sniper's thread through Utah air,
and suddenly the world weeps
salt into soil
for wife and children left behind,
for the conservative voice silenced,
for democracy bleeding
in earth
that remembers
other blood.
Twenty-two-year-old Tyler
surrendering through telephone wires,
his father's voice the bridge
between rage and reckoning,
anti-fascist phrases carved
like morse code
on bullet casings,
the American Comeback Tour
ending in percussion's
final note.
But where were your tears
for Hind Rajab?
Six years old,
trapped in a car full of silence,
pleading down a phone line
like static seeking signal
for three hours
before 335 bullets
wrote her name
in Gaza dust,
in frequency's failure,
in our selective
hearing loss.
She had family too
cousins, uncles, a grandfather
who'll stand before whatever listens
demanding receipts
for every voice that heard
her transmission
and chose static
over clarity,
interference
over connection.
Two paramedics died
trying to reach her,
their ambulance bombed
metres from her coordinates,
red crescents painted
on twisted metal
like punctuation marks
in an unfinished sentence.
No flags at half-mast,
no trending algorithms,
no parliamentary frequencies
tuned to
manufactured
silence.
Today they march
"Raise the Flag" they cry,
Dover's chalk cliffs shedding powder
like old makeup
while they point fingers
at boat people,
at asylum seekers,
at anyone dark enough
to absorb blame for empty wallets
and rising numbers,
while Farage counts clicks
from his broadcasting booth,
monetizing rage
like a subscription service,
while Yaxley-Lennon
rebrands hatred
as patriotism,
his real name buried
beneath manufactured martyrdom,
while the real architects
of scarcity
count abundance
in glass monuments
that reflect nothing
but sky.
The same hands that fund
F-35s over Gaza,
that bankroll occupation,
that turn children into coordinates
now shake fists
at the coordinates
washing up on Dover's edge
like scattered data,
created by their own algorithms,
their own calculations,
their own mathematics
of extraction.
Charlie Kirk had a wife and children
so did the father
who tried to flee Gaza City
with his cargo
before Israeli tanks
turned their vehicle
into a stopped clock,
into a question
no one answered,
into arithmetic's
remainder.
Kirk dead, Hind dead,
the ledger keeps balancing
like a metronome
while the accountants keep accounting—
grief as exchange rate,
mourning as currency conversion,
some deaths worth more
than others
in the marketplace
of weighted scales.
The ruling class
conducts the orchestra
funding both the instruments
that create displacement
and the voices
who blame displacement
for the discord
they themselves orchestrated,
while Farage amplifies
the frequency of blame,
his voice a carrier wave
for empire's static,
while Tommy Robinson
performs his script
of manufactured persecution,
each arrest a marketing campaign
for the grievance economy,
the rhythm
they composed
with borrowed time.
The flag they raise
is dyed
in extract
like fabric
soaked in tea,
from every intervention,
every "humanitarian" calibration,
every precision strike
that births the very variables
they now calculate against,
every child's frequency
echoing through Westminster's acoustics
like feedback from empire's
amplified whispers.
This is the pulse of empire's mechanism
circulating liquid assets
through channels of influence
like irrigation through desert,
while we move
to their tempo,
resenting the displaced
instead of the displacement,
mourning the insured
while ignoring
the unaccounted
compressed beneath
the weight
of our collective
subscription.
Wake up, Britain
the adversary moves
through Westminster's corridors
like mercury through thermometers,
sits in City calculations
measuring margins
extracted from children's potential,
signs contracts
over liquid lunches
then indicates refugees
their signatures created,
calling them
the variable
while pocketing
the constant.
Listen:
Every projectile
has a portfolio,
every detonation
a dividend meeting,
every refugee
a transaction
signed in red ink
by those who profit
from the chaos
they call
market forces,
from the connections
they've severed
in efficiency's name.
The pulse continues
empire's mechanism
still circulating,
still extracting,
still fragmenting
everything integrated
into units
small enough
to trade.
But listen closer:
beneath the mechanism's hum,
beneath the calculations,
beneath the frequencies
something else pulses.
Something unaccounted for.
Something that refuses
to be extracted,
to be converted,
to be traded.
The heartbeat
of what remains
human.
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