Tony Martin-Woods
When the poor shepherds realised that the skies actually harboured at least one star for each one of them and for all their descendants for eons and eons, they made peace with each other as love flooded their hearts. As it was cold, they fed the embers with some old self-righteous books. From that day, they stopped looking for me. (Goddess 3 12)
Nos crecen los años. Nos crece la vida. Vídeo tomado en El Campo de San Jorge (Leeds, Inglaterra), lugar mágico que aparece en la fotografía de la contraportada de Los viajes de Diosa. Poema titulado “Al crecerme vida” (Los viajes de Diosa).
Poema de Los viajes de Diosa dedicado a las víctimas del sistema capitalista, depredador y salvaje, y a quienes se solidarizan con ellas con su generosidad personal y política. Con la esperanza de que se produzcan cada vez más eclipses de esas lunas cuadradas y frías, de esas neveras limpias y peladas que se abren en la oscuridad de la cocina. Con el deseo de que muchos bienhechores, como Pepe, a quien a veces se le ve camino del cajero automático acompañado de gente que necesita dinero para alimentar a sus familias, avancen desde su hermosa generosidad a la solidaridad transformadora. La crisis es el producto de la negligencia de los mal llamados “creadores de riqueza” y de la incompetencia de los políticos. Ningún “contrato único” ni ninguna promesa de crecimiento económico privado puede aliviar esta situación. Necesitamos tomar conciencia de las razones que hay detrás de tanto sufrimiento para encontrar soluciones adecuadas y duraderas.
Nothing happens on the screen of my laptop.
It has turned unresponsive.
My memory of the sounds of my tapping of the keys
Suddenly acquires
A muffled texture of emptiness,
A sour timbre of impotence.
But I keep typing
Our revolutionary manifesto,
Because I am convinced
That I am still alive
Thanks to the pulse of my fingers,
Because I firmly believe
That the words of my letters
Must be going somewhere high
To be received by the Guardians of the Truth,
Who will certify the quality
Of each single sentence,
For them to be fed
To our masses
Who starve in heaven.
Hallowed be their reign.
Copyright © 2015. Tony Martin-Woods
Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved.
He is an alcoholic
Who never pays for his drinks.
A workaholic whose job
Is to gamble with our money.
He once was a kind guy,
But now,
Roughed up by his profession,
(I don’t believe that bullshit about his dad)
His manners have gone down the hill,
(Well, listen,
Actually,
He is a psychopath,
Addicted to violence,
Aggressive…)
Watch out!!
He will hit you and make you bleed,
Or kill you!
Oops!
That was him!
Bloody hell!
That was fast!
If you are not careful
He will run you over
With his dangerous driving,
Typically in a busy town centre,
Preferably abroad,
Destroying as well the stalls of humble traders,
With expensive cars paid with our money,
Or stolen.
His list of contacts is endless,
Mostly dodgy,
Or even toxic,
But no private life,
And certainly no friends,
Apart from the Big One,
The only person he respects,
Even though they are not allowed to see each other.
Plenty of casual sex,
But we never know
How good it is, really,
Or what diseases he may have caught
And passed.
And despite all that,
Our security is in his hands,
And we have to trust him,
Blindly,
Forcefully,
And love him,
Because at the end of the day
He is one of us.
I’ll tell you what:
I think he is a wanker!
I know he is ready to die,
But he is still a wanker,
Yes!
Mr Bond is a criminal wanker,
And nobody cares!
Copyright © 2015. Tony Martin-Woods
Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved.
We can’t control the tides of the oceans,
So let us be the currents of our seas.
We can’t reach the stars of the universe,
So let us be the lights of our nights.
We can’t stop the clocks nor the time,
So let us be the rhythm of our lives.
We can’t buck the bloody market,
So let us be the traders of seeds,
Seeds of revolution,
Seeds of justice,
Seeds of peace.
Copyright © 2015. Tony Martin-Woods
Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved.
No liberé París,
ni perdí Gibraltar,
ni gané en Lepanto,
ni masacré en América,
ni me prohibieron mi cultura,
ni aniquilaron mis instituciones,
ni le di al mundo una gran lengua,
ni tan siquiera forjé esa Transición,
ni fui con la cabra a “pacificar” Irak.
Que me dejen en paz con su pasado,
que no me torturen con sus historias,
que ya tengo yo bastante con las mías.
Ya sé que Francisco Franco fue un criminal de Guerra,
(como Blair y Bush, pero sin ganar elecciones y sin guante blanco)
cuyos secuaces asesinaron vilmente y sin castigo al hermano de mi abuelo.
Ya sé que el PP es un nido de fachas que se sienten herederos de su bando “nacional”.
Ya sé que el sufrimiento de millones debe ser recordado y donde haya genocidas encontrarlos.
Ya sé que muchos han muerto defendiendo la justicia y deben ser nuestro ejemplo, por su valentía.
Ya sé que si no fuera por el pasado, el presente sería distinto.
Ya sé que debemos evitar los errores de otros.
Pero que se dejen de tonterías y manipulaciones nuestros políticos y sus periódicos:
No me siento ni orgulloso ni culpable por cosas que sucedieron cuando yo no había nacido.
Más nos valdría preguntarnos por nuestra contribución personal como votantes a la Gran Crisis.
Más nos valdría mirarnos al espejo para ver quiénes toleran el expolio de banqueros y empresarios.
Más nos valdría hacer desfilar hoy a nuestros “representantes”, bien esposados, camino de la cárcel.
Copyright © 2015. Tony Martin-Woods
Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved.
My olive breasts are covered
In Western urine and sweat,
In Russian vodka and vomit,
In mustard from Asad the chef,
Who bakes with toxic dribble
Iranian and Turkish bomb cakes.
Nations of hate,
It will not be me
Who’ll take you away!
Rebels trained by the CIA
Launch infidel lethal grenades
Paid with Saudi lazy gold.
A million Goliaths from Israel
Enforce an embargo in Gaza
On crackers, slings and stones.
Hyenas fathered by Blair
Behead innocent people.
May sharpens their swords.
Priests of hate,
It will not be me
Who’ll take you away!
In the streets of Ankara
Dozens begged my return
But perished in Gladio attack.
Eloquent porters in Europe
Feed the masses with fear
Shutting borders and hearts.
Traders of hate
It will not be me
Who’ll take you away!
Doctors brutally killed,
By silent fighter jets
Sent by Peace Nobel Prize.
Rivers and rivers of Syrian blood
Desperate flow through humble canyons
Carved in mountains of media lies.
Gods of hate
It will not be me
Who’ll take you away!
As my mission in this world is to wait,
Nude and simple as I came here,
For a big testosterone eruption
To wash down the power of states
And all the filth that their leaders
Splashed on my olive breasts.
Copyright © 2015. Tony Martin-Woods
Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved.
Poem started in the night of the 9th of October and completed in the afternoon of the 10th, following the Ankara bombings.
Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.
King James Bible
Beware of minimum wage promises,
which come to you as a blessing,
but cunningly mixed with the withdrawal of tax credits.
Beware of freedom of enterprise,
which comes to you as real progress,
but shamefully dressed with privilege for corporations.
Beware of the flexibility to work,
which comes to you as independence,
but turns workers into sperm in search of an egg.
Beware of tax cuts for the people,
which come to you as relief,
but distract our attention from tax-havens for the rich.
Beware of the right to choose a hospital,
which came to you as respect,
but turns patients into consumers and doctors into accountants.
Beware of 7-days a week NHS,
which comes to you as common sense,
but is another bulwark for the privatisation of our health.
Beware of the words “hard working people”,
which come to you as a compliment,
but are just an insult for the disable and the jobless.
Beware of those who want you to sing anthems,
which come to you as fraternal rejoice,
but mask the fascist soft power of our corrupt institutions.
Beware of “national security reasons”,
which come to you as safety for us,
but are an excuse to prop-up our murderous weapons industry.
Beware of the word “Britain” pronounced with a sharp “t”,
which comes as a mark of moral authority,
but is a sign of a blinding, imperial, self righteous pride.
Beware of the eloquent down-to-earth patriots,
which come to you as a smily, refreshing pint of bitter,
but ignore those who love their country most by confronting austerity in the streets.
Beware of Tory prophets and their media lot,
which come to you in smart clean clothing,
but inwardly are nothing but filthy, selfish, evil souls.
Tony Martin-Woods
Copyright © 2015. Tony Martin-Woods
Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved.
Written in the morning of the Tory Conference whilst watching the Andrew Marr “Show”
Honi soit qui mal y pense
I am the matriot
The highest patriot
I serve my shares
I sooth my country
I sing my anthem
I save myself
No God
If he doesn’t sing along!
Eons and eons
Of red cells squandered
I’ll never leave me
You’ll never either
Alpha
Omega
Epsilons drunken
Depleted
Uranium
Euphrates
Tigris
Tony!
That Tony
He made me proud
And Dave
And Nick
What a nice bunch
Of loyal
Sincere
Service
Studs
Spreading my seeds in the world
Whilst feeding our petals
And you!
I always have
One place for you
In my mind
In my garden of Eden
The East of Eden
The Sun bleeds no more
Fear not!
Crime
Is just human
Lions
Aren’t liable
For feasting
On flesh
It’ fine!
Those lentils
Are soothing
The maid cooks them well
Farewell to clouds!
Your tie!
Get a tie
And a flower
For the innocent soldier
Sent to kill and to die
To the line of the front
Proud
Oblivious
To clumsy
Pompous
Fat generals
Historians claim
I should have sacked
I’m no man
No woman
No gender
No sex
No pleasure
No pain
Forget!
Forget what you saw in the toilet
A sneeze of mine
And you shall be heeled
Bow!
For I am the oak
Made of steel
With branches in hell
And over the seas
Wearing a necklace
Of bullets of marble
For you
For you are the lamb
Begotten through me
And I will transcend
Victorious to death
A nation of past times
Rejoicing eternal
For I am the matriot
The highest patriot
I serve my shares
I sooth my country
I sing my anthem
I save myself
I am not impressed!
No God
If he kneels not at my throne
I love you
I love you
For you’re a piece
One piece of me
For I’m made of you
For you are my portrait
For I am the map
I love you
I love you
Look at the colours
The shadowy bits
The counties and roads
The rivers and bridges
It’s you
It’s me
I love me
I love me
I love me
I love me…
…Wave the flag
Keep smiling
Raise your hand
We parade
Copyright © 2015. Tony Martin-Woods
Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved
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