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.


Let’s keep playing..

Longing and regrets,
intermingled with love and trust,
that Hope, that Touch,
just you, just me,
playing at Us,
Why do games end?
On whose score do we depend?
Fickleness is staying to speed,
Allowing the screen to freeze,
Afraid of testing our frailties,
Surely bravery is in accomplishing all feats.
Learning to trust instinct,
Not only that which is seen,
Honing quick reflexes,
as we play through each scene,
Challenging the better in our corresponding sexes.
Honouring the commitment we make,
To our combining hearts, souls and play.

My Mourning Period. My self-imposed fate.

I have 40 days grace to mourn the hands of fate,
But did it begin when last I heard your sweet nectared voice refuse to sing?
Or when your strong and loving hands typed such embittered short goodbyes?
Or further still does it begin when last I held and kissed your face?
Though in this connected age I still cannot be sure if reality or pixels is the new norm.

But hark this and know that it is true.
Though its been a month since last we cuddled so forlornly in muddled blue.

Forever will I love and stay true,
To the vision I hold,
of Me and of You.

For me it is no frustrating jigsaw,
One of life’s many puzzling sideshows.
I saw and held it close,
Clear and red raw.
Together we once kept it afloat.
These wrinkling hands will be cut worse still,
As I cling on deep and hold it dearer still.

Though the clarity of you will fade,
Very soon as you as you slip,
further inside that darkened shade.
No hope from returning from the lights of “Individuality’s” bright haze.
know that you unknowingly, acknowledged, unwise a decision to remain adrift.

Unholy War. Float Away. Reconsider. Realise. Goodbye.

Some unholy war lyrics in my head

It all floats away like blossom in water

Like blossom in spring
It all floats away

Like the eyes of field mice
Your stares cut me to ice

[Yours glitter like snow crystals
Full of the same filled promises
that lay unfilled
in my sink
of dirty dishes]

Yours irises dilate
her cheeks flush and blush
smiles dance
new loves romance

those eyes that loved me
that saw me
but a blissful moment ago
have turned and found it’s opposite desire

Like the eyes of magpies
She stares, you stare;
I’m reminded of your lies

My brain turns to fire
my voice cracks higher.

My opposites eyes dance
likewise mine
at this silent tennis match

Your repartees extend in time
find yet obscurer lines
shutting us out
as you seek a new supple mouth.

I reach out I speak.
I know I don’t have the reach.

I ask you (re)consider.
I pledge my liver.
Mama always said I was “too-much-of-a-giver”.

Don’t lie.
Please don’t fight.
I can’t take your dishonesty.
I can’t take yet more frugality, I don’t care for false fealty.

Just be fair, just stand,
Take this unconditional help
Build thyself
Embrace that inner man
With whose dreams you allowed my life to entwine

  just love. just stay.

Don’t make haste.

I don’t need you to be brave.

I want to support, love, honour and obey.
To Help You when You Sway.

As you do so now
Do you really have to let me drown?

Stop, think, consider.
Will anyone ever love you (or us) any dearer?

or else give me back my lungs,
and all the odes of you and us they sung
return my thoughts,
for they have gotten hoarse
help me build my forsaken boats
don’t sail away with flattered eyes
leaving mine in gangrened moats

give back my heart,
take back your feeble darts
Dost thou still have my soul?
Does it stay corked and gray?
While you and she yearn to maul?
when I am gone – that blissful day.

give back my eyes
you cannot quench these eternal cries

and finally my liver
so that I may live cleaner.


I hope when you realise all this,
Of the betrayal you committed
so painfully slow
i hope it was worth it

for every morning, noon and night
that you all conversed on Skype
for every moment I spent looking over
for every coarse word I uttered and apologised for forever
for all this hurt and betrayal you allowed me to commit against myself

i hope that when you are both in bed
metaphorical and literal
that it’s worth it 

That those eyes that you give her
those smiles
those shiny nuggets of you, your life
those attentive beautiful ears

those large comforting hands
that bat me away to whatever land

that you both have that life you deserve

build on my suggestive care and hope,
the future I keep alive for us both
I hope you enjoy it all as you make me travel back

as you cut me off. 

while I go to save pennies and make myself a success
as I keep to The Plan
like always. Ain’t that the mark of a true Man?

I stick to the regiment that you drilled out
attentively listened and yielding to your sound judgment

but you run from anything i utter
in any which way it is given.
yet you cannot fully cut yourself off
for deep down you know this is that one-in-a-lifetime love.

So give her that Hug, that Smile, that Kiss, that Mr Nice.
Let them all see that image that the World half-believes.
The one that I looked beyond but still allowed to cut into My Heart with a cleave.

 (Written 19th/20th August 2015)

A lived personal “truth” on mental health and healing.

Emotions that rollercoaster severely often lead those of us between 15- 32 to widely speculate that we are flawed, mentally unstable, unfixable and an absolute failure. From experience, this is what “growing-up” is like for many of us today. As someone with a family of mental health issues I know this burden more than most. Coupled with the fact my lived knowledge helped me, empowered me even to become an intuitive carer, I was again blessed  to be a proximate therapist for many of my friends, loved ones, colleagues and even strangers, through the last decade. Though it could also be a curse  depending on the framing of each context and how I felt.

The flip-side of this knowledge is though that it is harmful. Toxic. It threatens your very being because it undoubtedly flaws your understanding and structuring of your environment, it’s cultures, people and most of all your own self.

I have found in the last few weeks that I am a multi-faceted being. Something I have run from, for… well a very long time. I shouldn’t feel the need to classify myself as “unhinged”, “emotional”, “bi-polar” (undiagnosed) or “mental”. However this is the lived reality for our culture. We are pushed to “process”. I myself love this term. But what does it mean? Is it not just another way for cultural perfection and the need for simplicity  to over-ride our individuality? Our autonomous perceptions? The nurtured genetic truth that every single one of us is different. Unique. My truth is not your truth. My mind is not your mind. My pain is not your pain.

This is where my criticism of mental health or rather personal mindfulness comes in. I am sick and tired of the world thinking that there are quick fixes. That time only exists to be spent not given. Because this the truth as I have seen in. The world is a quagmire of ideological paradoxes. There is no one truth, but this does not stop our governments, our organisational structures, our media, our communities, our schooling, our healthcare, our families and friends even from portraying that there is. No-where is it more evident than in mental health.

Healing can only begin until you, YOU learn the way that you can become grounded to yourself, to your loved ones, to your life and to your context. Only then can YOU move forward. Take those steps to realise and be content with yourself. The entirety of yourself. Meaning…. well meaning whatever that means for you.

Now this doesn’t have to be on your own. Please don’t think I am saying that. As someone who herself is a very communal being, I know the (at times harmful) disconnect that occurs when you are trying to heal the rifts you find in your life. Healing comes in many different ways. It could mean a darkened room you lying on a couch, or a drink with a friend where you literally spew, vomit, pour out everything that ails you. It could even be colouring, doodling, or simply writing a very long-winded [some might say pointless] piece of writing. Or something short like a pathetically simple bit of poetry that regurgitates old syntaxes and quite possibly taxes your souls and those that are joined to it. What I will say is that all of this takes time. The one commodity we never think of. The one we dedicate and plaster everywhere but never truly consider. Never appreciate. Time.

It takes time to learn what is best for ourselves. It takes even longer working damn hard to achieve that which is best for ourselves. Especially when at times it can feel that you are losing the battle with your own misgivings, or community-wide nay-saying. Particularly when professionality, or lack of it, is held out as a “Stop” sign to halt any healing you are perhaps in the midst of.  So what if I didn’t train how others saw the illnesses I see before me? Or if I didn’t learn how we as a species learnt to dissect, disturb and define our experiences – and then destroy the visions that were not held to be “true” enough, down the years? Or if I didn’t learn the language to decipher these encoded inherited knowledges, so I could further obscure, “cure” and minimise our hurt?

We as a people forget at times that there was a time when it was only us. The old saying; “You leave the world as you enter it- alone”, for me is a great way to start forging my inner-strength again. It reminds me that the only path and timeline I should consider is my own. Harder to do than to say. I think it is more difficult for me, being a person who believes unreservedly in spirituality, community, souls, soulmates, romance and familial contexts and love in all it’s forms. Doubly hard as a women who has internalised my oppression so that I find that I can easily sacrifice my time for others, without regret for my own path. (This sounds so weird to write, but it’s so true it’s scary. Anxiety and introspection overload)

I must end. This knowledge serves only to share my story. My re-found power, whilst I still have it and before my shame, anxiety and fear causes me to loose this clarity in which I find myself. Because despite my confidence and belief in my words here, I equally know that these self-affirming statements I start creating, often disappear in the face of my crippling inner-anxiety that I have learnt to mask, by learning from true masters of course (<3 Mothers). The me I kill every single day.

In short, we are individually a collective. We form a vast, confused, unknowing, educated, blinded ilk. We have many abilities. None more so to vocalise, describe and create. What we create better than most is oppressive ways to silence ourselves. Eradicate our existences. Our uniqueness. We must stop this communal self-harming by accepting our own truths. Whether it’s by arriving at a very individual system or process, or one that requires a greater number of people than just yourself. We must end the obscuring of our hurt and the ingratitude of time.

No-one must be allowed to capitalise on our basic human need to heal. To share, to oralise our hurt so that compassion can be given, in turn so that we may travel down our life-paths to attain self-knowledge and contented security, pass on our love and leave this world in the way that we arrived. Happy, free and with a primal breath.


An Eternal Lover’s Rhetorical Questions:

It’s only been a week and I wonder how you sleep,

whether it’s covered in rays of fluorescent light,

lonely like me or within a new lovers huddle?

Whose life is enhanced by your insight?

Whose creativity is a newly welcomed frivolous flight?

Whose lives will be within our muddled history’s puddle?

Will she be your new pillowed cushion?

Will I ever remove ‘I’ from our shared past life?

When will this pained, incessant, destructive side ever be quiet?

Do you have a similar, familiar, agitated side, as alive?

Or did it disappear the day you left,

Leaving me bereft?

My dreams twisted,

My faith clutching for it’s existence,

My eyes searching for missed intentions,

My heart melting without it’s thirst ever quenching,

And my mind telling me to write this internal spiting.

For the world needs to know you left me alone and we can never be, are never to become together once more.
I hope it was worth it all.

What do you think?

What do you know?

I am a woman. You are bright.

There’s nothing worse than realising you were the lone creator of shared memories.

Left with a box of fucked up, rotten, festering dreams as your chosen partner turns and flees.

I am a woman. You are bright.

I am attracted to your flame,
Like a dampened moth I search
Through dark duskened daily revolving nights.
You were that intoxicating light,
That had me captured, dancing a lonely sight,
As I played to our hearts’ delight.
Thinking that when you flamed,
You mirrored an external burning,
a deep heat for me,
one I stupidly saw as a gifted,
for our entwined hearts to pursue.

No contact, No connection.

It’s hard to want you,
To not seek and search for you,
Our interconnectivity makes it hard to break free,
Its harder still when I feel I need you,
I yearn for your responses and parts,
Your wise lines,
Your advice.
But I’m slowly getting better,
Though times make it difficult,
To need your advice yet not call to you.

It’s small I’m sure,
But to a voided being it means a whole heap more.

For I wiped you as a contact,
But like the memories your number remains in tact.

It’s only been five days and already I am a slave,
to counting and wondering on the multitude of ways,
Can or will we ever integrate our broken selves,
Will the smallest of our daily thoughts ever be shared once more?
Would we ever find paths to each others doors?
My gut sinks because for once I am not sure,
My mind and soul is full of punctured holes.
You once bemoaned my surity,
The one I was left to keep aflame for both of us to feast,
To allow such wholesome love to never dwindle never fall short,
But I never banked on a harsh shearing scythe,
To cleave us through while we refrained from any fight.

I don’t think I’ll ever solve this problem,
Or run out of imaginary solutions,
I’ll keep searching,
I’ll wonder if your hurting,
I’ll network with new contacts,
I’ll pray that you have much to combat,
Or nothing it all depends on how I reflect,
Or how much I regret.
But most of all I’ll wait for this old heart mine to refresh.


Type, type type,

type, type, type,

down here I sit,

down here I write.

I wonder if I’ll get to talk to you tonight?

I’m getting better, I’m fighting fitter,

as I sit to re-paint our shared grey-green picture.

The blue-sky still eludes me,

For I can’t get out of my duvet,

acceptance has entered my heartbeats,

but the memories of you run too deep,

my blood hungers for your heat,

thoughts of us are seldom weak.

I say I will pay them not an ounce of my time,

Was going our separate ways a crime?

When will every tendril of affection die?