Insurgent by Jacob Armstrong

The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised,
will not be tweeted, snapchatted, will not be liked.
The revolution lives on paper, in libraries,
in handbags, college ruled spirals,
leaflets, petitions, more leaflets.
The revolution lives in my hands, in your hands,
in an Olympic fist, in a flower in a rifle,
in hands which link and sing wrinkled songs.
The revolution lives in ink, in ball points,
on the backs of napkins, at the back of the brain,
on blind scrawls at 3 o’clock in the morning,
on bus tickets stuffed into winter pockets.
The revolution lives in women’s tears and men’s tears,
in broken backs and broken fronts,
in killing fields where spilt seed aches to bloom.
The revolution lives on streets, yearns for feet in unison,
for awakening of tarmac and kerb
and double yellow line in double time.
The revolution lives in human hearts
for what comes more naturally, for triumph,
on gallery walls and bus stop graff,
on placards and envelopes,
on stages and in annexes.
The revolution lives and shouts,
the newborn cries insurgent
with big hopes and small lungs
for beauty.