Saturday, August 27, 2011

Your blue-blooded bile bores me. Your bourgeois aspirations of martyrdom. You want war, you want women raped in the night, you want children never knowing their family, you want hollow eyed men on the look out for salvation. You want war? You want war in the name of character, for the sake of building identity?

Fuck off. Get out. Leave.

I could be more eloquent. I could rein it in, I could be polite. But the red-bellied black snake of my repulsion is rearing its head, it wants to strike. It wants to give you your war, feel your selfishness. you think being scared gives you character? It gives you nightmares, it gives you tremors, it gives you a cold chill you won't shake off.

You think you've never seen war? Sister, I was born in a war. I was born in the same year as you, the year of Lockerbie, the end of the Iran-Iraq war, the Cold War hadn't even ended. We've seen war in our own backyard, in East Timor, in Fiji, in Bosnia, Serbia. We’ve seen America lead us places no blind person should go.

And you want more? (I’ll give you more. Wrap your knuckles, I’ll give you more)

War is humanity at its sickest.

War is an abscess, the absence of humanity.

War is the worst thing I can think of.

I've seen war, and I turn my face.

I turn my face because this is not what I want to glorify.

War is shit, war is piss and vinegar thrown in your face. War is rape, war is cruel, war builds nothing. You think people were tougher during Hitler’s time? They weren’t tough. They were surviving, they weren’t appreciating fuck, they were surviving, and sometimes that’s all you can do, until the scab of memory heals over, and you have some ugly scar that you jazz up with make-up-museums and memorial days and you think people cry because they appreciate how good they had it? No. They cry because they lost something they’ll never get back, and they know it.

You’re an innocent.

I dream of war, sometimes. Of a faceless solider no older than I am, with his fists in my skin, his flesh beating mine. I dream of children, broken bruised, I dream of books burned. I dream of witch-hunts, I dream of rhetoric I can’t fight. I dream of fascism and I dream of bombs falling in the dark.

I am grateful that I live somewhere that is all a dream.

But it dogs my steps, makes me guard my words.



If we were to kill all the stupid people, we would be on par with Hitler. A grand statement, a bold statement. A stupid but true statement.

You are talking ethnic cleansing, you are talking senseless judgement. You are talking utter shit, you innocent. I would like to see you try a war and live with yourself.

If we were to detonate the bombs.

If we were to turn the safety off.

If we were to don our gas masks.

Then there would be nothing left.


Every day is a fight. Every day is a war. Every day is a fight and every day is a war. Against misogyny, racism, sexism, homophobia, disfigurement, religion, selfishness. And against people like you.

Did you know Glenn Beck, not a breath after the World Trade Centre fell, when we were all clutching our knees, Glenn Beck said “What America needs is another 9/11.”

I don’t see any difference between him and you.

I used to.

But we’ve drawn our battle lines now.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

it is two am and pouring with rain. i am trying to write something intelligent, trying not to let the words become beautiful. in academia, words must be ugly, harsh, impenetrable to all except the initiated. i thought this was what i wanted, something ugly. somewhere i could manifest my own polemic. instead, i am bewildered doomed bruised.


Sunday, August 14, 2011

years and years ago, i thought i had it all planned out. i knew who what when where i was going to be. writing and devastating and in scotland and completely modern and with someone who would see through me and love me all the same. i knew it was going to unfold with such glory.

what i didnt know was that i had lied so much that i stopped existing.