it always
rained in my hometown the streets were slick as shit beneath
a toxic orange sky where young aspirations were squashed each day at school and dreams were all but
murdered when last orders came around it was a place of
broken promises there was no explaining why
the dead and
undead living in
the shade of the refinery would pray
each day to heaven to deliver them from evil
but keep them in a job to put meat on the table
and maybe save a couple if quid
for the saturday night debacle
poverty means
crime and crime means poverty our
lives were pressure cooked in that bloody cauldron violence
was the release valve and fearsome reputations were forged in blood and gore the mythology of
violence was part of our folklore and we never questioned
why
but we
are the vital component of the military industrial equation living in barrack towns hatched and batched as
fodder for some obscene machine we have universal
access to the theatre of distraction but we have no power
over our lives and we are forced to fight and toil for other people’s pleasure
it seems many
may have settled for criminal poverty while others have been crying out for
change they don’t know what it
means but they know that change must come that it will take a
revolution and there
is no war without blood because all political power grows
from the barrel of the gun
