That for many – billions – life isn’t
a house furnished,
or food in the stomach,
its hard, like ground constantly, over centuries, pounded.
its sick – like bills that pile up and up and up and up.
It smells of unemployment and underemployment
Of salaries taken away
It feels like sleep on cemented floors
Its about dreams leant to be unlearnt
Above all its about numbness – of the sofa and the tv and the social media -
or of the 8 to 6’s and 8 to 6’s and again those 8 to
It’s about constant daily defeats induced by debt – life is not an academics essay or a poets poem or a artists film or canvas. It is
a defeat of your poem – never written, of your film- never made, of your painting – never painted.
Because life is this for the billions but for some, a few:
An acquired taste
A wave of the hand, a trip to the beach, or a scholarship to the US and holidays back and forth,
That it is scented with fruits and salaries
That it feels like metal and ice and wooden steering wheels,
And uncles and aunties in high places,
Because life for them is
Water (imported) garlanded with petals
And for the billions – life is deferred,
Because of this
I believe in class struggle.