Tools of violence

Identity violence

Symbolic violence

Communication violence

Historic violence

Revisionist violence

Repetitive violence

Infantilising violence

Nostalgic violence

Communication violence

Prejudiced violence

Tiring violence

Destructive violence

Sexual violence

Gendered violence

Religious violence

Spiritual violence

Class violence

Linguistic violence

Colourist violence

Male violence

White male violence

Co-opting violence

Toxic violence

Co-opted toxic violence

Ideological violence

Paternalistic violence

Patriarchal violence

Symbolically patriarchal violence

Promotional violence

Just violence

Violence violence

Tiring violence

Too tired coz I’m broken and it’s the result of all the above and more violence

Mental violence

Inferred violence

Implicit violence

Bright-eyed violence

Broken souls violence

The once you had bright eyes but then you got co-opted and are stuck but still need peeps and I get it but don’t you get that I get it, so why you gotta erase the stuff we excavate and stop us entering and flinging open the doors-no revision check, not open the doors break all these fracking symbolic capitalistic colonial walls – so that we can all evolve together and your tired eyes can weep and rejoice in celebration with us all, bold beautiful and brave and bound to the forward March of completing our shared ancestors abolitionist principles and journeys to create a new fair fresh deprogrammed society so we keep being we and us, and you and me, happy and free together… urgh! Gah! For f***! *sigh* but you can’t and that’s violent, violence.

So instead here we stand. Ina pyramid and I keep trying to educate and create and collate and collaborate while we survive and you thrive but I don’t even cry coz I’m proud inside that at least someone who got one part of our ancestral spirit souls good side to the table where it’s all about whose there to dine, and whose outside… not about our fellow people who die and are also pushed towards pipelines to die. Whether quickly or slowly, that’s for us all to see with our eyes.

I’m too tired to speak, so I’ll leave it to that… and sleeps for the night.


Year 2021.. Or so it begins


Year 2021

The world is a different place. A place of Cultural creators. Cultural tasters. Cultural dictators. Where it is your link to belief that assigns where you reside. Where birth-right is the only thing that is certain and right. No more mobility. No more integrating. No trust. No hope. In short the world of status quo and neo-colonial control.. Or rather the struggle for control.

The green, green lands of Blightly have been touched severely by years of tension, civil unrest and unsound policy making. Until the landmark year of 2020, August 2020 to be precise.

But most of all a place where culture has ripped away at all that could be, could ever have been and is now used to discourage any integration, mixing or appropriation.. Unless a case is made and upheld in the secular centres of the British Isles.
In the midst of it all. The laptop chimes, beh-beh-buehmm .. those Skype ringtones are old and classic. Though Zaika makes a mental note for the millionth time this month about changing it after this call, she already knows she most likely, probably, most definitely won’t. She can’t seem to pin down what it is, familiarity, nostalgia, laziness or what, but that sound.. That silly old-school bubbley logo, she patched in 18 months ago, that animates round and round.. Buzzing over that S. All of it. Everything. Makes her entire body beam with delight, her life for one brief moment seems light. Lighter than the beams of golden speckled beams shining through the french dormer windows.. Catching all sorts of hazy transient bits of fluff in their nurturing rays. Enveloping her cold pert breast, warming her nipples into some form of biological submission. Making her feel at one and at a loss, simultaneously. Her life is not her own. Her life is not a whole.

All this and more she thinks in the 1 minute and 45 seconds she can bear the ringing sound coming from her comically tall looming white Ikea desk. With the fluid movement of someone who has performed this task a million times, Zaika pushes her slender, naked form off the floor. Her knees and toes taking most of force as they act like fulcrums, while her rough fingers reach out to the soft black shawl, on top of which she had been sat in absorbed contemplation. As her body turns the 65 degree angle needed to silence the monotonous ringing that has faded into the patchwork of her life sounds, Zaika has managed to drape the shawl loosely but competently around herself. Managing to even pin the ends tightly around her face, to build the illusion of constant observance to protocol. Just in time to answer the call to her young overseas nephew.

“Bore da, Yayah”
“Asa’laam walaykum Khala”
“Walaykum Asa’laam Yayah, how are you doing?”

Oh this call is not going to go well she thinks, already her young 11 year old nephew’s eye have narrowed with the intensity of her mother’s. She wonders what sermon will be filtered to her in today’s conversation, she has already dissected the 15 seconds of interaction and found herself to be be seen as wanting. If only she’d just smiled happy and allowed him to begin the conversation. She mutters a hurried prayer to God Allah that her constant interaction down at the centre will at least carry her pakistani and arabic verbal skills through the next 25 minutes. Perhaps for once she can bring some pride to them, and leave a call feeling loved. Her eyes swell a little with tear.. As a flash-forward of herself looms large in her mind’s eye. Zaika is laing naked on the flower, curled up against a hot water bottle and teddy.. Crying like a broken water-works doll.

NaBloPoMo #11: An Unconventional Love Story – Part II (working title)

I am Ayesha. I am a Muslim and I am going to blow this stinking joint wide open. 

To use an old turn of phrase, that no kid these days would even know of. Mind you they don’t know crap these days. Not my name, not my background. Not even Muslim. No spirituality. All festering, liberal pseudo-nonsense crap and he’s the cause of it all. 

Look at him. Just look. Look at his just standing there so blatant. Surrounded by those spineless airheads. Smug. Smug, classist, daft, bourgeois bitch! I know he thinks a lot of himself. Hear it day and night. He thinks he runs this place, these people, this house, community, nation even. But he doesn’t run his own shits. Racist, anglophile, neo-liberal fascist, closet royalist! 

He may not do much. But he definitely gets points in the blame department for what he’s done. What he did. What he keeps doing. All this festering mess is all his fault. This neo-globe of ours, this nation, this crap. This same old shit with a new stinking frigging bow tied around it. This revolution gone wrong. Our revolution gone wrong… and now they’re all gone. The ghosts of them all thought they’re still here. Keeping me strong. 

It’s all his fault. It’s him I’m going to start with, right. Him to start and finish this wreck. 

Luckily we’ll be alone again soon. To end it like it was begun huh. Like that phrase Tim came up with, “Endings Hasten New Beginnings” – I was so sure he stole it from The Mummy movie franchise. We must’ve been stoned and watching the box when we came up with that one.


She’s staring intently again, at me. If only I could shout for help. Must smile though old chap. Oh she sure was precious when she tries. Is. You can just hear those rusted tiny cogs whirring away up in there. No doubt planning the sleeping arrangements for this gorgeous soiree. Lucky also that Status and diplotasks have kept us separate, I wouldn’t mind exercising some beast of duty tonight. I’m sure she’ll get some soft feeling “love” of her own kind tonight. She used to be so ravenous and insatiable. I guess tastes move on and connections falter. Would be fun again to know what she’s learnt while I’ve been busy away working, building and re-building. Those unhinged emotions whizzing around were just a spectacular sight.

Fuck I’m horny.

Gosh. Just thinking. Think. I have that. She’s bloody beautiful. The ideological brown goddess, the dream within a dream and I get to be it’s commander. It’s chief, sorry co-chief. New equality as always. Precious discourse for our future.

G-d I’m beginning to use the terms and slogans in my head now as well. I need a blaze and a fuck. I guess I’ll get that soon… When I’m with the slut that saved the revolution. My slut.

It will also be a shame to lose her. To end it all. But I’m sure the future will be brighter and fun for all of us.

Oh these twats are circling again. Great! Now the Goons/Keystones/Facilitators have all spotted me. The perks of being the big cheese I suppose. ARGH!

I can’t wait until we’re along again. I’m alone. Just me. Well her and me and them, but not them.. It’s going to be a wildly cleansing time. Gosh this isn’t the time for it. Must wrap up this party with some fireworks and end of eve shmoozing.


What am I doing? Why am I here? What will she say? Why did he make me come? Commanded even. Surely he should know. It isn’t, well wasn’t like her to keep secrets. Well at least with me, I guess.  Am I.. We’re we.. dare I say it special? That sounds so naff. That’s what she would say if she could only hear you now. 

I wonder what she’ll be wearing. If her scent will be natural or some posh pong for this diplomatic party rubbish. 

Oh this is crazy. Why do I have so many questions? Why am I questioning myself. Paralysed I need to just do. I wasn’t like this. Not even before. With her. This isn’t, wasn’t, me. Or was it? Maybe I shifted this part of me for her to worry with?

Fuck it. It’s now or never. Final hour. 

****** END SCENE ******

I know and understand that this is fast becoming a collection of introductions in my head. But for now I like the sense of crafting the perfect introduction, or else it could even be an entire collection of texts simply about the one meeting. Even many meetings, happen simultaneously, similarly, on different affective and emotive registers?

I also wanted to share that I unexpectedly came across a book called “The 38 Most Common Fiction Writing Mistakes (And how to avoid them)” by Jack M. Bickham. Unexpected as it was in the old Brotherton library at University that I never bother going to, far more intriguing it was left on the self-scanning machine that I went to use. Strange and serendipitous. 


New plan.

I’m losing the will to live a little.

This whole target of trying to write a post a day is constantly leaving me cranky and moody every night. I will no doubt have to cease with the endless poetry and begin being more productive, particularly in regards to reading and writing things of worth. By which I mean things that are of direct relation to my MA and the whole reason I am in this place, at this time and going through the undecipherable daily dark crap.

I will no doubt touch upon person life stuff, my feelings, artwork and so on, down the line in this blog. But perhaps being a more focused, conscientious adult (though I HATE that term) is what I should devote my time too. It’s a shame because I loved going back to writing in verse, also following such lovely literary talents on WordPress and have them follow me back or like my work was a true highlight to my days! Days spent travelling in this forsaken county, where nothing runs on time or in relation to the population it extracts money from and allegedly serves!

Anyhoo, I will post a synopsis in near future of my first few weeks of life up here in the bitter, cold and harsh terrain of Northern England. For now here’s a quick doodle I did whilst in training (read long powerpoint presentation with ice breaking participation) for my new part-time role, as a customer service rep.



Intertwined Pasts

You were without what I felt within.
Strangled with two voices,
Never quite belonging
A host for many masks
Perplexed with perceptions
I could never surpass
That you could never rehearse

Our demise an event for the Many’s pasts,
For the Few’s never-ending tales of morales.