The Colour of a Plum

Mandelson is a smear of cold grease on the inner thigh of the state.

The flight paths are veins of black rot pulsating across the Atlantic.

Slick with the lubricant of the unaccountable.

A geriatric hunger for the unconsented and the unwritten.

The penthouses smell of expensive vetiver masking the copper scent of a forced entry.

The sound of a shredder eating an NDA is the only heartbeat left in the room.

The spatial politics of the predatory is a hand forcing open a silent jaw, a planning permission signed in unwashed silk and cold grease.

The elite are a permanent, clinical erection of capital that can never find release.

They are the sodomites of the territory, unzipping the earth to spill their sterile seed into the open wounds of the poor.

They fuck the map until the soil turns to gold and the bodies turn to dust.

The invasion is a sterile white light that tastes of salt and latex.

A gloved hand reaching for the Caribbean, sweating under the rubber.

The bloated rot unzips the sea with the precision of a mortician.

He wants to shove his missile into the soft dark of the blockade.

A surgical incision wanting to penetrate the border.

To plant a flag in the soft tissue of the sovereign.

The blockade is a silk tie tightened in a boardroom until the eyes bulge.

The neck turns the colour of a bruised plum.

The island is a plate being scraped clean by a silver fork.

The salt of the fence is a sting in the open throat.

The strangulation is rhythmic, a heavy panting in the sterile dark.

A sexualised hunger for the sovereign that tastes like copper and ash.

The body is pinned to the bed of the ocean.

The current is a cold tongue in an open wound.

The demarcation of the blockade is a bruise that won't fade.

They are damned by the very mouths they try to gag.

Waiting for the hands to stop.

Waiting for the breath to return.

Every border is a cold speculum.

A metal violation of the nomad pulse.

The state is a necrophiliac that only loves what it has already killed and catalogued.

The state wants to reach inside and pull out the heritage.

To catalogue the scream and file it under nuisance.

The social democratic morgue smells of bleach and fresh paint over a shallow grave.

The fluorescent hum of the ceiling is a drone over a stopping place.

The zoning laws of the skin are written in the ink of an eviction notice and the sweat of the unhoused.

The planning permission for our erasure is a filth of antiseptic violence and bureaucratic rot.

The reformers are busy polishing the floor while the walls are bleeding.

I am watching the rot from the edge of the bed.

The spit on the face of the status quo is warm.

The afterparty of the apocalypse is loud and it smells like cheap gin and burning barricades.

The body is the only territory they haven't fully colonised.

The skin is a riot.

The womb is a barricade of grit and pelvic heat, a brick thrown in the dark, the noise of the street vibrating in the marrow.

The wet heat of the collective against the cold stone of the judiciary.

The friction of the resistance is a pulse they cannot quiet.

A symbolic penetration of the crown.

We are the beautiful filth.

The scream in the hallway of the social democratic morgue.

The damnation of the elite is the heat of our refusal.

The rhythm snaps.

Glass cracks.

Fiddle screech.

Boot.

Pavement.

Grime.

Ache.

Throat.

Revolution.

Now.