N.O.C (Not Our Class)

Poetry resides not in the annals of history or the corridors of power
Sold into comfort by an annual stipend.
Instead it has its birth
In the uncouth gutters
Wherein reside the pain in the soul of humanity.
Through the horror of war
And the agonies of deprivation.
The need for poetry arises.
And as the rising sound of the dispossessed
Bleeds into the deafening dominance
Of a dumbed-down comfort culture
That seeks only to replicate its own narcissistic vision of itself,
So rises the shrill and callous howling of the powerful.
See them baying like hounds
For deference and humiliation
As they set upon the bards and the seers.
To create in the midst of destruction
To find art in the midst of hate
To speak out unabashed in the face of rage and ridicule,
Such is the path of the poet.
Those who speak of truth
Walk tall in the knowledge
That it is indeed an honour
To be so insulted.
Backstreet dealers
Fences, whores
Gypsies, rent boys, thieves and all
Slackers, squatters, scammers, wasters,
Fingersmiths and entertainers.
Problem children, mental cases
And addicts occupy dark places.
The valleys in between high status.
Not a shred of class between them,
Just a love of life and freedom.
Unkempt and uneducated,
Untrained, uninitiated
Unaspiring, unclean
Uncouth, untalented,
Unseen.
Unheard of, uncared, for underrated
Misunderstood, misrepresented.
On the fringes, on the edge
On the streets, off the ledge
Raise your voices one and all
Stand united, else we'll fall