printed poems on paper to use in the bottle neck of a molotov cocktail

6 loosely connected poems about current, and eternal, political struggles. cw: politics

I yell into this endless void of an empty page. 
I yell so loud but no one listens; 
This page hears nothing,
But it's still a good listener. 

I yell obscenities.
I yell out my frustration. 
I yell like my parents would on the odd occasion. 
I yell and yell and yell and swear and yell out my lungs as I hear nothing but burst ear drums. 

My voice is hoarse, 
50 a day for 250 years, 
Genocide turning once dry riverbeds into blood filled, invasive species ridden, and polluted messes. 

I yell despite my hoarse voice into the page; 
Into the void. 
Nothing is heard but the endless messages of "Please just give me a second to breathe." 

But I never do, 
Breathe, that is. 
I sit and spiral and spiral and breathe in anything but oxygen. 

I yell until my lungs are empty; 
Heaving;
Disemboweled of all air; 
I yell until I finally feel like my breath has left me. 

But of course it hasn't. 
The brief break in noise is quickly quietened by my sharp and wheezing inhale. 

My voice is stamped out by the sheer blinding white void.




Firebombs and Molotov cocktails act as street lights.
Placed and thrown into houses big enough to house 10 families but are only occupied by rich kids that travel to have a party. 

Trashed expensive hotel rooms by wanna be anarchist "punks." 
Daddy pays their clean up fee. 

"The land doesn't care about race."

The rivers don't see who is polluting them. 
The land doesn't see who is digging all of it up. 
The sea doesn't see who killed the coral. 
The land doesn't see who dug the mass graves. 
The land doesn't see the colour of the occupants of said mass graves. 

There's no side taking in genocide. 

Israelis bombing public plazas, 
Turning brick buildings to burning hot lava, 
Civilians into numbers on a casualty infographic Instagram story. 

Rewriting history with fire, lead, and stolen children. 
These aren't just the people who happened to live here before the main event arrived,
They were conquered;
Subjugated;
Suppressed;
Exterminated. 



But hey, 
Everyone needs a scapegoat.
The world is full of them, 
However many billion of us there are now. 

I'm often angry, depressed, anxious;
Pessimistic.

It's never "realism", only a cynical attempt to justify your comfort in depression and inaction. 

I yell into voids about politics and personal shortcomings, 
I yell into voids about envy and jealousy, 
I yell into voids about issues I have no control over. 

But I do though,
Have control, 
Some control. 
It's limited, yes, but I can go and tear down as many racist posters as I can, 
I can tag over painted Nazi dog whistles, 
I can talk with people, learn and educate, 
I can create art in defiance of what I see as wrong. 

Every human interaction and idea can be boiled down into an "Us vs Them" 
narrative, 
How can we change to make that no longer the case? 



How can we go about life, 
Thinking, scheming, planning,
In languages of division. 

I say we but most people don't even question, 
Born not to think but to follow, 
To attend rather than involve themselves, 
Entering a state of hearing in passive agreement unless it goes against the grain, 
Goes against norms, 
Against white picket fences, 
Against border fences,
Against the nuclear family,
Against the nuclear powers,
Against generators and coal soot filling the air,
Against colonisation and genocide (of the wrong kind of people).

How can we go about life, 
Thinking, scheming, planning, 
In frames of mind confined to the corner of a small glass house. 

Think of our kids stolen, 
Held hostage in the buildings we crumble. 

Think of our soldiers dying, 
On the fields of land we have no claim to. 

Think of our yearning for peace, 
Once the wrong kind of people are out of our neighbourhood. 

Think of our history on the land, 
While ignoring the other, more recent, histories. 

Think of the rocks thrown our way,
While ignoring the missiles we send their way. 




We live in a world where protest albums are written by CEOs. 

Where protests are held in favour of the genocidal regime. 

Where the military exists in opposition to the people. 

Where power and wealth are held hostage as a dangling carrot in front of the people. 

Where people fight to continue existing under the system that keeps them from living. 

Where love is a sin. 

Where holding hands deserves a punishment equal to death. 

Where a plant can get you killed. 

Where a plant is a trillion dollar industry. 

Where slavery is considered abolished but everyone sells their time so they can exist. 

Where work is a glorified prison. 

Where prisons are known to not be effective but we still insist on them. 

Where justice is a synonym to punishment. 

Where struggle is a spectacle injected into your eyeballs 24/7. 




I see oppression everywhere I look, 
In the couple walking down the street, 
Old rich white man, 
Young Southeast Asian woman. 
Little to no English, 
Little to no visible love in either eyes, 
Simple lust from his. 

In the voice of the boss,
Asking his newly hired Christmas casuals to work overtime, 
Asking them to join a new corporate family, 
Over spending time with their own over the holidays. 

In the notice of an increase in rent, 
“It’s the market going wild.”
You mean it's open season on poor people. 
Can't miss out on our pelts, 
“Get in before the opportunity is gone!”

In the enclosed envelope with the Army seal, 
Sent to all the houses in working class suburbs, 
With boys at the ripe age to die for their country. 

In the parchment signed by suits,
That prevents people in rags from eating.

In the fliers that inform you how to write “yes” or “no” in a box, 
To answer a question with a plethora of answers, 
None of which consist of “yes” or “no.” 

In the media showing the story of a poor white girl murdered, 
While ignoring the countless black, brown, indigenous, and marginalised lives lost to hate so discriminatory it seems indiscriminate. 

In the faces of old people when a young, overworked, retail worker makes a mistake with their change.  

In the tone difference between the young male retail worker, 
And the young female retail worker, 
Both helping the same customer, 
But the former receives all the credit and respect, 
While the latter did 90% of the hard work anyway. 

In the way people treat me differently, 
As soon as I mention I am neurodiverse. 

In the way doctors speak to me, 
When I tell them “Yes, it still hurts, and I would like something stronger.” 

In the way parents refuse to see the harm they are doing to their kids, 
Despite how softly you suggest it. 

In the classroom when students at a disadvantage are worked harder, 
So they can “fit in.” 
Despite the fact they are bullied for even existing. 

In the way I look back at my childhood, 
With a confused tint in my hindsight,
Seeing clearly how I was knowingly abused,
Manipulated, egged along into thinking I was a friend,
When I was a tool, a punchline or even a punching bag. 

In the reflection of the prison guard’s aviator sunglasses, 
Supervising the current prison labour shift. 

In the mirror when I look at my white skin,
Blue eyes, brown/blond/ginger hair, freckled skin, 
And 3 walls and a roof in the background. 

In my head when I try to express anything. 

In the feeling of foreign hands violently rustling every inch of my body. 

In my eyes whenever I walk outside. 

This work has taken a lot for me to write. Consider subscribing if you can afford it, it’s as cheap as I can make it. If you cannot, do not fret. All of the poems I publish here will be non-paywalled, the only writing behind a paywall are the long form essays and short stories that are coming (I am still writing and editing it just takes a lot of time and a lot out of me to do so, please be patient).

anyway,

love you guys,

keep being cool and never stop creating.

and also maybe share with a friend or something, idk.