Nicking the Revolution
I can’t nick you the revolution, but I can try
I can run down to the Tesco Express and nick you some nice crisps
Crisps of revolution
Maybe I can nick some lager as well
And we could drink and talk about the future
If it even exists
What even is the future?
You can’t shoplift the future from the Tesco Express
They don’t stock it next to the jams and condiments, or whatever
The manager only stocks the present, and the past
in accordance with his petty bourgeois class interests
You can nick those things, but you wouldn’t want to
The whole symbolism would be wrong
I can’t nick you a packet of fags
They keep them back there where we can’t reach
Sort of like Tesco Express is the state, and the fags are the means of production
Can you nick the laughter of children?
Can you nick unity?
Can you nick liberation?
Can you nick back the alienated hours of your life stolen by capital in pursuit of profit?
“You cannot nick those things,” is the answer, that you hear, from the dialectic of history, speaking in the voice of young woman next to you, stuffing a box of tampons into her bag and sneaking out, like the last chance, for an answer, to a question, that you didn’t ask, and frankly think is stupid
Let’s go down to the Tesco Express, and shoplift hope.
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