Tottenham, North London was where it sparked,
incensed at the intensity of lawlessness;
the police dem. Big, bold and corrupt enough
to try beat the high-jinx out a sixteen year old girl.
My tears dry on their own. No, my tears can’t dry!
When I thinkabout the carnage palpating inside
the beat – the beat – the beat of young hearts…
don’t let me start!
With the MPs breaking off a piece,
money that don’t belong to them.
Bankers cutting up financial cake
and consuming every slice of made up
money numbers on a computer screen,
leaving the proletariat to grumble over crumbs.
The heart bleeds the seeds of discontent, you see
the content of a cash rich city breeding blood raw
consumerism. If you ain’t got a flat screen Tv,
WHO ARE YA! If you ain’t biting of the Apple
iPad, iPod, iWant, iNeed, iMustHave.
WHO ARE YA! No designer wear or latest
tracksuit and trainer gear? WHO ARE YA!
Big hair, boob job, nails did, where? WHO ARE YA!
WHO ARE YA! WHO ARE YA!
The Big Society?
You’re just CHANTING DOWN BABYLON. Thought,
word and deed falling on deaf ears of the
powers that be you know who I mean. The suits
cut to perfection uniform of the
Bullingdon Boys Club, where behind closed doors
discussions that stereotype and misread
can’t heed, the action of a community willing
to relinquish pride and diginity they were born
with. Turned our streets into a pantomime war zone
CHANTING DOWN BABYLON. What more must be said—
to hear? This microcosm of another nation’s war
funded by UK tax payers that makes no sense
on the homefront. Mother’s looting Lewisham’s Poundland,
eyes wide with the momentary joy of being able to
pick up what they want – they want – they want;
choosing unbought shoes for their children
in the open. Young bloods (black and white)
raiding the store that dissed their CV’s intent;
petty revenge born of dis-a-ffection. (That Club better
hurry and reinstate the education maintainance grant).
Foolish talk of plastic bullets and water cannon,
evict the looters and family, lock them up and done.
Yeah right. Start rearing the new under-class;
more bitter, bigger resentments and better
trained to riot the streets every single night.
Sub-culture? We ain’t seen nothing yet.
Following a peaceful march, respectful in their
grief. Mothers, fathers and their young ones;
a gathering at that police station. Yet still,
no proper validation for this murder of a local. That
over zealous sixteen year old, beaten. The spark ignited.
Tottenham kicked off to cover the original execution. A
virus of uprisings from postcode to London postcode, yes,
five days and four nights after the agent provocateur was planted.
By Esther Poyer