These are Black Days of Insurgency

Protest by Travis Ott Conn

These are black days of insurgency
Where we put the fire on the line
And hope the cigarette burns down,
Bursting the bars we stare through.

Waiting numb for the pain,
The sun light of everything,
Filtered down and shifted
Its subtle white-blue to a red hue.
Beautiful women and bank account transfers
When society’s got you down
Staring down the barrel of the M16
They tell you these are the answers—

The oil-streaked panel of red metal reads—
… “did I say ‘give up?’
… I mean to incite [ignite]
… When I say give up
… The night desires fire”

Scratching off the fleas of capitalism
In a time when we drank more than it rained
The silent winter of the atomic blast that shut up ages.
Smoke plumes stood in an air that was so rare,
Birds dropped out of it.

When the bomb goes off
In Long Beach harbor
AK-47s click in the streets
And red lights the fallout.

Put $2,000 in my commissary
I’m hungry, not sorry.
Rage the flames of international unrest
The buttons glow red on our TV sets—
I got my aim
Shooting out screens
Drowning out lies
Scaling the biggest walls I’ve ever seen.

They can’t dam this river,
Shovel this coal, split this atom—
We are the fission of discontent
Taking care of the substance sitch,
Because with this crime
Noone’s innocent…
Chasing the sky writer high
Riding rockets fall sky.
We’re evolving in our culture
With our collective energy:
Concluding the struggle for liberty,
And bringing back sustainability:
“Citys… are nothing less
Than over grown prisons
That shut out the world
And its beauties.”

When the protests hit, we hit the streets
Pound pavement, break barriers—
To be arrested by the police is my well of pride
To conflagrate society so that no one can hide.
If death is the consequence, then know
That death will be the consequence,
The dead can’t forgive—
Socialism by all means,
Ready to hear guns roar.

Revolution—
It’s a ragged greasy bird
Rising out of a burning dumpster
Again—
See the keys rebel
Against the icy fingers that strike them
It’s an oil slick bird
Rising out of a fiery dumpster.

– Jaguar Press

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