by Matt Broomfield
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what guns we hold,
in principle only to put down six through the skull
of the monsters in linen,
in practice quite brandished in the humps of the moon,
in handclap orchestra on a curfewed lane
baby we are young violent
intelligent and organized
Arîn Mîrkan is immortal,
lighting up the death star,
setting on ten centuries like the monasteries aflame,
the brave little sternums all become
shields to tanks and heavy guns
baby we are young violent
intelligent and organized
what half-truths we told,
silly stepping thru the city limits,
the last green places barrel-bomb blistered,
so ugly dumb, so preferable to asphyxia,
the visa wedding with the facetime groom
baby we are young violent
intelligent and organized
intense night work in Istanbul,
whole strongholds being born,
the earth split-lipped and speaking threats,
such flags we raised in degraded lands
devoid of the caracal and the irregular force
baby we are young violent
intelligent and organized
I suppose we will get ours
some coming day in a captagon blaze,
to survive requiring more than we can muster,
not the wearing of seatbelts
nor the brushing of teeth
but rather crisp autumn suicides
in washrooms in old england
shepherd kids self-immolating high on the karst
all far from one centre
all fronts of one war
baby we are young violent
intelligent and organized
Matt Broomfield is a poet and revolutionary who has been living and working in North East Syria (Rojava) for over a year, in solidarity with the women-led, direct-democratic revolution there. Among other projects, he has worked with local media structures to help bring the voices of the revolution to the outside world. Since arriving in Rojava, he has published poetry for Agenda, Glass, Argot, Rise Up Review and Poets Read The News, as well as essays for It’s Going Down and Red Pepper.
