I have been waiting for Yesod

To lower its ladder,

Whilst living in box land,

In bag land

In the patient post-move shuffle,

Ever waiting, ever working

Bit by bit to make a house a home.

In other news:

The Garbage Fire Godhead

Goads us into further worship, further fighting.

Some people are fighting

For their right not to die

For their right not to starve,

For their right not to lose

Everything whenever illness

Pulls their leg,

For their right not to be murdered by the police

For their right not to get Covid19,

Because their lives are seen

As less valuable

Than the pleasures of the privileged

Their perpetual profits

And careless comfort.

Some people

Who police the periphery of their comfort zone

With state violence and media smears,

They fight to uphold a passionless politics

One of performance and politeness over policy,

One of middle roads and equal sides,

A politics where they don’t have to change,

They don’t have learn, they don’t have to care

A politics that doesn’t hamper them while they hoard,

(Something only the privileged can afford.)

The warmest winter in records

With Australia still smouldering.

(Summer winks with its salacious smirk)

Covid continually claims lives and livelihoods.

The bigots are building walls

And getting ready to rain fire.

The wealthy are warming their bunker beds—

No tech daddy is going to save you,

Not with these margins (making money off your misery)!

Imagine what kind of humanity

It takes, with these kind of stakes (life or death for many millions)

To stand between the divide

Of predators and their prey

And say:

“ These two are the same.

My fight is with those who fight to change

My privilege not to choose a side and

Remain cosy and uncaring.”