This baton is made of burning steel,
searing with haste to pass it through
to another spoke upon the wheel.
The hand that holds is ice concealed
with a melting core just out of view.
To whom that bears the orb and scepter
or of the solemn gavel and mantle,
turn away and reject the spectre,
vaunt not the pick nor the prospector
to ensure our world is not dismantled.
For those who fall among the mass
who feel as would a grain of sand,
whatever shall be will come to pass.
Not a soul to think that they’ll be the last
to pass the burning glove to the next frozen hand.
This poem looks at the problems of censorship within society and how art can be used as a political tool, also observing what might happen if the art world was appropriated by the establishment as a propaganda machine.
They don’t know the spectrum bleeds
so you’ve gotta keep your canvas clean.
It’s top collar politics
from top dollar heretics
hooked on tax dodging caffeine.
When the gold rush has run dry
pans and paints wither and die.
State sponsored artistry;
blue honoured larceny;
the enslaved artists’ paradigm.
The established hand will dip the brush
into an inkwell of shared blood.
A seasoned corruption
from reasoned instructions.
Finding freer hearts to crush.
Paint a landscape so roseate
something sanctioned and appropriate.
Gild it with a lick of gold,
have nobody sick or cold
as we condemn the dissociate.
In modern politics, we find ourselves confronted by our inability to change things too much. We have the opportunity to vote, but it’s not likely to change anything when the two parties likely to come into power are practically exactly the same. So what do we do when we feel disenfranchised by the official method of democracy? And what are the reactions to this? How are we made to seem like people who don’t deserve a say in this society. This is a rough poem that aims to explore this political phenomenon.
When we’re told it’s outside of our jurisdictions
we will lose our innate inhibition
to disagree with continuity for the sake of continuity,
sacrificing any remainder of fading ingenuity
condemning us to languish in abject perpetuity.
And don’t you know a riot is a gathering of three or four
semantic to turn peaceful protest into something more;
the demonisation of the lowers of this nation.
Eradication for the purpose of gentrification,
throwing us plebeians to disenfranchised obliteration.
The foxes lit the fire to smoke out the rabbit hole;
fangs stained with blood; hearts not quite as coal.
So we run to the peripheries, as outlaws of our energies,
howling the last of lamentation of our dying elegies;
victims on the altar of the unforgiving hegemony.
Politicians nowadays, and to an extent have been throughout history, eager to cut programs for arts and humanities in favour of saving money for the reserve of the purely scientific. This is what they call ‘austerity’. This poem centres on just that. What will happen to society if the arts are eradicated? If children aren’t told that they can be artists? We will form into a monolithic society following production based careers only. Everything measured by economic benefit. This is not how we should live; not at all.
Cut my throat and the blood will run a scarlet sun
setting on the deepest dreams of all but some.
Red rain will pollute every river and every tree;
a bloody reminder that we’ll never be free.
The basest artist may well starve and die
but their sanguinary canvas will refuse to lie.
Now we live through a voltaic effulgence
banned from what’s seen as archaic indulgence
and we have found our lives not ours to paint,
like a vast sea stained with a distilled taint.
They constantly discuss notions of efficiency
ignorant to their own soulful deficiency.
My tears fall like watercolours,
as we fill in another asphalt grave.
The petrol black absorbs all colour;
the landscape could not be saved.