Got to rile up the populace, to fortify the arsenal.

Once in a while, repopulate and penetrate,
paint a list of incitement onto the walls.
An elder told him that to overturn the city, one must
surrender body/belongings to the one explosive
spectacle of truth, making it ongoing. Pay attention.
To overturn the city, not just the scraps but fervor itself.
Not just the wan broadcast of indignation but
IRL incursions into the workhouses and
poorhouses

rest @ https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/58875/decoy-gang-war-victim

The night light fucks the suburb into nightmare familiarity

It was necessary to move, and at this exit
the beggar, cross-legged at the fork of the tunnel,
calls out Love! A welcome, of sorts.
                The night light fucks the suburb
into nightmare familiarity —
not like a shrammed nerd touting
guided walks and histories that contract
imagination for demolition work,
levelling today’s housing,
restoring common greens,
lingering at sites orphaned of their fever
hospitals — by no means that hyperliterate,
poor entrepreneur —

It is the view, the barbed wire roaring into view
round and round the playground walltop.
It is the warehouse, warehouse windows blank of occupation.
It is lives, lives supplied in great number,
fulfilment of numbers.
It is the sense of something shared —
the tailor scissors razoring open
fishmouth stitches, the sewn-up pocket
of the new suit,
and finding something —

But it is new, all new,
even the gangs who graffiti chimneys
scrubbed and lovely, deleted
like the railways delete
repeatedly
the head, the occasionally payrolled head,
the feet
of the quartered commuters, of the vertebral week.

Vahni Capildeo, To London

there are new animals working in Fiat

what the fuck do I care about the Law

a fifty-year-old woman with a shopping bag enters a store saying today
she shops for free

the shelves of the new supermarket Fedco glistened white and empty
while a mush of various foods stained the floors

when I left the area was on fire and the flames seized the small amount
the looters had left behind

jets of black water from the broken hydrants swept away what remained
of the plunder to the center of the street

we’re going to take what we want and what we want is what we need

extract from his poem Blackout for one of his novels: https://libcom.org/files/The%20Unseen-Nanni%20Ballestrini-ebook%20layout.pdf

this won’t last

Which I do believe added to my survival skills. I remember thinking one day as we were pulling out of the driveway, as I was waving good-bye to my best friends, whom I would never see again…. At least half of your mind is always thinking, I’ll be leaving; this won’t last. It’s a good Buddhist attitude. If I were a Buddhist, this would be a great help. As it is, I’m just sad. -anne carson