Blood on the Brass Plate

The rot grows again.

A fresh scab torn, a gut-scream ripped,

from '81's concrete walls. Not history,

but a bloody gash, weeping pus and memory,

the same old cruelties, new slick skin.

Bone-ache, the slow, organ-devouring fade, the breath growing sour,

a taste of rust and dying cells upon the tongue, a metallic tang of internal rot.

Now, cells hold new ghosts, bodies unraveling,

a desperate banner, brittle as old parchment, clinging to bone. 

Water only, slow suicide against the state's granite gullet.

Each day, flesh consumes itself, a silent scream,

muscle wasting to string, tendons taut, visible beneath paper-thin skin.

The stomach is a burning void, a caustic acid devouring its own lining,

the tongue is a dry, cracking rasp, a desert in the mouth.

Eyes, sunken hollows, watch the inner dark, the world blurring, a fevered haze.

Lammy's silence, a polished tombstone, void's black mirror.

He declines to meet; fifty-one pleas ignored.

Starmer's slick tongue, tasting blood, murmurs "rules and procedures"—

a parliament of carrion birds, pecking truth,

at the marrow of these lives, wasting,

bone by acid-gnawed bone. 

The UK government,

a stone grinding mill, pulverising hope,

each turn crushing a rib, a spirit, a broken tooth.

"Robust guidance"—a death warrant, signed in red tape.

The BBC? A choked throat, phlegm-thickened lies,

blind eye turned. Co-conspirator in this slow murder.

Screens, sterile white noise, drowning cries,

the faint, wet cough of a dying man, 

a rattle in the chest, a final, desperate gurgle.

An ambulance at Bronzefield, scuffles reported

MoJ's outrage: "staff injured," "unacceptable escalation"

as if a bruised hand outweighs a life draining,

blood turning to thin, cold water, barely flowing, 

The pulse, a faint, frantic flutter.

They erase bodies, ghost the air, sanitise struggle,

feed distraction, while lives bleed out,

unseen, unheard, on polished peripheries.

This gaslighting hums, a sickening drone,

telling the gut what the eyes refuse to see.

Truth, a silent scream, swallowed by amnesia.

But we remember. We raise our banners on defiant ground,

a symbolic reclaiming. Against the empire's lies, its brutal, crushing heel.

The silence of their state, a suffocating weight,

pressing down like grave-dirt, crushing the chest.

Leaders, with eyes like frozen ponds, seal their fate,

the echoes of '81, a chilling, unholy test.

Thatcher's ghost, a rancid breath on Starmer's neck,

the same cold death, the same slow, calculated dread.

Their hands, clasped tight, refuse to break the wreck,

as another generation bleeds, unmourned, unled.

This is no accident, no oversight.

Complicity carved in granite, a state-sanctioned kill.

Architects of death watch in sterile light,

as flesh devours itself, against a iron will.

'81's ghosts whisper: Sands, Hughes, McCreesh,

O'Hara, McDonnell, Hurson, Lynch, Doherty

starved bones accusing Thatcher's brutal hand.

Starmer's government, a mirror in the abyss,

watches Qesser, Lewie, Kamran

Heba, T Hoxha, Amu, Ahmed, Jon Cink

their names are a blazing scar, a raw wound on the tongue. 

Palestine Action charges, trials delayed.

Bodies shrinking, skin clinging to bone, 

translucent, veined, a map of failing life.

A cold, calculated pace. Each breath a step closer to the state's slow, murderous embrace,

a tightening noose of air, each gasp a desperate plea, 

the lungs burning, collapsing.

The eighth prisoner, intermittent, a shadow on death's edge,

a flicker in the encroaching dark, a mind beginning to fray, hallucinations creeping in.

Helplessness? A suffocating shroud,

stitched from generations of spilt blood, still wet, still pooling.

The same bile that rose in '21's throats, bitter, hot.

The same cold dread seeped into Ireland's marrow,

watching their own become offal on a butcher's block,

their guts spilt for profit, their dignity torn.

The same fight, etched in every scar, a livid brand,

from Dublin's cobbled streets to Roma camps,

a universal ache, burning like a fever,

against the boot-heel, the choke-chain, the state's cold lamps.

This endless grind, crushing weight of stone,

a legacy of wounds, blood-bound through generations.

But in shadows, a new fire burns, fierce revolution glow,

women at the forefront, leading the revolutionary tide.

Against fascism's grip, their history they sow,

a fight for rights, with nothing left to hide. No more apologies.

Bronzefield. A whisper, then a shriek,

a last gasp, caught in the wire.

The ambulance, a phantom siren screaming

in power's hollowed-out skull. A life unmade.

Westminster counts its gold. The BBC scrubs its hands clean.

A moral spine, splintered clean, a rotten twig.

Her name, a final, guttural roar, 

then the silence of the state's final word.