Since my planet is burning,
I decide that I need to attract
Greater Spotted Woodpeckers
To my suburban garden.
I open a box of suet balls,
And it’s as if every suet ball stares up at me,
From many approximately circular fat white bodies.
Black seeds embedded in the suet
Appear to be eyes.
The suet balls look up and say nothing.
They have all embodied
An idea, that I, and thousands of others,
Have used to categorise other people.
The suet balls gaze up and I see that
They are the proletariat, the infidels
Or middle England, or the saved.
An undifferentiated mass
They are not individuals
But an agglomeration,a collective or a class
An idea in any theoretician’s mind.
They could be conscious,
But I’m not sure
And unless some magic Marxist spark ignites them
They will remain suet balls in themselves
Not suet balls for themselves
And hang together in wire cages
To be pecked to pieces by
Greater Spotted Woodpeckers.
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