A portrait of the Roomba as a young anarchist

I’m thinking of buying a Roomba—
but that’s not what this is about. This poem is about coming home, and chickens.

This poem will acknowledge
the labour of the UK suffrage movement.
It will recognize that white Pankhurst’s fought for their right to vote,
while black, poor, and immigrant women fought
for their right to survive— women like Kitty Marion
and her group, who set fire to a racecourse
and were arrested.

This poem will recognise that Kitty’s group, refused to eat and were force-fed,
with emphasis on force.
Kitty herself, was force-fed
two hundred and thirty-two times.

This poem will understand that silent
revolutions
are ineffective.

Mary Maloney followed Churchill,
carrying a large bell for a week, ringing it every time he tried to speak. One time,
seeing a gathering full of women,
Churchill turned and retreated to his car planning to deliver his speech from inside.
But Mary Maloney marched up to him, shook her
fist, and shouted
“Who is the strongest? —An Irish woman or Mr. Winston Churchill?” Then she rang
her bell.

This poem will recall Audre Lorde’s words:
The Master’s tools will never dismantle the Master’s house.
This poem knows violence is not the answer,
but violence is a tool
that makes the established order question their
safety.
The rich have forgotten to be afraid of the workers.

We will remind them.
The flame of the suffrage movement burned bright, one night,
when women coordinated the arson of empty properties owned by the
wealthy.
Remember, remember,
these women burned five mansions
and two warehouses in the same hour. Allegedly.
It is a fact that the UK suffragettes invented the letter bomb.

This poem would be liable if it were to suggest playing to the
egos of the powerful.
It would be considered legally reckless
even to say that with a handful of us we could create a fake
award ceremony
and declare specific people as the winners of
all the awards.
getting it sponsored
and have the elite show up to present each other with fake awards.
It worked on Katie Hopkins.

Imagine a Gala so alluring, they’d leave their homes for the night

and an empty house is, after all, a clear
conscience.

It would be very illegal
for this poem to say that certain products are highly flammable,
and difficult to trace.

It would be unbelievably irresponsible for this
poem to suggest
a combination of household cleaning products and acetone or linseed oil.
So, this poem most definitely will not state that
coordinated property damage,
that costs no lives,
is maybe the only way to make the established order
question their role in the eroded rights of all
classes, creeds, and races.

Did you know that companies have been stealing the data from Roomba’s
which they used to digitally blueprint the user’s house?

You might not know that Jeff Bezos owns nine houses

And, as the new owner of Roomba, it is very unlikely he doesn’t use a
Roomba

This poem would not suggest that Roombas can be reprogrammed— to
carry flammable materials. It would be irresponsible
for this poem to suggest burning down Jeff Bezos’ house by way of a
Roomba-borne inferno.

This poem will not suggest
that climate is a candle lit at both ends and in a frying pan, in a microwave.
Or that we have no finger on the button of the 100 companies that
contribute 70% of global pollution.

That we are choking on smoke,
that our bodies are oppressed with every breath, and every
moment in between.
That our homes are burning in South America, in Africa, in Australia, in
places the algorithm won’t let us mention.

This poem will not say the longer we stay here, the more
danger we are in.
It will not say revolution is inevitable,

or that now is the time to put our bodies on the line.
For better or worse, we are all we get
Amazon is having a sale—on Roombas.
And the chickens are coming home to roost.