Guerilla Tapestry

I read this a long time ago and I thought it was pretty interesting...

bir patrick jones şiiri.
şöyle ki:
we are not deceived by your words
we see through your promises
we sanctify your lies
we are the disaffected
the isolated wounds of subtle napalm;
shopping doesn't make us happy
commercials cull our sensitivity
freedom is nothing without responsibility
and in the rain drenched tarpaulins of market traders
lies the epitomy of belief
clinging to our pennies on entrance on exit
memory or dream
this hole in my throat this gap in the ink
this place without meaning
this stuttering eloquence of screaming;
save, save us all
allow desolations
find a path, be unafraid to act hold life
stand stand oak tall
even the smallest body makes a shadow -
in the hanging out the wash
in the protest of discipline
tiny hands scraping solitudes clinging to moments creating
miracles from everyday routines
in the dignity of ironing
the anxiety of mortgages
the the
sentence of being but still still still the being
we are butterflies trapped in the frost
victory is acknowledging the fact that we, we have not yet lost.
so carress me with your alienation
alienate me with your carress create me with your credit
pour me power through direct debit
feed me freedom from selling shares
and paint me a symbol and tell me i'm free;
we are
we are the guerilla tapestry
in the silence of insurance payments
council tax benefits
industrial tribunals
the penny pinchers the super savers
the lottery watchers
we are
the incoherent throats searching for sound
the peaceful protestor
the single mother
the social worker at the homeless shelter
we are the happy shoppers
the credit cravers
the sales offers
the poundstretchers
the breaking fabric of modernity
stitched only by our solitude
we are the temporary fragments of a capitalist master plan;
unemployment statistics
family credit beggars
no collar coolies
part time slaves
sucking severances
praying for meaning
not this lipless screaming
and in these motives that purify in these acts that dignify
in this tiny gesture of defiance
is an articulation of a void
a vision versed in lament
this hate this hate
is born from love;
we are the undying
the breath of chlorophyll over the concrete
the soul against the gold
we are loneliness burned iron fists fuelled by injustice
we are the denied
yet unified
we are the tapestry, the crackling cracks of modernity
dislocated desperations stitched together
by the disparate verses of our skin;
i write therefore we exist
we exist therefore i write
and from this page this scream
this no
from the supermarket to the dole
from the youth centre to the old peoples' home
is the sound the silence
of the sound of the alone
to the alone
the sound of the ability to resist;
and in this ink there is the blood of a thousand miners
and in this ink the eyes of 500 doctors
the struggle of my father
the sensitivity of my mother
and the hand of my baby;
and in this prison cell there is a skied sunlight
and in these words the power they tried to deny us,
the stab of a killer
the tourniquet of a nurse
and in this ink is
one
is many
is you and i
and in this voice
the milk of a mother
against against against
their chains to smother
mother to man to woman to child
the guerrilla tapestry
spread nationwide;
and in the division
there is a unity
and in this incision
there is a sanctity
and in this pale silent page
blisters a cacophony enraged
with the burn of generations following the bullet of emancipation
we are we are the threads
we are we are the severances
we are we are the stitches
we are we are a no in search of a yes
we are we are the breaking
we are we are the making
the blind beginning to see
we are we are we are the guerilla tapestry.