Your graves . . . your graves are already being dug by the gardeners of my country.

Your coffins are cut to measure by my sisters of carpentry.

If you cannot feel the illness then you’ll never find the cure,

And you’ll never be prepared for the African metaphor.

When mother delved the kitchen knife into the heart of the white beast

She closed her eyes tightly in the ecstasy of release.

You will feel the flames of vengeance in the deep heat of the night,

And the stench of scorching flesh will make you wish you’d seen the light.

You will hear the warrior cry, bang fiercely on your door.

You will see the horrifying death-defying anger of the African metaphor.

You can’t sweep dust under the rug any more.

You can’t keep hiding bodies under the boards of the floor.

Listening

Listening

Listening, and we’re listening

To the ones who scream,

Hidden by the pounding sounds of the traffic.

We’re listening

To the Blackness in the dream,

Hidden by the screams of this nightmare.

And it’s getting louder.

People, we’re getting louder.

People, we’re turning round,

Crumbling the buildings to the very ground.

And we’re feeling

The unsteady feel,

The breaking of the seal of unconsciousness.

Listening.

And we’re breaking the dawn,

For this morning there’s a different sound.

Keeping our ears to the well-trodden ground,

We’re angry with the pain we hear.

There’s an insecure feel in the air.

Because we’re listening,

Like wolves in the dark,

Eagles in the sky.

Driven like cattle,

Ears to the ground.

We can hear the water.

We need water.

We need to quench our thirst.

But we’re listening first.

Cautious as cats,

Punished as dogs,

We can hear the water.

The priest chants.

The congregation turn their heads.

The politician rants.

The people turn their heads.

Muffled screams and whispers,

Pointing fingers,

While the silence crawls from the inner city towns

And holds them in the fist of suspense,

And holds them

waiting

waiting

waiting

For the gutters to run with blood

And the sweet taste of victory in the mouths of the downtrodden.

And if you don’t keep listening

You’ll be caught unawares.

We’re listening.

We’re listening.

We’re listening.

Nursery Rhyme

Nursery Rhyme

Humpty Dumpty was pushed,

But propaganda played its part.

And Little Jack Horner was paranoid,

One word would lose his heart.

So he pulled out a plum instead

To save his self from winding up dead.

He knew all the king’s horses and all the king’s men

Would never put Humpty together again.

Some Quotes from Neatherton Man found in Deepest England Somewhere between 1974 and 1980

Some Quotes from Neatherton Man Found in Deepest England Somewhere between 1974 and 1980

All the same.

Wogs go home.

Chalky, living in a blackboard.

Golly, it’s a jam.

Toby, your name is Toby.

Monkey, lamppost swinger,

Hair like a sponge.