sisters and brothers – art is our artillery

i’m not backin up my utility
not sitting down collectively
your resistance is my futility
facing up to the humanity
under this gut-drenched humility
we paint these walls
they erected
for our security

and art is our artillery

we are the stones at tanks
this rock-star pose
at the barricades
we are black mask
window smashers
with words
not guns
we bomb walls
not gods
these bricks
thrown at bricks
thrown at bricks
are linguistic tricks

our armour is personal
our products are political

like a one-dollar-a-day comical hedge-fund
a stand-alone reptile of climate capital
the fine sand particles get stuck in yr teeth
like a profit-driven fascist tool
as we shout azadi from the watchtowers

then this art is our artillery

when freedom is tantamount to oxygen
not just a word to breath out
but a depth of necessity for your mentality
to consume like blood
to pray at deaf gods
for quality of life
for quality of death
not air-conditioners
not cosmetic practitioners
not holistic nutritionists

up there they’re spruiking
spin spin spin spin spin
like cleaner shinier coal
less oilier oil spills
prettier more vibrant sunsets

claiming nicer weather
in other hemispheres

and we cannot scream politely
that art is our artillery

our mechanical images
of boots and guns
projected on yr houses
our street theatre
is more than automatic
because we deny
the democratic
where losers lose
and winners win

without consensus
there is no reality

and at woomera
as the fences tore
to the sacred desert

from the palisades
she saw him paint


in his blood
on fences
on the cameras
the walls

then our art is our artillery
our radical capillary

your coded hacking
at the concrete apartheid
and the tanks in the streets
become cardboard burning
in gaza
in palestine
these words
are our our intifada
our blistered feet
and dusty faces
fences ripped
near checkpoints
ideas thrown
at walls


that wall
that wall
twice the height
of the last one
more than
four times the length
of the last one

and it came down
we tore it down
and walls
come down
walls come down
the walls come
and walls
the walls

they tear down each segments
with car-jacks
and fists
and hammers
and bricks
thrown at bricks
thrown at brick
thrown at bricks
thrown at bricks…

so under the tear gas grenades art is our artillery

in the back of this police van
the seared flesh
no sirens in the coolgardie sun
the paint flaked
and we march
toward the stolen lands
in mass strides
the colonial treatyless regions
to the open sea of refugees
the children in boats
the unfree freedom fighters
the flags torn and sewn
kids in the water never overthrown
only spin spin spin
from the parliamentarians
the negativity versus the bravery
the token corporate slavery

sisters, brothers, fathers, mothers
we demand dignity
and art is our artillery

our tongues rush at the barricades
and in the desert street again
she picks up a stone at the military
chanting no borders no nations
no borders no banks
no borders no politics
no borders no gods
no borders no masters
no borders no government
to tell me that

art is our artillery