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

#NaBloPoMo #24:

So feel like I’m falling behind a little. Plans not working out. Cold not helping. Wonder if I’m cut out for this climate and locality, or even I’m even staying true to myself.

It was lovely to chat to lots of diverse people yesterday, but especially old friends who as Tom Stock’s poetry says “Came from all corners, and I know I was loved” (I paraphrase)

That didn’t help me from having crippling self-realisation, resolve and then abandonment of said resolve. I know I’m reckless and I wonder if I’m enjoying my newfound recklessness a bit too much. Especially considering that this is the year I should point my soul towards betterment and self. I wonder why we as people do this? I wonder why I do this? Why am I obsessed to root out different people and places? Different conversations? Alternative areas of love and communication? But also old past arenas of growth, ripe for torturing re-evaluation?!

As you can tell I do not have any answers yet, though I hope to think on solving this problem of mine.

#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.

A Morning Vow; Affirming renewal, pondering depths

Virginal and pure I was,
Your mirror in an eternal smoke and fog.
God I thought has led me there fair,
to salvation as best that It could.

I married my soul to you since,
yearly, monthly, daily I preach,
to yours I became.
Following persistent, impatient, self-shame.

Your steadfast quiet fealty scared me,
I could not comprehend,
that Inaction was an Act of itself.

 

My need to be shown,
To be guided and known,
To see, believe and preach clearly,
of the love that engulfed in between.

Became abhorrant I’m sure,
or perhaps these are still vestiges,
of the internal eternal whore?

Was I a dark deviant run amok?
Did our hallowed strength run short?
Where is my mirrored soul now?
Why can you not echo my shout?

As we did clear and strong,
on the day that we first met,
How could such purity turn out so wrong?

 

Also written on Tues 27th on that morning bus. I couldn’t help but think of us. 

To whomsoever called me ‘Privately’

Whoever called me…Please call me back.
I need someone to talk to,
as I sit here in the dark.

It’s simplistic I know,
My asking for more,
Naively wanting to know thee,
When you cared not an inch to leave caller I.D.

Maybe it wasn’t that you didn’t care that much,
Maybe you forgot you were on a private line?
Maybe you were in a rush,
Maybe you are a sales ambush?

Whatever it is I would still feel compelled to know,
For a woman like me gets crazy thinking things,
Every scenario, every person, even catastrophic ugly scene,
Plays out in my overactive worrisome mind,
Causing me to (almost) call every loved Kin and Kind.

It’s simplistic I know,
This plain furore,
Forward, that’s for sure.

Like my painted mind’s eye,
My rhyming nonsense see’s no end in sight,
You’ll be telling me to “Pipe down love”,
Regretting that you ever rung,
Unsure how anyone could ever get so bogged-down,
so lonely,
so miserably silly,
allowing swirling thoughts to go twisting and twirling,
making it all seem a pathetic life,
surely one must have more of a life,
others must have harder strifes,
I’ll be lonely and no-one will want me…

Wait did I hear the phone ring?