"Britain After a Massacre in the Year 2018."
They dream of a massacre that can take place
in public and private at the same time.
They like to watch us as we look into each other's empty faces.
They like to hear us say, that was the one I loved.
We forget our bondage.
We are not yet dead.
We are at the border of the before and the after.
Soon we will cross through the door
and become the subjects of an endless detective novel that
began in the 15th century.
We are parasites.
And we will always be silenced, because silence
is the traditional tactic of our people.
We are parasites.
We are silent.
And even when we are dead, the country
will remain in our voracious parasite hands.
Why have they protected you for so long,
the authoritative bodies ask us, right before they kill us?
Why have they protected your parasitic bodies
for so many centuries?
They want us to answer the question even
though we can only be silent.
We dream that if we give the right answer, then
perhaps they will not kill us.
But then they disappear us.
And when they disappear us, they tell us
we are savages with the audacity to have
forgotten our own bondage.
You are a voracious colony of parasitic savages
who poison the people with your fingers that reek of money.
Your fingers are the ghost of money.
Your mouths are the ghost of money.
Your tongues are the ghosts of money.
They shove money into our mouths,
because they know that even when we are dead,
we will have the power to control
the media from the bank.
They take us to the dump and load our bodies
into a container with cars that have been obliterated
in the toxic dumping ground.
They disappear us in the toxic dumping ground.
They drop us into the scrap metal heap.
They ghost wash us in the scrap metal heap
and plaster our bodies against the compressed cars.
We are with the metal now.
And soon they will take us to be recycled.
This is the ironed waste ground of the Industrial dead zone,
where they stick the parasitic bodies who
lived, slobbering over money and scheming to control the state.
They crush us into the stacked cars.
And we hear the disappeared cries
of the bodies we wanted to become.
We are the privatized parasites of death.
We will miss ourselves so much when we are gone.
They force us to survive.
The shithole won't let us be nothing.