Class War – the poetry film

Belarusian artist Nastya Sergienya has created a poetry film using my poem Class War

When Nastya asked if she could use my poem I jumped at the chance as I’d previously seen some of her photography and films. I’m really pleased with the outcome, and I hope you all like it too!

It’s the first poetry film that I’ve been involved in, but I’m sure it won’t be the last.

(full text is below)

Class War

Stars on your own,

walking alone,

crying out to the streets

to hear you.

You’ve taken a shot,

at being the one,

to speak for your neighbours

and kin.

But you’re not alike,

they only care for the quo,

and they’ll nod and courtesy at will.

Strike no fear in the heart,

of those who have none,

it matches the notes in their purse.

There is no war,

like the class war,

but only the generals unite.

The privates they stand,

and grin oh so grand,

whenever the piano strikes up.

They’ll sing

and they’ll march,

and parade up and down

never to be met with a frown.

As families applaud

their free flights abroad,

natives of lands

that are still in their hands

quiver at the sight of their wave.

Happy and glorious,

she stands over more of us,

than we even realise.

At least fifteen peoples of earth,

live in a dearth,

where only her tune rings out.

So god save the queen,

a tyrannical regime,

that should have died out with the last.

It ain’t the fault of old Lizzie,

but they should get busy,

and retire her to Balmoral or Windsor or Kensington or even fucking Kennington,

just as long as she don’t cost me a thing.

I’m fed up of wasting,

even a quid a year

to keep the old dear

in rags.

She’s not my concern,

and I’d rather burn,

the paper bearing her face,

than kneel.

My passport it says,

she gives me free pass,

but I’d rather be liked by the world.

Not a plane trip goes by,

where you and I,

don’t see the problems they caused.

If it’s not famine

it’s god,

those silly old sods,

went and messed up

too much to be true.

We all should hold hands,

and slowly demand,

that our freedom is our right

they should lower their might,

given from lands of the poor.

It’s been our misfortune to witness

the agony alone.

Bare,

innards torn,

ripe for inspection, our faces so worn.

 

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