A cross section of today.s social structure would have to show the following: At the

top, the feuding tycoons of the various capitalist power constellations. Below them,

the lesser magnates, the large landowners and the entire staff of important co-workers.

Below that, and in various layers, the large numbers of professionals, smaller employees,

political stooges, the military and the professors, the engineers and heads of

office down to the typists; even further down what is left of the independent, small

existences, craftsmen, grocers, farmers e tutti quanti, then the proletarian, from the

most highly paid, skilled workers down to the unskilled and the permanently unemployed,

the poor, the aged and the sick. It is only below these that we encounter the

actual foundation of misery on which this structure rises, for up to now we have been

talking only of the highly developed capitalist countries whose entire existence is

based on the horrible exploitation apparatus at work in the partly or wholly colonial

territories, ie, in the far larger part of the world. […] Below the spaces where the coolies

of the earth perish by the millions, the indescribable, unimaginable suffering of

the animals, the animal hell in human society, would have to be depicted, the sweat,

blood, despair of the animals. […] The basement of that house is a slaughterhouse, its

roof a cathedral, but from the windows of the upper floors, it affords a really beautiful

view of the starry heavens.


also, a ProtestPoem by Cate Chapman.

I can’t write a protest poem. I’m not recounting
all the various horrors I know about
and know nothing about. I’m not qualified, and you’re not really interested.
We’re long inured
through our flat, familiar reel of slippery imagery: distance and repetition
renders everything meaningless, like a word said over and over.

But I will tell you
about the fierce, bright love I feel for my father,
and about the yellow shock of a rape field I saw
through a train window, sudden between the green hills,
and the yellow rush of a woodpecker’s tail feathers,
and the yellow host of dandelions shining, vivid and defiant, in my friend’s
unkempt garden
as I kissed her on leaving last week

because these are things I can hold with some degree of understanding,
and they help me remember
that my eyes are greedy for all sorts of colours and forms,
and my heart, fist-sized and fist-shaped, will beat for a while longer
and then stop beating.

This was an extract from Dark Mountain: Issue 6.