1st April 2009 - PART 1 (my account of G20)
The bus rumbles its way to my workplace
The typical tedium writ on everyone’s face
Out the window it’s a bright day
The city looks made of lace
Stretched, fragile and ready to break
I know somewhere out there
Are shouts, cries and fists that care
And I sit and stare
As it all vanishes behind me
I convinced myself last night
That because I went on the protest on Saturday
Everything would be alright
And I’d vicariously enjoy the sight
On the news later on all snuggled up tight
I’m safe in the knowledge that my friends will march for me
They’ll take back what the State has stolen from me
They’ll take to the streets and shout for me
They’ll confront police and climb bus stops for me
They’ll wade in the crowds and do my bit…
As Homer Simpson once said:
“Can’t someone else do it?”
Then the realisation hits
What the fuck am I doing?
These are my friends
They’ve stuck with me for years
Every time I’ve bent ears ranting crap in the pub
They’ve patiently listened
And they’ve stood there and waited outside alleys
Every time my drunken body was desperately pissing
And then I know deep down
That this is something I can’t miss
The G20 are in London
Not Ottawa, not Berlin, not Beijing
But my fucking home of the last four years
And all those grins and tears
Are contained in this city
And sometimes I might moan about the transport
And the soul draining towers
But I burningly know this is mine
This is ours
And I’ll be damned if the powers
Will decide my future within my sight
Without me putting up a fight
The bus pulls in with a swerve and I alight
My skin shaking with nerves
My fists bunched
My brain repeating the mantra:
“Please, please, please
Let me leave at lunch”
I step into work
All smiles, polite and care free
Trying to hide how important this is for me
And after rudimentary hellos
I suppress the urge to bellow
And quietly ask:
“Is it okay to leave at lunch?”
She looks up.
“You going to the protest?”
“Yes.”
She looks down at my Subhumans t-shirt
And my torn jeans
And with a smile
Says three beautiful words:
“Go on then”
My whole body relaxes
My mind does a billion practices
Of the next few hours
And before I know it
12.30’s rolled up
I rush out barely saying goodbye
Texting my mates to find out the wheres and whys
They’re stuck in police lines at Bank station
I can feel the tense frustration
All the way from London Bridge
I walk so fast I feel the twinge of a stitch
My pulse racing my heart
Eager to take part
In something the city’s never seen before
True, it’s been battered and bruised
Squatted and shattered
But recently our rights to protest have been infringed
Our political expression has been impinged
So it’s time to singe the edges of the pages of the law
With the ever burning fires of the past that scream:
“NO FUCKING MORE”
So if this makes us outlaws
Anarchists
Trouble makers
Yobs
Jobless scum
Then fuck it, I’m proud
To be part of a crowd
That sees through the merry-go-round
We’ve picked our side
And we’re not gonna hide
Our conscience from the lies
I head straight for Bank
And the people are trapped in by a faceless wall of cops
Some people have tried to have a pop
But they’ve been beaten back
And now they’re panicky and trapped
The police have tried to sap their passion
But they’ve got plenty on ration
I briefly look for my friends
But they’re trapped, searching is slim pickings
I get a text a few minutes later saying they
Got a kick in from the coppers
Focussed police aggression and unfocussed herds
Kettling compresses it into something smaller than a word
And well-aimed chants
Become desperate shouts for a glass of water
And we oughta know their tactics
Their facial tics
And sometimes bricks are all we have to throw
The typical tedium writ on everyone’s face
Out the window it’s a bright day
The city looks made of lace
Stretched, fragile and ready to break
I know somewhere out there
Are shouts, cries and fists that care
And I sit and stare
As it all vanishes behind me
I convinced myself last night
That because I went on the protest on Saturday
Everything would be alright
And I’d vicariously enjoy the sight
On the news later on all snuggled up tight
I’m safe in the knowledge that my friends will march for me
They’ll take back what the State has stolen from me
They’ll take to the streets and shout for me
They’ll confront police and climb bus stops for me
They’ll wade in the crowds and do my bit…
As Homer Simpson once said:
“Can’t someone else do it?”
Then the realisation hits
What the fuck am I doing?
These are my friends
They’ve stuck with me for years
Every time I’ve bent ears ranting crap in the pub
They’ve patiently listened
And they’ve stood there and waited outside alleys
Every time my drunken body was desperately pissing
And then I know deep down
That this is something I can’t miss
The G20 are in London
Not Ottawa, not Berlin, not Beijing
But my fucking home of the last four years
And all those grins and tears
Are contained in this city
And sometimes I might moan about the transport
And the soul draining towers
But I burningly know this is mine
This is ours
And I’ll be damned if the powers
Will decide my future within my sight
Without me putting up a fight
The bus pulls in with a swerve and I alight
My skin shaking with nerves
My fists bunched
My brain repeating the mantra:
“Please, please, please
Let me leave at lunch”
I step into work
All smiles, polite and care free
Trying to hide how important this is for me
And after rudimentary hellos
I suppress the urge to bellow
And quietly ask:
“Is it okay to leave at lunch?”
She looks up.
“You going to the protest?”
“Yes.”
She looks down at my Subhumans t-shirt
And my torn jeans
And with a smile
Says three beautiful words:
“Go on then”
My whole body relaxes
My mind does a billion practices
Of the next few hours
And before I know it
12.30’s rolled up
I rush out barely saying goodbye
Texting my mates to find out the wheres and whys
They’re stuck in police lines at Bank station
I can feel the tense frustration
All the way from London Bridge
I walk so fast I feel the twinge of a stitch
My pulse racing my heart
Eager to take part
In something the city’s never seen before
True, it’s been battered and bruised
Squatted and shattered
But recently our rights to protest have been infringed
Our political expression has been impinged
So it’s time to singe the edges of the pages of the law
With the ever burning fires of the past that scream:
“NO FUCKING MORE”
So if this makes us outlaws
Anarchists
Trouble makers
Yobs
Jobless scum
Then fuck it, I’m proud
To be part of a crowd
That sees through the merry-go-round
We’ve picked our side
And we’re not gonna hide
Our conscience from the lies
I head straight for Bank
And the people are trapped in by a faceless wall of cops
Some people have tried to have a pop
But they’ve been beaten back
And now they’re panicky and trapped
The police have tried to sap their passion
But they’ve got plenty on ration
I briefly look for my friends
But they’re trapped, searching is slim pickings
I get a text a few minutes later saying they
Got a kick in from the coppers
Focussed police aggression and unfocussed herds
Kettling compresses it into something smaller than a word
And well-aimed chants
Become desperate shouts for a glass of water
And we oughta know their tactics
Their facial tics
And sometimes bricks are all we have to throw
Jeff Dawson
Mon 20th Apr 2009 21:33
Hi captain, was really interested reading this, although like Tim, I think as a poetry type blog you could cut out quite a lot of lines to increase the impact e.g leaving work at 12.30 etc, that would have been fine as a newspaper report.
Anyway, apart from that well done, some good lines and hope you've calmed down from the excitement of it all! Cheers Jeff