How noble of you to exist
a smudge of cursive ink
a desk note on peace.

In 2017, when you’re electronic
or in someone’s speech
you get punched
because you’re technically a nazi.

I see your bandaged face
defending “citizens of the world”
that my great grandmother saw
raping her friend in the doorway,
because they were technically fighting nazis.

You allow piles of words
to scatter the mind of a floor,
where the strongest cunts take lead
putting rhetoric to people’s throats,
one murder from utopia at a time.

Although my voice shakes now,
you let me speak,
with the aid of adrenalin
taking my place against the self righteousness
in a lecture hall full of academics
who see anything right of Lenin
as technically nazi.


(The poem began its life after this picture was taken, at the 200 degrees cafe in Leicester. I wrote and read it fro the open mic even at DMU.)


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