Part 2: Progeny Of Power - Poem by Marshall Gass
The air was thick with brothers arms entwined
in a fence that stretched beyond the battery lines
of police men, in truncheons at the ready to crack
and bleed any radical dream of freedom.
The lines advanced at each other, one
sheltered in sheet metal solid while
the other hidden behind worn woollen masks
with holes to see freedom beyond the barricades.
The firecrackers split the screams wailing
as rubber bullets tore out advancing flesh
and spilled red roses of blotches on the snow
of yesterdays mourning for the dead.
The lines at the face of the glare
and all hell stopped short of shouting
The silence crawled in between the ready
boots about to burst through the ranks.
But no one moved out of position.
You could their hearts pounding in fear
of death and freedom. The first shot
never fired was whisper over their heads
as the deep breathing misted their misery
One side commanded, the other demanded.
From high above the roof tops the cross hairs
closed on the opposite heads near the ears
which would spill their protest forever.
But fear has a way of withdrawing into
pockets to crack open masked skulls another day.
The voice on the walkie-talkie crackled
'Withdraw. Withdraw. Slowly. Slowly
the World is now watching'. The lens have closed
and captured the commanders eyeballs
for the world press. 'Withdraw slowly
we will return when we clean out the parapets
of all these fucking photographers
who don't know what real 'peace' means'.
Let the tyres burn and squelch for today.
'Dinner is ready in the barracks
You are all brave men. You love your country.
Guard it with all your might. Withdraw today.
Return tomorrow. We have a job to do! '
The revolution continues.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
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