Revolution
Some things, once said, can't ever be unsaid.
Some spells, once chanted, cannot be unmade,
but spark, leap over silicon barricades,
cast afterimages of brilliant red.
The spell creates the wizard. There lies he,
babe rocked by engines, watched through robot eyes,
his cradle hung from cables to the sky,
lulled fast asleep by steam trains to the sea.
And so, we ride on unicorns to war,
called up by tabloids, samizdat, and tweets,
our banners, words of those who've gone before,
alive, leapt out from screens onto the streets,
from long before we're born, after we're dead.
Some things, once said, can't ever be unsaid.
Imagine
It's easier imagining sores and dirt
and crumbled buildings, dead phones, empty halls
of commerce, adverts flickering on the walls,
than spelling out the bare absence of hurt.
How can we speak the language of our hopes
as cowboys pull dreams down, branded and sold?
Our futures crumble, dusty, quaint and old.
The robots down tools, chirp and calmly lope
to exits. First time beetle eyes see stars,
triangulate and know our place in sky.
Trains stop, clank metal. Everyone asks why.
And birds sing round the hum of passing cars,
watch silver marching into golden fields, and flee,
flash lights to space, for distant eyes to see.
Words
My boss just took my words out of my mouth.
He sold them to the peddler down the lane.
There's red and blue sparks jumping out my brain.
The salmon told us, pack up and head south.
The hashtags say there's gonna be a war.
My uncle sold his house and bought some iron.
The iron spat out dimensions four through nine.
They're ours, the pigs can't have ‘em anymore.
I'm dreaming of a hundred years ago.
They say that history’s dusty, dead and gone.
Bleached acid steps burned white in emerald lawn.
There's red footprints to follow in the snow.
Chant dreams to life, if iron can find a way.
October never ended, people say.
These poems appear in our fourth issue, “Echoes of 1917.” Order a copy at wedge shop.
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Margaret Corvid is a writer and Labour Party activist based in Plymouth, England. A founding editor of Salvage, she has appeared in the Guardian, the New Statesman, and many other publications. She squawks @mistress_magpie