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.

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what of my brother?

What of my Brother?

Whose life has moved along many different lines…
Whose experiences could use up all of England’s inkwells,
Whose linguistics could have surpassed even the Bard’s lines,
What of him the large precariat Lion, strong but inwardly howling..

What now? What of his life? What then?
Where should he hide? Why?

Whose only conceivable crime was to be different to the gingerbread cutout for me and my kind.
Who struck out so lonesome a visionary vanguard, misunderstood from every side.
Who wasn’t able to traverse the systems that push him, kick him down and kill his mind, his spirit his chance at life..
Melting and moulding, stuffing it all inbetween and amongst the camps of the lower classes, of the “people-like-me’s” and our kinds.
Whose ambition comes like a seasonally treated windup clockwork, buffed up to a new shine,  But like every internal working it brings attention to itself again, sure as an apple falls from a tree.
Here it is, it stretches out, is hacked at, splutters and withers, congeals and dies.
Every year whenever the sun shines.
The end heralded by a ticking of the clock and an addition of a ‘1’ to the numerical understanding of his life.

life_2

An ode to a lost love

I cannot seem to escape thee

Your majesty compels me

My root fixated in being with you,

Fibre-optic news of your being blowing upon every breeze,

I remain forever frozen unsure of what to do,

Head down, fangs snarled, head pumping,

running for eternal coverings,

picky as I sit confused in quagmires, unwilling to accept willingly shared offerings,

Undaring to dream of countless substitute hauntings,

Uncaring as I spend unknown hours inflicting slow suffering,

Undoing the work of these past months faring,

As my head turns and yearns in a direction I lost,

I’m broken and alone,

With no chance of igniting you to bring me home,

You’ve moved on like a bejewelled whore,

Words and sweet love were never your goal,

I am cast ashore,

Head bursting from this great fall,

I await patiently my next opened door,

Crippled with unproductive, unusable hope,

awaiting to be turned onto passion-filled lifetimes,

Heady lifelines,

anxiously enticing my spent imagination,

As I wonder who you go a-courting,

My love surrounded by owners of a thousand shirt-tails.

What did Eve-Hawaa feel..

They look for signs where there are not,
Fate in the fateless,
I would rather spend a day in supposed sin,
Then allow an eternity in which we all
Explained our misdeed.
What can you not see?
This is me not creating a “wrong” destiny.

There is some pattern here emerging,
This is life washed anew – clean,
Strange because it’s yet to be seen.

Why, of why are you and I still searching?
The magnitude of life has arrived.
Why must we let it escape us?
Why let it break us?
Why allow it to submit us to a lifetime of woeful cries?

I had travelled a broken path.
Unsure, a bore, devoid of hope,
My faith flickering, it’s breath becoming short.

*A quick flash report*
Heaven’s call?
An evening’s meeting – soulmates greeting.
A goodlier soul I had never saw.
My opposite and my composite,
And I his…

Our lifetimes unfolded before us,
Our hands clasped,
Our love righteously sanctioned,
We stumbled fresh-eyed, forward, frolicking in good fun…

I saw us enter the frame,
Shots I had ceased long ago to entertain.
My discipline caused shock and mistrust,
I was forever, it seemed, unsure of us, – of you.
Or does that by extension include me too?

Believe me darling,
trust the faith that I aim to keep sacred,
our lies to ourselves were destructive,
but worse still was the inability to confess and seek absolution,
as we did in those halcyon days,
idyllic students of life, philosophy and faith,
seeking to love and be loved,
with rules and formalities being only worldly capitalist constructs,
that cause schisms and competitions that have us comparing,
ourselves and each other to those younger and more fruitful.
For we only have apples.

But love those apples again,
love that we had them in abundance.
They can be soft and supple or strong and versatile,
Like them our skills and application knows no bounds.
So please would you remain strong and stop looking at the ground!

Why must I always soothe? Why can you not see this is the truth?
I would rather build the world with you, then compare us to someone else’s version of the truth.
I would rather strive to understand the life we had and could create,
Than think about what is at stake for imagined futures that only God can dictate.

But if you wish to leave me.
If what I did was so devastating.
Even though you partook in the severance.
Take these parting truths;

For me you’re always the brightest of hues
My words remain strong in defence of your soul.. our soul.
Even now that we are not whole.
I feel somehow lost and devoid of mine hope…
I wonder mili-second-ly, do you now feel equally cast-out of heaven’s call?
Are you to begin a dynasty, without me?
That then renders me inessential;
Both of use yet obsolete.
To be known only by the terms that you dictate?

My part in this silly, emotional, unclean.
My curiosity and seeking a boon,
This quick mind empathising with that hurt that you seem to cater inside,
Feelings of being discarded, left short, emasculated…
Oh but I should stop here.
For your ears can only but hear,
Your hurt causes you to stop your feelings,
short of understanding and communicating.
I will live out my days here now,
binding the air and our lives in misdeeds.

Out of love taking the hurt and wrong,
until the day you take me back where I belong.

 

Love stories

Oh! To get lost in others’ stories again,
of love and loss constantly reimagined,
reasons to feel,
empathy to seep,
Through to my very bones,
As I pictures me in that love,
that Home,
tears flutter under these external shutters,
layered over a simmering flame,
that only finds written reasons to feel again,
weeping inconsolably,
as this wretched life touches me,
the physicality of sweet beast,
wrench all love,
all hope,
all trust,
all homes,
ripping out that love that settled in so fast, so fateful, so free.

I hope you see. This is not me. Here is no here, just an accursed “free”.
This road winds down ever so steeply.
I wish. I plead. I please. I need.

#NaBloPoMo #29: Poetic Greed, my chained thoughts are not free..

Interesting meeting with a man today. Reminded continually of the frailty in essence of the existence of ‘the’ human condition. How existence is a personal experience, felt, reflected and renegotiated individually in the midst, in the bosom of society and culture.

All guarded I was,
Sat serene, unsure as you buzzed,
My mentality a little tired,
Your soul seemed close-to and cry’ed,
I was set apart,
I wonder what you thought as you set out this impasse?
Some flickering of light shines,
I cannot remember if I have any lines,
My curiosity piques,
But my tongue it still not yet free.
Something murky sits in between,
Communication requires patience,
A quality I cannot quite see.

Yet this condition.. I am drawn.. I wonder if you are you a whole?

I am reminded of the poet,
who has drowned out death,
through languages untold,
since days of our mutual ideological lore.

His refracted words beat in my chest,
I hold them like my faith close to my breast,
My empathic antennae quivering through viscous henna,
Quietly unsure if forces are pushing or pulling,
or that this is a base of trust blooming..

Let me leave you with these petals now,
As I allow my love, my heart to drown;

How long will you talk of the mosque lamp and the fire-temple smoke?
How long of hell’s loss and heaven’s profit?

GO, see on the Tablet how the Master of Fate
Has written what will be, before time began. 

Oh heart, since the world’s reality is illusion, 
How long will you complain about this torment?
Resign your body to fate and put up with the pain,
Because what the Pen has written for you it will not unwrite.

The Ruba’iyat of Omar Khayyam

These stanzas remind me of my love’s viewpoint. Though they stick with me, I feel in someway I am predisposed like Khayyam to keep pushing against these ideals of fate and acceptance. But more so than that to rail against or ponder on the upholding of expectation and falseness, confining cries from a world that only seeks to bind the lights within us that could shine so bright. 

 

#NaBloPoMo #25: My impatience caught up to it’s conscience, again.

For now here’s some poetry what I wrote on 23/11/15 when I should have been asleep, in wee hours of morning, as I lay visiting an old site of comparison and worth, put on a pedestal to keep allowing myself to hurt;

Instant electric attraction we had,
From the moment that our eyes clapped,
Minds met, thoughts kept, hands felt, lips licked, love flicked,
Soulmates’ kiss.

Hours flew, you met me, I knew you,
You grew, me too,
Love gathered, looming large,
It slew the me and the you,
Outside in this our ‘samage’*

We. That’s all that it was,
Simplicity with no external worth,
Internal cuts of self-hurt.

Sparkly loves eyes lost that bright hue,

The spark,

The gas pipe was broken, no plumber, no electrician did we know,
No hope was entertained no stopper for death’s croak…

As artificial sparks were entertained,
The fluorescence of lust came to slay,
As you chucked love into its grave,
the one I dug gleefully as I struggled to with tools brought to save, selfish.

Selfishly I craved,
but naively with no idea what I made,
The We I help us negate,
the Darkness that lovers spark can create..

The hurricanse, the tsunamis it can keep at bay,
The strenght needed to be selfish,
To pray,
Coupled together,
Doubled forever,
Entertain no other,
Making space for only each other,
Our true souls lovers,
Marked by that first spark,
but needing constant paraffin so no lustful depravity can be let in…

Like that surrounding us on separate roads as we follow the world’s din.

I know this now, too late,
My impatience caught up to it’s conscience again.

Sat opposite yet another pale imitative comparison,
I wonder if your faith in our unequal separation is still so persistent?
Or at you at that peace,
the one with waves,
of constant reticence and hesitation,
Coupled with a impulsive fervour,
the addictive need to fuck it and jump in.

Anxiety breeds misinformed misdeeds,
but I am not a me in need,
as you are a you,
who knows what you see, feel, need.
Not now, Not me.
– Not now me.

 

*Samage – urdu/punjabi word meaning society/community/zietgeist

 

#NaBloPoMo #10: Keep Going – What is this? Poetry.

Before I begin, I should clarify the “missed day thing” – not just because I want to be a “good girl” and not loose any points .. but seriously back away from the points.

Anyway for as long as I remember I’ve worked on a biological farmers clock. Maybe it has something to do with my ethnical and historical background, but I genuinely believe the day doesn’t start afresh until the dawn has cracked. With that and no further adieu we shall begin:

Poetry

Is this the new soul of me?
Or some crass dream?
Naively entered and lived for selfish purposed?
Like terming crash-course dieting as a “lifestyle change”,
to encourage societal love and normalising,
Belonging to the cult of productivity?
Never a space to just be,
To weep, to curse, to question,
To just feel worse.
Already I stop,
Angered and annoyed at this self that have no purpose.
Silly, strange idioms bash against this skull,
like: “The Show must Go On”
Never word actioned or practiced
By one as inactive as I.