Talking with Mr Strummer about the nature of the world

by Steve Pottinger

“They’d send a limousine anyway…” - The Clash

You were right, Joe.
More right than either of us could
ever have imagined. It’d make your
blood run cold to see how they welcome
his private jet into their airspace,
send a fleet of the biggest blackest
cars, roll out the red carpet.

And then, Joe, they give him the mic.
Up he strides, this little man, Narcissus
in a bloody suit. Spits out the old lies:
lebensraum, victimhood,
the whole shebang.
You know how it goes – subhuman
enemies, forces of darkness.

The press, Joe? They love it.
Good copy, endless headlines,
ten minutes on TV from now till forever.
It’s a gimme. There’s a career here, a fast
ride to the top floor if they play
their cards right, make sure not to ask
awkward questions about camps
they can pretend they haven’t heard of.

Us? Oh, we’re still here, Joe.
Outside, as always. Protesting,
as always. Our voices echoing
in cold streets, the sky above us
ablaze with stars. I know the Milky Way
doesn’t care a jot about us, Joe, but
knowing it’s there gives me some kind
of hope, and I’m grateful for that.
And you were right, Joe, dammit. More
right than either of us ever knew.