Our hands
I want rage
Why does no one want to shout ‘death to western imperialism’ with me whilst we burn effigies of leaders.
London smoke too civilised
Full of gentrifying breeders
Too much trouble not enough victims
As you glance the daily press
The thought of Dubai ex pats with rubble on their chests
Girls’ primary schools you sacrificed on the path to liberation.
Liberate your mind and be forced back into your station.
Wind your arm back and you throw the first punch
But our anger is the danger,
not resistance or our love
but
Our hands our bloody hands
Our hands containing bombs,
Our hands cradling nuclear weapons
not our children or our mums.
Our hands that want revenge or death
Our hands for banging drums
Our hands for reading tea leaves
Wrapping vine leaf
smoking gun
Our hands that claw our faces
Our voices screaming grief
Our hearts demanding justice
vengeful Persians
sweet relief
Helpful rebels staring back into faces of our best
Brother,’ solider, weapon used to silence our displaced
‘Its complicated’
And you have bad press the west does not approve
Try to be soft and grateful, we intervened on behalf of you
Just pass the oil and reigns to us
Then we can make a start
I’d rather die than give me up
I’d rather choke on lead
I’d rather see your precious kings on spikes
A rebel said.