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.


#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:


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.

#NaBloPoMo #8: The Precipice that could Swallow this Crow.

Waiting for the day when nothing else remains.
When all that we have and were will refuse to remain,
The day that I cease to torment us with this simmering hate,
The day you again love what I -What WE can create,
The time that can be dedicated to ourselves and not,
When love is speared again with our best shot,
But, maybe this is all just indulgent fluff,
Life is not so hurtful, not so rough,
I even have offers from long-forgotten pasts,
Long winding pasts into obscured depts so dark,
I stand momentarily unhinged yet complete,
Seeing new strengths, the many nuances of me,
Filled with such acceptance and love for them all,
The US I created within this exterior crow,
And unconfident, hurtful, sorrowful, unknowable, unlovable lore,
Not worthy of that past yet deserving of infinitely more.



Deadlines, Deadline, Deadlines, 

Deadlines, Deadline, Deadlines,

Strange how time flies,
Hours, Minutes, seconds,
Time cries,
When you don’t rely on love.
Their affection is not present,
Slow searches
A manifestation of electronic desperation
Lone in hate, pain and fear itself
Slowing your mind,
wounding your slice of life
Those happy times refuse to be rewound,
In your mind’s eye.
Alone, stuck with no mirror,
no companion, no self,
disembodied perhaps eternally,
no place will you be from,
to none will you return.


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.


Saddened Tears Unsurety

I allowed myself leave
Felt pushed out
But still grasped at the dream

One that would be beneficial for more than just us
maybe, perhaps, someday, one that’ll lead Them to not cuss

Now I’m rediscovering my old friend
She silently screams internally at me
Dry-heaving as she drowns in fucked up dreams
Unsure of what she sees, hears, or feels.

Distrust and hurt, once decades old
Memories, choices long ago burnt
Dredged up so easily
Pushed onto me.

This weight is mine to shoulder with my saddened friend
I only hope that God gives me a full life to make amends.

If only forgiveness was easily won
and my wandering friend could work with me,
to make our soul content
our purpose known
tasks done

and a happy home.