in place of their mp5s. steven biko, what happened to soweto? your disposessed millions have retained their apartheid slum. wealthy millions, here comes
if every child chased dreams of societal reorganization in place of sweet wrappers and escape, then we would see mr cadbury's enlightened industrialism
a lone voice crying in the wilderness: make the straight way for the coming of the? a dry throat stutters on an empty vision of milk and honey and desolate
on leaving school immersed in philanthropic notions (of a kind these days i find unthinkable) i pulled my frail frame onto my charger and rode off into
it's just a song, just another generic mid-paced foot-tapper, just a conservative assembly of melody and basic rhythmn. four-on-the-floor, a key change
it's all very well, knowing how to write and understanding the need to record. but like falling trees, we somehow miss the point - illiteracy we can ill
well you can tell by the way i move my feet that i'm a genuine insurrectionary - it's a kind of nervous shuffle that contrasts so well with bolshevik
does. can i make a confession? after the operation i am certainly not satisfied with my listening options. there's something moving but the pulse is dead
and don't tell me it didn't happen. these sights and sounds engraved on hearts. we can't doubt the voices of the million dead, but we can't doubt the
oh my god i think i'm cuba, or possibly tanzania. the realization hits me bluntly: oh my god they've colonized me. castro: be virgin sound. nyerere: a
it starts with a call, a call from his mother. sophia says a??come quick, MacGyver's been hurt. he was just on his way home from saving the world again
if i can't feel (on a given day) the way i wanted to, the temptation hits, my grip it could slip, i could give it up. but if i can't feel (on a given
would someone please speak, this silence is as golden as midas' wife with a mouthful of carious teeth crying halitosis... if you'd speak, but you never
i long for the day when concrete becomes flammable. a firebrand, i am liquid ire through these ancient misery-cobbled cheapside streets. and whether you
hey! little mohammed, where's your riot gear? did you forget all your body armour? i'll forgive you for spilling your secret through your hands. you know
it's tragic to concede geothermals, to take the deus from the machina, and yet what could i have done? i bowed my head and just injured my neck. what
the footnote swallows the page. today new york kind of looks like beirut, but beirut never looked like new york. yet new york kind of cuts to the quick
but still i never quite know, or can't quite remember. i don't quite remember. the forced proximity of a million different mike leigh movies makes me
