Monday, 9 May 2016

Arrest Statement - for Timothh Thornton

Yes officer I am not resisting
just that I would

the sign was at head height
to tell me not to stand
I rose to it to see it

cut me down and I am all
under arrest. So stop.
That's an option too

perhaps disproportionate
but something to think
& mark my words

down into you every time
they cut you they cut me
we're different kinds of a mess

but a mess

I made one with my sister
in rapture
on purpose & because of trouble

it made our glee
we met there. & I have your key
and it's shit.

Not your key but that I have it
that I've singularised some guilt there.

But here, I almost always
think of you.


Monday, 25 April 2016

Revolt - Trans* Manifesto


Men have cunts and men cannot grow facial hair men can men wear skirts men have periods women have beards women have bollocks you are woven on a false map men have eostrogen we are in a map of denial. Denial of the false centre, the through we are the derangement molded to the weave of a false map. This is not good politics this is a language rivetted to a false map.

We cannot ammend the map we cannot improve its locations. Each local reform sucks oil through the forests the trees suicide the people starve. Starve for reform. We are withered mirrors to a false map. Women are torn denials of the false centre. Men are terrors of the false centre. Bodies are colonies on maps. That's all we can say with certainty. Real names are gestures of colonies strewn across bastard maps. This is not good politics. This is here to show you. We are here to show you. We are hurt to show you. We hurt to show you.

Wednesday, 20 April 2016

Trans* Revelation 1

Discordian Anarcho-Maost Discourse

Okay, hello Mr. Policeman. Watch the last fifteen minutes of The Wicker Man before you come at us with your shit-mire of brutal escorts, dodging the infinity of longing, slaphead prick, no slur intended, just, I've been thrown into this massive discourse of anti-love and you are an evil in it and I am ashamed of you and fuck slurr the gentle rushing of it take my hand Mr. Fuck unjustified to the merest nullification of your face you are all under arrest. You prudent of our virtues watch the last bit of that film I cannot offer you empathy just now because you've drunk me but here, here it is in a moment, you lead yourself longing towards our own death through ever obsolete ritual of anti-magic you can make and I can't live like that I can't fucking breathe die amongst yourselves then or long for a better world for I am daubed in your paralysed responsibility and I hate it. Yours Malaclypse, fuck you.

Sunday, 20 March 2016


My name is Stephen Crabb or something &
I fucked a baby or something. Something = call it
                                               five hundred million
babies call it. Call it I am here
to make your clients // he was not business minded
enough. We / wax in his eyes my old
                  sorry to be so / my name is CRABB
standing for 'Child Rapist, Absolves Britain's - the next letter
is abandonment - Beak? Banner under which
   would not have committed to the the
   death on me drown on me the way the
   mouth of the body was
   stuck in a cage was the pool warm? I support
   philosophers such as Alain Du Botton I hate life
   I love death my name is Indolent Crabb Child
   Killer I want the country to

I moved to a big
HEX I a house had
put me on the boat back to the country
          I came from. No flowers. No wheels.
         You becoming are fucking banned
         I am going to die today Stephen Crabb will die
         today that motor purse your lips the heart filling
with management speak is no is it is filled with spiders
spiders are shit they are banned I am not in the position
of banning I am more like the anarachists I won already
fuck Iain Duncan Smith that cunt is dead to be
my name is Stephen Crabb and I take babies and do horrific things to them
like Alain Du Botton spoils
                                               your brain, Starkey you cunt, you jaw
                                               stick your fucking job. I wanted
I don't even know you never heard of still
die or something that's what you're like CRABB isn't it
you're just like that tearing spit of crow no CRABB
sorry did I
                   NOT HEAR YOUR NAME CORRECTLY well
my sincere apologies this disgusting wart of a country
that is not a wart I am a TOAD and that is my skin. Bumps
not warts I am from nature
                                            and am nothing
                                            like Stephen Crabb
                                            but I have been
in hibernation I wake up and I can't buy fly agaric and you have gone
Iain and there is this new
                                            murderer in the pond
                                            this pike thing. Let him die or something stick your fucking job.

(Dear Sirs everyone in there is a sir are they not a sir
 okay whoever you are then I look at your face and in it
 I have failed I am so totally stupid My Daughter Has
 a Rare Condition and cannot join the military every time
 I read one of your books I am in it failing to do what it is
 it is supposed to help me to do I am tired of being alive
 who the fuck is Stephen Crabb pushing my face
 into my arsehole that's not even a real face not even
 spunk on the body)

Saturday, 19 March 2016

Iain Duncan Smith's Letter of Resignation (first draft).


I started taking LSD in 2001. Mainly, life had been very slow. I wanted to experience something of the world. Open up my third eye, you know? You've got to make sure you create the right conditions before you trip. That's why I gravitated towards the Conservative party. I needed the right people around me, and I needed the place to be tidy. I did very well at school, once things had settled down. For the last twenty years I have been a victim of extreme sexual molestation. No. Sorry. I keep getting confused. The light is on, the light is off. We've gone too far. I want out. I think I've done too much. No. I haven't done enough. Going to work for Amnesty International for a while. Poor John Cantlie. Someone come down from the sky. Oh fucking God, What have you done? I hereby formally resign from the post of. No. I'm not going to work for your Gulags. My name is Iain and I like LSD and speed and ruthless incredulity. Stick your fucking job.


Sunday, 13 March 2016

Gender Dysphoria

I wandered into the room, but there were figures everywhere, on every surface. & so I moved into the outside. Sat on the grass, slept a little. Fell quiet. Saw some figures approaching. Ducked down into the long grass. Moved across the gap, saw some more figures moving towards me, darted into a hollow, heard them saying things about me. Ducked up into the long grass, where I crawled around, joyous, came into the house, saw my arms and legs had been covered with burning rashes. Every winter it returns, and I see a room, and in there is a person who could help me with my skin. I am too afraid to enter. I am afraid so I drop down into the long grass and I rest my head and become less and less afraid, and I begin to sleep a little. The itching begins. First it is blissful. The skin breaks. It stings. It begins to weep. It itches again. It is scratched. Blood. Scabs. Scratch. The satisfaction of detachment. And I am terrified that when I enter the room where the kind figure will help to mend my skin or steer me around to avoid whatever it is gets into it,, I worry I’ll go into that room and come out with some kind of terrible restraint, and my numbers taken, some kind of diagnosis. I walk out into the sunlight. It is warm. I can see my breath. Everything I can feel or tell by my senses is mistaken. Figures crossing ahead of me, so that the door is the terror. So that I slip into the door where the long grass is reflected and fall into a beautiful sleep. In my dreams you sometimes speak to me. Other people who know you say the same thing. You never speak but in our dreams. This is because of a hierarchy of understanding. I found myself reciting in the long grass as I slowly woke. As I slowly woke in the long grass I found my lips were moving and I was speaking. I found myself reciting: Melancholia, Asperger's Syndrome, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Gender Dysphoria, Prader Willi's Syndrome, Dyspraxia, Slovenliness, Heyfever, Autistic Spectrum Disorder, Dyslexia & Dyscalculia, Anorexia. My eyes were very still fixed on the just moving figures in the hazy distance and my lips were moving over and over again Paranoid Schizophrenia and I was wide awake but very calm as I had learned to meditate on the wild abstractions and leaps of fear this mind does to me. I fell back down and rolled over and stared hard at the room and its window, but over the tall swaying grasses my soft mouth, I caressed my long red hair and touched my lips with my lips and a seam from the bottom of my foot to the top of my head began to gently part, releasing a gentle humming silver light, and with a pair of figers I caught the edge of the light and gently tugged, and it came sliding out, and I held it there in my fingers, I held her there, and I saw my body lying in the grass, and I held the silver light in my hands as her mouth parted, as she lay there in the grass her mouth parted, and with a sigh she breathed in, and the silver light passed into her body, and she lay there, perfect and sated. I have Gender Dysphoria.

Sunday, 14 February 2016

Trans Manifesto - Third Formal Rendition

Bones belong in the ground. Bones belong in the ground.

I am from the past; the future has neglected you.

A reaction against identity politics is a symptom of being kettled. A noise of contrary energies. And what it means to fulfil all of your dialogues as a politics of identity is to kettle oneself. No. Not that. What I have done in a few practices of negation is essentially grass myself up. Just as intimacies of the body neglect other parts of the body: Yes in my politics I am not born in the wrong body. Yes in the established world of gender I find my body terrifying. Body and voice and mode. Yes I resist. Yes I fail. Yes this is an internal politics. Yes this is the individual. These are my tracts of affirmation. Yes this is still a jail. Yes I have never been killed in jail. Yes I cannot imagine it. Yes I do. Yes our feelings are not mutual. Yes, you are an enemy of mine. Yes the conditions are speculative. My voice, a revolting chain of lesser evil.

Bones belong in the ground.

And so we go sleeping. And so there is no action. And so you call me a boy. And so I, the unspecified order. ;;;, ,, , burying your last words with your body in the ground. An eccentric perversion. A mite.

If there were a sound
blitzing through the air
it is not yet the sound
of an entire failure.