Poetry

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A revolution is not a dinner party, or writing an essay,

or painting a picture, or doing embroidery; it cannot be so refined,

so leisurely and gentle, so temperate, kind, courteous, restrained and magnanimous.

A revolution is an insurrection, an act of violence by which one class overthrows another.

—Mao Tse-tung, Report on an Investigation of the Peasant Movement in Hunan


                                                          What about my safe space? Put this gun in your mouth baby.


Red our Colour

Song for 1976

The grass is no longer singing

Justice

Hunger

If Poets Must Have Flags

Rage

Tending Hate

Poet and Guerilla

Vengeance

Harlem

Still I Rise

What Can We Do?

Handcuffs

The Child Screams