colour,


And a whisper,


Able to sense its own volume,
And a strata,

Unbound by sedimentary logic,

Recorded,
And according to present sense,
Defunct,

An uncertain wish,
Gripped in a fist,
And clapped to a chest,
Within which,
All collides and will collide,

And the turn of the world will sing,
Upon expulsions,
Both mercurial,
Meteoric,
And necessary,
Read in the wind,
Stamped in the dust,
Lived in the mass,
Thrust into the brows of the dreams of dreamers,
Crushing that which in being crushed,
Creates.

And we sing...
Into a sky obscured by right angles,
Torn apart with our notes.

[Prinzregentenstraße 66, 23.08.09, dedicated to M.D. and W.B.]

Strike a pose,
And unload,
Breathe hard,
And examine your next cross roads,
Dissect your life,
Blade in the hand,
Trust the rusty knife,
Trust me right,

Because he's drinking again,
There's ink in this pen,
And that sinking feeling,
Again,
Back when hyper-real men,
Were hyper-real men,
And Derrida spat his feelings into a pearl white basin,
Like blood and teeth,
Back when we were allowed to cry, sob and wretch,
Back when,
When

You could catch your reflection in the eyes of a friend,
Of a face in the mass,

Not searching desperate,
Rainbow swirls of oil on tarmac,
Not searcing desperate,
Mirrored walls of concrete and glass,

Know me for who I am,
We got work to do.


Strike a pose,
Let your prose flow,
Strike a pose,
Let go,
And implode,
Strike a pose,
Never stop,
Grab a cop,
French kiss them,
Walk hand in hand,

People on the beach,
On the brink, on the sand,
With drinks in their hands,
Bland,

Semi-quaver,
On a backdraft melody,
Three wise kings,
And a sealight soliloquy,
Monotony on key breezes,
Keystones skimmed flat,
Entropy,
And not a single egg cup of empathy,
It's a trickle of old fashioned guilt,
Type to make conviction and courage,
Wilt,
Water colours run,
And sun,
Beats down,
Silt on the river bed,
Sediment sleeps,
Swept away today,
While they played for keeps,
And cheap cheap,
Red light,
Alert,
It's expensive,
An arm and a leg,
And it hurts,
Suicide death wish,
Just another charm,
On a fifty cent necklace,

And I've been reckless,
Since striking that first pose,
On the first day of May,

So strike prose,


Strike a pose,
Explode your greys today,
And bring a break in the blues,
Strike a pose amigo,
You got nothing to lose.

Lonely places, busy days,
Tearing eyes, and fading greys,

Fading into other greys.