---

High tides. Titanic strides
through twisted metal.
Red Roads. Brought low.
Once more into the breach.
Up rusted rungs you reach, up blank stares you climb.
UP, UP THROUGH RIME AND RUIN
TIERS OF CONCRETE TEARS OF UNDOING

Hostages all; at gunpoint
they spun the wheel and hoped
that what they had was sellable;
one's labour must be sellable.
The violence goes deeper. Violence indelible.
NO GREAT MEN
ONLY THE GREAT MANY

I have a feeling.
I have a feeling that it's falling
apart at the seams;
and that the people,
and that the people in the gutters
recognise their means.
I hear the meaning.
I hear the meaning of the whispers
sprayed upon the doors.
Now comes the hour;
now comes the hour that the needle
will pierce the spoken-for.

Fuelled with your labour.
Built with your bones.
There are no great men.
Only the great many

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