A poem, of politics in a room.

When we questioned doors and walls, we didn't expect replies
When we questioned chairs and floors, a reply was not the answer
Beware that roar of victory  from the belly of power hungry disregard,
"This is ours" "We are this" "We belong to this, and will
do it's bidding!"

We posed a question and were silenced, ownership will not be questioned again, because something has won something...

this space belongs, however, to power as ever, more than ever
This space belongs to heavy fists of baby-bashing cock

The revolution is here and it's testicles are crushing us all... you will not cry
The cock and balls of revolution holds the keys
The cock and balls of revolution decides the protection you will have, you will not defend yourself
The cock and balls of revolution will decide your worth,
and you will be left to cower, panicking in the cold if the cock and balls of revolution
choose a gun instead of you
there's only space for one of the two
and cock and balls of revolution will choose the gun

Play along or you haven't got it in you,
Cary our phallus on your head if you care
Stitch up the wet tender opening in your chest and be received
it whispers with innocent crushing fury

Beware the shaving of their beards, the donning of black suits,
when there is a dawn they'll try be the morning
when there is a dawn they'll try to devour you...

I defy the claim in the twilight that the cock and balls of revolution are the same as mine...
mine, my genitals, are soft and quiet, clumsy, depressed and in the light they are happy,

you, are nothing but a beak I already knew disguised but now unveiled,
sunk into my skull, but it is soft and you will have no grip,

sweet, sweet

fuck you

A world worse than the one we walked out of has been created inside you
and I lend you legitimacy no more.

I will cry and I will break and I will lie in bed until the afternoon and I will be fixed and I will reach out my hand
and there is love that will take it, outside, beyond you.
We do more than fight, and we do more than fuck,
because we do it with our legs outspread, our minds open, our palms skywards
and we are a circle

peace be within you, milk be upon you

I am guilty with compliance

but now I sever you
and I grow

Secratary's Block

I long for writer's block...

To you my readers and to myself pretending to be another future reader, here's the state of play:

I'm on the down side of the cycle right now under the wheel, dragged beneath the wagon. Ouch!

I think this is my absorbant time... I suck a lot in... but I create less.... I'm becoming purely consumer, and come to think perhaps it would be better to be a thief... and I figure I'll never get out of it any other way but to eat myself to death on stolen flies and like a parasite in the brain of a caterpillar grow anew inside the corpse. 

Consume consume consume consume!

I DON'T think this need to eat myself to death, my desperation to fail, so that I can quicken the fall is... [blank]

 Give it to me lydia

How do you feel?

 "What do you study?" He asked,
"Philosophy" she smirked with a confident questioning indifference

Do you ever feel outside yourself, and look at you hands and wonder why they move when you look at them and will them too, and wonder why you would do it in the first place? Who's hands are these? And felt that everything you were is a mere character responding to the other actors in the play? The character with thoughts, fears, sensations and intentions who at times possesses all aspects of the observation of the greater world, acts as though the character and the body were one and that the character had an eye socket and not the body.... you felt that now that observation had outgrown the character and swollen so that it observes very separately to thinking and to feeling, that it watches itself, and sees itself think but observes, and that to have some part of this know that it is not the thinking character that observes but the body. And slipped the observation back into the character and known that the body will shed the character when it forgets to copy itself from the previous frame and the body will fall calmly and peacefully. The character who has acted and been distributed in influence and will be imitated as incorporated into future depictions of humanity by denzel washington and clint eastwood. 


The Structural design of Feminism and Concrete

Impersonal Belonging

Peripheral ephemeral knowing

Tend towards / technically speaking

Pavlov's Porn

Schroedinger's Closet