i grew so tired of movement so one day i stopped.
how it happened;
picture me as occam’s razor. with tits.
picture me as emmeline pankhurst. with catheter.
how it happened;
the opposite of awakening.
the sun rises one morning and you don’t. there are no more choices only slogans. you lay comfortable with the realisation that there is no freedom only consumption. medicine is an illusion. love is panic. it all fades. clouds lift. doors forced open in the most obviously phallocentric way. when i get famous they’ll talk like this. they’ll dress it up, but what they’ll describe, reduced, is cock and cunt.
so here i am.
the comedian frozen on stage.
i gather moss.
lost in biology.
so here i am.
the opposite of shark.
what i am not is collectivism or compromise or default.
what i am is as certain as a plane hitting a building.
this is not an exit.
what happens is my eyes dry up quicker than you’d think. light hits like a rock to the head. each photon burst an apocalypse of self-abandonment.
i dream of refusing, not flinching, not struggling.
what i fear most is subconscious.
what i fear most is involuntary.
what i am is body politic.
the doctors dare me to move, wet for reaction. what they do is start hurting me for fun. i am bone scratched by hypodermic. i am vivisection for sniggering rationalists. i am marcel marceu offering my sincere apologies. i am a pinprick in the sky.
what i am is tabloid and broadsheet. one talks of foucault, the other expounds illness of the year scares. they all attach meaning to something as obvious, as ridiculous as me. there is no intellectualisation.
i am not new labour or neo-con.
i am the blue tinge on your lips.
i am a redefinition of myself.
i am a terrorist.
i see my cunt as a zipper.
i am so much wasting meat.
i am seven years old. i weigh fifty three pounds. i am four feet tall. i am explained in numerical terms. i am defined by the slit between my legs. what i am is the product of someone’s hunger.
sores spread like catholic guilt. the church sees me as a child of christ, as joan of arc, as original sin. i am a protest against war. or homosexuality. or celibacy. i see islam as the enemy. i am aryan. i am slave. i am apology.
i wallow in my filth.
my mother prays. my father struggles.
as my body breaks down, swelling changing and growing in so many new and interesting ways:
they gather outside, some with bombs strapped to their chests, moist brown thumbs itching for eternity or finality.
they gather outside, some with candles and poetry. they talk of gaia, of blood and sisterhood. i think of them in dog years.
they gather outside, some in ecstasy with the blood rush hard anxiety of the newly converted. i am a prophet and we are linked by lack thereof.
there is nothing outside. it all happens in here. genesis through revelation. armageddon and kingdom come.
my heart is a fist.
i am true. i am moral. i am happy.
i am here, in this moment, me.
i want to stop progress. cease going forward.
we should un-evolve, un-enlighten.
i want to be the first butterfly to emerge from the cocoon as a caterpillar. Read more »

































