Commons image
By Bob Beagrie
View the world in red, white and blue
through the eyeholes of black balaclavas –
the chalk cliffs of Dover, navy sea, azure skies
cardinal spray paint on the floor outside
an asylum processing centre.
Blood is on your hands!
Gannet chanting, England till I die.
With a fierce love for our homeland,
we’re building something that’s never been built before!
Not since Mosley’s blackshirts and the British Union of Fascists.
Roleplaying they’re defending the nation,
proclaiming they’re protecting women and children
by blocking roads and access to the port,
play acting masked vigilantes, comic-book heroes –
no banners, no slogans, just pure intimidation.
But the freedom offered stokes the flames of hatred,
abusing those who save lives – but the wrong sort of lives.
As if a signature in the bloodline is proof you belong.
Through the eyeholes of black balaclavas
identity is a collective statement of aggression;
the mob-self strangles the individual’s thinking.
Violence becomes normalised through the eyeholes
of uniform balaclavas, when other routes of expression
are blocked and you’re instructed on who to blame.
