OUT NOW COMING TO AMERICA!
FEATURING AMIRI BARAKA
AND A CAST OF THOUSANDS!
John G.Hall - Manchester Poet & Editor of Citizen32, publications include Orbis, Iota, Rain Dog, The Wolf, Coffee House Poetry, The Ugly Tree, Carillon, Outlaw, Left Curve(usa), Square Lake(usa), Spume, Aesthetica, Brittle Star, Harlequin, Monkey Kettle & Fire.
Performs his poetry throughout the North West , mixing militant politics & biting humour with touching visions of childhood, love and football. The live recordings of his ant-war trilogy 'And Still I Cannot Wake From Their War' were recently bought by Drexel University,Philadelphia,USA.
we stake the world on youth and beauty
surely no one would pull a knife across perfect skin
surely no one would pour lies into such fine china ears
surely no one would puncture the bubbles of their dreams
surely no one would drop explosives on such fine bones
surely no one would rape these Pre-Raphaelite faced angels
surely no one would steal the ancient ground from it's people
surely no one would electrify the diamond spider web of a mind
surely no one would blow open the Sistine chapel of the skull
surely no one would dare nail the body of love to a money tree
surely no one would blind fold the blind man or dam the damned
surely no one would pay the rich to be rich and punish the poorsurely no one would leave the torturers to their own devices
surely one day we will show them the instruments of justice
surely no one would object to the hanging of their heads.
Wet Cement Poem No:6
The throne of cash is empty but for a skull with a bullet hole
and a diamond collared dog lapping at a pool of his own vomit,
while in a corner of the Pentagon the Stars and Stripes spontaneously
combust and the ghost of Jimi Hendrix pisses lighter fuel on the flag.
Wet Cement Poem No:4
I am the hounded slave; I wince at the bite of dogs,
the sound of the cataracts of cash machines echo
I sit and look out on all the sorrows of the world
and on all oppression and shame, I run with blood
afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road
the human traffic burns through the metal rain
absorbing all to myself and for this song, I drink
bottled beer and lime and text instead of talk,
I have heard what the talkers were talking, and
vowed to write up and down these boulevards,
I will sing the song of companionship, of the
opposition of each heart to the murder of love,
to the maddening of minds, to dreams genocide,
all these I feel or am, all these call out for songs,
I am the hounded slave; I wince, turn, and sing.
*Every other line is from Walt Whitman
Wet Cement Poem No;3
they reckon birth may hurt babies
they say life is worth every penny
they believe the working class do not exist
they tell this to shop workers and nurses
they take the proof of our silent witness
they stare through the television screen into us
they trace each thought back to its owner
they rig the trail of life with sticky pleasure
they laugh at the poor behind their backs
they pin down the butterfly inside you
they pull the wings from your genius
they find starving people then feed them war
they have decided to counterfeit everything on the face of the earth
they reckon love is a rumour spread by dirty rotten communists.
Wet Cement Poem No:2
the road pours me into the city machine
the fire damaged man sells me his bad news
the live wires suit themselves in culture café's
the show houses play Les Miserables for laughs
the bar maids cry pints of crocodile tear liquor
the happy skull smiles of the living shine brightly
and the city machine passes me like a hot beer shit.
Wet Cement Poem No:1
from crashing waves deduce your answers
burn holes in paper tigers with ember tongues
be a red angel flying on swept back blue wings
carry a dove spangled banner in the midst of battle
touch a strangers pain at least once a day with your eyes
leave a trail in wet cement where your mind wandered
hide secret things, leave false clues, become unsolvable,
find undiscovered lands, burn their maps, wait to be found.