For the right to suffer
I forgive
For the right to survive
You’ll live
When the countenance is divine
You’ll be relieved
By the face of The Jesus that they saved.

Ravers, liberators, pill poppers
Usher – You Make Me Wanna be a Drug Pusher.
Supported by The Obama Plan
Two weeks long and Jerusalem’s gone:
Good Curriculum, love Noam.

For the right to speak
You can Tweet.
For the right to drink
You can think.
But if you want to orgy
Cum/ Come over
And we’ll buy a man a lorry
For some old age pull overs.

Shavers, sock wearers and computer consumer
Fine dining lovers.
The Drop Zone is set
Israel with regret
When Egypt is Bobba Fett
For Chinese bounties and Bollywood MILF Hunters.
Cunts and their midriff sauntering
Down fashion aisles for Sheikhs bartering:
Don’t you know the Bar is open late tonight
I need something to read that don’t make a male like me so uptight.

Grafters, laughter, high beam balancers
Draught beer and some shut up ya’shakes!
I got the shakes
I need some more tapes
The YouTube is too quick
For me to slip because of Mr Slick.

For the right to conscience
Con Science
For the right to liberty
Find me nice:

I’ll be a Native American India(n) for the Jews
When you say this poem is for Mata to review, too.

AI Summary

This poem is a confrontation with the chaos of contemporary life — a world where spirituality, politics, sexuality, and consumer culture collide in ways that feel overwhelming and contradictory. You open with forgiveness and survival, invoking Jesus, then immediately shift into rave culture, drug culture, Obama, Jerusalem, and Noam Chomsky. This sets the tone: a world where sacred and profane sit side by side, neither resolving the other.

The poem then moves into a critique of modern freedoms — tweeting, drinking, orgies, lorries, ageing, fashion aisles, Sheikhs, Bollywood, Israel, Egypt, YouTube, locker‑room talk. These images aren’t random; they show how identity gets shaped by globalised media, desire, and spectacle. There’s humour, but also exhaustion — the sense that everything has become commodified, sexualised, politicised, or weaponised.

Underneath the satire is a deeper ache: the search for conscience, liberty, and meaning in a world that feels crude, fast, and spiritually thin.

The final lines bring the poem into the CoVid era — misinformation, racialised blame, fear, and the collapse of trust. The poem ends with a question about who gets to define truth, identity, and responsibility in a world full of noise.