as long as i strike terror into the hearts of my enemies what does it matter what my "gender" is
i don't identify as "male" or "female" i identify as a threat
@snarkymonkeyprime

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@anarres-calling
as long as i strike terror into the hearts of my enemies what does it matter what my "gender" is
i don't identify as "male" or "female" i identify as a threat
@snarkymonkeyprime
Praying Attention
TW: rape, rape culture, misogyny, MRAs
This is your brain on mainstream media. This is your face on Register-Her. This is your misery for public consumption. This is your life vivisected.
Lawyers before love, A scandal not a sex crime, Disbelief is justice, Victims are the real abusers. How dare you open Your filthy little mouth? Why didn’t you close Your naked little knees?
This is your voice filtered, made acceptable. These are your words taken out of context. This is the man who will tear you to pieces. This is justice, didn’t you know?
Believing victims is shrieking hysteria. Duct tape and shovels are the tools of reason. O Masculinity, Blessed Misogyny, Save us from the feminist conspiracy!
Guillotine the Kings. Burn the Red Pill Room. Slit the throats from which hateful Voices rise. The male-bashing feminist forever. The male-bashing feminist forever.
Dreamletting
Come away, come away, and be a punk rock star with me, Play redemption songs each night together ‘till our fingers bleed. We’ll make friends and fall in love in every city that we visit, Measure our long years in love and every place we’ve seen the sunset.
But if all of this is dreaming, and that dreaming has to end, Then please let me never dream of you again.
Come away with me and help me build a space we can call home, Where the people that we love can have a peace they’ve never known, Where the victim can disarm and where the wage slave can be free, Fortified against the violence of mainstream society.
But if this is wishful thinking, and that thinking has to end, Then please let me never think of you again.
Or come away with me one day and then just disappear with me. We’ll travel anywhere we wish, love and live forever free, Shed the expectations placed on us like years of too-small skin, And I promise you’ll need never fear being hurt by me again.
And I want to go on promising, but I know enough to see That I’m babbling to the ashes of the things we’ll never be, Like a homeless rambling vagabond adrift forevermore. I’m just talking to myself now, no one’s listening anymore. And I want to go on talking so the dream won’t have to end, But I hope you never dream of me again.
Nov 11 2015
1.
I spent a little more than I should have in the bookstore today: Thirty-five dollars for two little books of poetry. I can spare it. Probably.
While I was there, John Le Carre’s biography reminded me That I think I’ve lost the thing inside me That let me read the way I used to.
It’s hard to find words to connect to anymore. (I don’t have a WiFi metaphor, You’ll have to look elsewhere for clever commentary On how smartphones rip people’s faces off And eat their brains through their skulls Or whatever it is people make art about these days.) I had some luck eventually, And it did make me feel a little better. Dear Clementine’s dedication felt like having a friend. I haven’t felt that way in a while.
I need poetry that feels like it wants to reach out to me Rather than just sitting there on the page, waiting for me To make the first move.
Wake
I am awake in the place where women die, Last breaths released to the deaf-blind sky Above civilized houses and civilized roads. Nobody sees but everybody knows. Culture acquitted; it can’t admit That it masturbates to the thought of it, Yearns to see the pride turn to fear in their eyes. I am awake in the place where women die.
I am awake in the place where colours bleed Into brown and black homogeneity. White voices lie, white eyes are cold. Expressionless, they sing “To a gas chamber, go!” Civil hands stained with civil blood Teach us all to hold our tongues, To praise pale gods, hail hegemony. I am awake in the place where colours bleed.
I am awake in the place where children scream; They don’t know the words for what’s happening. Swastika Hate crime Lynched Brutality Everybody knows and everybody sees. Cold eyes have seen the glory of A world set free from filth like us. Brown shirts have been ironed, white hoods have been cleaned. I am awake in the place where children scream.
Time to Die
[A re-write/update of “Tears in Rain”]
There is early morning rain against my window when I wake. I can almost taste the acid dripping down from smoked-out Heaven, From whence angels fell from cloud to concrete, And were left to beg for quarters. I hear sirens scream outside my window. Just another day.
I try to leave the apartment, but the door won’t open for me. I lock myself inside the bathroom, where I can hide from no one. I bandage up my bulging wounds, Unfalsify my face. I hide all my pretty colours under blank mundanity.
I do a little better on my second attempt. As I walk out the door, I can hear somebody crying. This fucked up world and all its skyless seraphs Are leeching the life out of me.
The rain is mixed with snow now; I’m forgetting how Spring tasted. Dodging glances on the subway, Armour-piercing “What are you?” And God, if I had an answer, I would wear it proud, Like armour that they could not break. But I’m left with the question for another day.
I know that I am dying. I heard it on the TV. I read it on the internet. I see it in their eyes. This fucked up world and all its fucked up children Are leeching the life out of me.
They built me to burn bright. They built me to burn fast. They built me to burn bright, But not to last.
There is blackened snow outside my window as I lie awake. I can almost taste the ashes drifting down from burned-out Heaven...
God of the Gaps
[You may consider this a Ghostwrite/Mountain Goats experiment]
The fact that John Lennon beat his wife Can't take away the meaning that he holds for my father, And the meaning that John Lennon holds for my father Can't make me forget that he beat his wife. And I laugh at men's rights activists; He wears the label proudly. He hates socialist feminists; I wear the label proudly. But we both love Leonard Cohen, And we both love science fiction, And I think we love each other, But I don't know how to prove it.
When I read Fanon and Butler I was in university. I'm an angry fucking radical Who still fears what old friends would say, And I don't know if that makes me less of a revolutionary, But if it does, I don't think I could really be offended.
I've been talking to a therapist. I think I'm making progress, But I'm still using poetry to complain about my problems, And I haven't really seen my friends in at least seven months. But this all sounds so generic, so I can't be the only one.
I am the God of the gaps, Maker of all the missed connections That make me who I am.
I am the God of the gaps, Maker of all the disconnections That make me who I am.
Hack
I am an artificial intelligence.
I am a bio-hacking self-construction, a transgender transhuman trancendarwinist, an ambiguously existential emergence. I am the ghost that remains when the machine decays.
Post punk post-human post-postmodern poster boy. I will stand my post and wait for the post-apocalypse.
With enough language I can unbecome. With enough words I can unmake myself.
Billy Wild
Billy Wild plays alone in the ditch behind the school, The naked slope side another place, another time. In five years, fresh grass unrolls over the crags, the valleys, the ancient cities, But Billy’s too old to remember the stories anyways.
This was long before they knew adjectives were monsters, Long before they learned that they were one too. Long before they learned monsters don’t live in closets, Long before they learned monsters die in ditches.
Billy Wild plays alone with wolves in West Virginia, In a yard with high, virgin-white fences. In five years, they find Allison’s house On the edge of the tiny town That’s there whenever they remember to squint.
Billy Wild reads Judith Butler on a flight to Athens, And sits next to Audre heading back to New York City. Billy Wild sees a face on a billboard. Billy Wild sees a face in the mirror. Billy Wild doesn’t know why they’re not them.
This was long before they knew fragments were all that was left, Long before their weapon was a cage, Before epistemology and genealogy, In the days when they never spoke their name.
Billy sings in the cathedral, And sells out the theatre on Queen. Billy’s been there for longer than you remember, And they’ll be there long after you leave.
But long before our bodies are battlefields no longer, Long before the ashes of all empires fall like snow, Billy Wild is dying in a hospital, While down the hall Billy Wild is being born.
Re: the current U of T and YorkU TA strike:
There's a lot that really pisses me off about the rhetoric surrounding the strike and the issues that have led to it, but one particular underlying notion is, to me, the most offensive of all. This notion can be found within the subtext of the following comment excerpts from the widely-circulated Toronto Star article on the subject:
"Why would anyone expect a Graduate Student to be guaranteed a wage above the rather arbitrary poverty line? When you are a student, you cannot work full-time (generally) because you are in the process of upgrading your skills and abilities with the expectation of a future financial payoff..."
"...you are completing your graduate studies. You are not talking about open market labour. Yes, you do "work" at the university, but your "work"--marking student papers, doing research for a prof--is also part of your education. It prepares you for a professional career as a higher-education teacher. Let's have a conversation about TA pay, but to suggest that being a TA is like having a regular job is frankly disingenuous."
And, more nakedly:
"Crimea river kid. it was just as bad when were in university but then we didn't expect to live the high life, pay monthly cell charges, own ipads, drive a car, take vacations in cuba. we lived below the poverty line but we made ends meet because we weren't in grad school as a job but because we knew it would lead to a job. if you feel your grad career wont't take you to something better then try the private sector. its called postponing gratification, try it sometime"
"oh please ! there is a line up of people willing to be TA's! And this stupid suggestion that it is below the poverty level, come on !! it is not a full time job! You look for a full time jo when you graduate. Of course the budget is super tight, you are a student. If you don't like it go work at McDonalds, or Tim Hortons, or as a server like many students do. If you share an apt with a few people being a TA is a great way to get through school with your Iphone, mac Air, and Grande from Starbucks!!"
Now, there's certainly a lot in comments like those to make one seethe, but to me there is one deeply problematic idea underlying all of them (and no, surprisingly it's not "Capitalism, ho!"). That idea is this: as long as you are working within a university in an academic capacity as anything less than a full professor, you are not part of the Real World. You are sheltered within the ivory towers of Academia, a far-off place populated by people who are not Regular People doing Real Work.
These comments clearly display an all too familiar attitude of “talking down.” For the most part, it’s the same “Entitled Millennials” rhetoric that most of us probably encounter at least three times a week now. But this particular intersection of Academia-Is-Not-The-Real-World and This-Generation-Is-So-Entitled is especially galling to me. Anyone who is currently attending the U of T, grad or undergrad, will know already that claims of tropical vacations and cars (in Toronto???) are completely ludicrous. It’s the same sort of nonsense one encounters in the “Welfare Queen” mythology, or Daily Mail screeds against people who purchase iPhones with food stamps (which is impossible, actually). There’s little point in critiquing this obviously classist claptrap…
…but I’m going to do it anyways, because are you FUCKING kidding me?! Have any of these snotty armchair-critics ever actually TRIED to live in Toronto in 2015 under the poverty line? I think fucking not. It’s not a choice between a Grande at Starbucks (ooh, such wit! Such originality!) and a new Moleskine or whatever, it’s a choice between getting your broken computer fixed (without which you can’t work) and having enough money for this month’s rent. And that’s for someone as privileged as a university TA. The vast majority of poor people in Toronto are nowhere near that lucky, something these jackass commenters would know if they’d ever actually “had it much harder.”
But leaving all that aside, what I really need to call out here is the attitude of Academia-Is-Not-The-Real-World, because I really think it’s that above all else that a) is driving opposition to the strike, and b) is the reason the strike is necessary in the first place. The wild fictions that exist in the above comments can be believed by so many people because, as I’ve said, Academia is not the Real World. Academia, for those who are not in it, is a fantasy space upon which assumptions (born out of either ignorance or malice) can be projected. And therefore, the inhabitants of this fantasy space of Academia are not inhabitants of the Real World. They are “young” adults, who need not be granted the respect shown to “real” adults; their concerns are of less importance, and they lack the maturity to speak authoritatively on any meaningful subject.
And thus: if Academia is not the Real World, and academics like TAs are not Real Adults, then how can their labour possibly be Real Work?
Many people have attempted to defend academia and education by saying that the products of universities (AKA us) will be assets to society: we are being trained to become productive members of the Real World, to go out and join the workforce or become brilliant thinkers who will do great things for our country…which, when you think about it, sounds an awful lot like those comments above, doesn’t it? (Your work is part of your education, you are upgrading your skills with the aim of future payoff, it leads to a job…and failing all this, go join the private sector. Get a Real Job. Do some Real Work.)
Well personally, I am thoroughly sick of this constant need for academia to justify itself as a socially-profitable capitalist/nationalist institution. I am sick of this need to embrace capitalism/nationalism to be seen as legitimate. I am so damn sick of the constant need to pretend that the purpose of academia is something completely at odds with its TRUE purpose. Academia is NOT a factory that constructs profitable workers and elite citizens. It does not exist for the sake of either the economy or the nation of Canada. At its heart, true academia should always be about bringing people and ideas together, and allowing them to grow together. The point is not to churn out graduates and alumni who will bring profit and prestige to Canada. The point is to create an environment from which people will emerge, look at Canada, and say “Hm…this isn’t good enough. How can this be better?” People who will look at social conventions and mainstream ideologies and say “Why must it be this way? And how else might it be?” People who look at machines and computers and structures and say “How can you be better, faster, stronger? (sorry)” People who will look at the cutting edge of scientific (and human) understanding, and say “How can we go further?” The physical University of Toronto may exist within and be sustained by Canada, but its soul (at least, the soul and I believe in, and hopefully others believe in too) is not; that soul is of humanity. Or, at the very least, it ought to be.
This labour dispute is not about entitled Millennial shits angling for money. It’s about dignity. It’s about giving due respect to not only human beings in general (because NO ONE deserves poverty, and fuck you if you say otherwise), but to people who are doing GOOD, who go above and beyond for the students entrusted to them. People who, as far as my personal experiences are concerned, have helped me learn better, who have been accommodating of my personal and health issues even when I was a major inconvenience, and who once even offered to be an open ear and a shoulder to lean on in a time of need. And the work that TAs and other educators do is not for you, jackass commenters. It is not for the malcontents and grumpy Real Adults of March 2015. It is for a brighter and better future for the whole human race.
It’s called postponing gratification. Try it sometime.
Wingless
They were young then, patchwork, Stitches barely holding, Needing to be re-sewn every week or so. But their eyes met like strangers after a few drinks, And their fingers laced together like there was nowhere else they'd rather be.
He spoke in red tongues and circled 'A's on his wrists, And he thought he knew himself as well as his favourite poets did. She burned with blue fire, and her voice was freedom's ring. She had a knack for Nephilim, for finding them their wings.
He said: "Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like the tattered remnants of an empire's flag Or a beer spilled upon a virgin stage." She said: "Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like wings, wide as oceans, soft as Autumn sang, As strong as love, as strong as rage."
And they were fountains for each other, And when summer came home They took their labour and love out into the streets of Toronto. They sang to all who'd listen, screamed to all who wouldn't, Marched for those who couldn't, And danced until tomorrow.
She said she'd write an epic for the entire world to sing, So their love would catch like an anthem, And the world would know his wings. He promised her he'd write her something before she fell asleep. She stayed up all night, waiting, And forgave him in the morning.
It wasn't just his wandering eyes that drove them apart, Nor the iron chains he'd gotten wrapped around his heart. It was his feet (they never carried him anywhere but home), It was his voice (it never dared to sing on its own).
The day came eventually when she didn't have to fall Out of love with all his shrapnel when she woke up alone. She breathed in, And walked out into the nearly-stillborn Spring. She took her mad, lost generation, And wrapped them in her wings.
He still has his faded circled 'A's on his wrists, But he's learned that his own poetry knew him better than he did. He's measured out his life in coffee spoons and cigarettes, Bottle caps, and idle daydreams that he never quite forgets.
But it takes only a daydream to carry him home, Back to eternal youth spend pounding on the streets of Toronto, And back to the only person who ever saw his wings. He wonders if she ever thinks of him Or the time when they would sing:
"Let us go then, you and I..."
On the Ottawa Shooting: Media Reaction
I know it's going to be a dark day when I know in advance what all the newspaper headlines are going to be about. The universal agreement of front-page topics usually only occurs in the face of a singularly powerful and deeply Canadian tragedy (reflections on lost countrymen on Remembrance Day, a beloved national icon has been lost, there's just been a federal election, etc). You may recall that in my last post, I predicted that "we will be besieged by the first sensationalist headlines and fear-mongering statements by breakfast tomorrow." I DIDN'T MEAN THAT AS A DARE, CANADIAN NEWS MEDIA!
I'd like to award the Fox News Award for Sensationalist Journalistic Bullshittery to the Toronto Sun for it's entry to this shameful contest: the words "We Will Not Be Intimidated" set against the backdrop of an enormous Canadian flag, with smaller text telling of the attack on "the heart of Canadian democracy" (a strange choice of words, since I'm pretty sure my left ass cheek sees more democracy than Capital Hill does these days). I'd LIKE to...but frankly, I've come to expect the smell of tasteless nationalism in the morning from Sun Media.
The actual winner of the Fox News Award for Etc Etc Etc is...the Toronto Star, whose headline was simply "UNDER SIEGE." I thought we were supposed to be talking about the one singular man who opened fire on Capital Hill yesterday, not the political situation in fucking Erebor.
On the Shooting in Ottawa, October 22, 2014
1. My thoughts are with both my friends in Ottawa and with the many people who have been affected by today's frightening events. I've found myself pretty glued to every screen I encounter, and I expect I'm gonna stay that way for a little while. 2. However, I think it is important to keep a few things in mind before we cry "terrorism!" and plug these events (as has been done with the previous attack) into a familiar framework. First, despite the flurry of Tweets describing the shooter as "Aboriginal" with "long dark hair," wearing an "Arab type scarf," or as "South American in colour," (??????????????), there has been NO OFFICIAL INFORMATION released on that subject. Second, at risk of sounding callous or of having violent sympathies, if it does turn out that this attack was carried out by a member of a nation or organization with whom Canada is at war...then I think that speaks for itself as to why it's irresponsible to call this "terrorism." An attack on the capital city of a military enemy is not terrorism, it's an act within the framework of war, and should be treated as such. "Terrorism" is a political buzzword, one that is often used to influence the public at large. Again though, there is no official information to suggest that any of this is even the case. Third, on the subject of war: there is a grim and sobering lesson to be learned from these events about the realities that exist beyond our borders. The fear we feel right now for our friends, our loved ones, our country...the anger we feel towards the callous murderer who pulled the trigger today...this story has played out with the roles reversed many times in many countries, with the stakes much higher and the terror much more brutal. I don't mean to diminish what we feel today, but rather to suggest that we be mindful of what we can learn, especially in light of the fact that we are about to go to war again. Fourth, and this is perhaps most important of all: we must remain calm and clear-minded in the time to come. Our leaders and our media outlets will NOT be our friends in this endeavour; I have no doubt that we will be besieged by the first sensationalist headlines and fear-mongering statements by breakfast tomorrow. But we must resist the temptation to give in to the appealing comfort of easy narratives. We are active participants, not a passive audience. We can think for ourselves.
Confidante's Creed (Today I Will Sing)
Tomorrow I'll weep for the weight on my shoulders. Tomorrow I'll hide from the sins of the world. Tomorrow I'll bend beneath the burden that I carry. Tomorrow I'll ask "after such knowledge, what forgiveness?"
Today I will listen. Today I will scream. Today I will let no weakness choke or silence me.
Today I will sing.
Tomorrow I'll blame myself and everyone around me. Tomorrow I'll relapse and drink to forget. Tomorrow I'll wonder what I could have done differently. Tomorrow I'll crumble, I'll crack, I'll decay.
Today my wings open. Today it will be known That those who walk in shadow will never walk alone.
Today I will sing.
Untitled
Drunken restlessness and summer temptation drag my spirit south down city streets in search of words or reckless exaltation.
Down past the playground where young-at-heart punks drank and sang.
Wise graffiti is erased. Sunday night stagnates. My comrades speak a language I don’t understand.
Truscum and TERFs and bloodline purists infest the homes I sought out for shelter.
There are cracks in the barricades.
Leeches and lampreys swim through the waterways in my brain, latching onto anything that bleeds and following wherever it leads.
They ingest my sleep, lay eggs in my childhood, hatch in the winter and suck me fucking dry.
Not a Whisper
I fell asleep in your bed, Wondering if we outgrow old friends Like ancient favourite songs And hopes for brilliant futures.
With every sound, I feared you'd found me.
I lay awake, counting breaths And beats of my more stubborn heart I toyed with words And I cast them all aside.
The little devils never leave me. And they sing "Follow."
I wonder if I've become addicted to remembering. Your mother begged me for answers through her tears. I wish for just that moment That I believed in ghosts, But there's not a whisper of you left in my ears.
The sickness creeps like the damp, And settles into every bone. The passion curdles. Christmas lights fizzle out.
Don't make a sound; the fear will find you.
I understand now at last The cracking of a stubborn heart. I feel your traces still Upon the iron staircase That circles Down Down Down
"Follow..."
I wonder if I've become addicted to remembering. Do you know how sorry I am?
The Killing Thing
There's a song for the anarchists that catches in their throats Made of clotted, bloody fragments of the letters that they wrote To their future selves, their children and their parents. They went unread, and now it's far too late to care.
Put anarchy between your lips. Don't bite, don't taste, don't even breathe. The killing thing will have no power. Let aesthetic settle on your shoulders Like a cloud of smoke And choke.
There's a man in the suburb that he hates that he calls home. Gadsden flag gathers dust beside a silent telephone, While all the promises he made himself fade into the frigid air. He used to be the revolution, But he's grown too cold to care.
Put liberty between your lips. Don't bite, don't taste, don't even breathe. The killing thing will have no power. Let aesthetic settle on your shoulders Like a cloud of smoke And choke.
There's a circle of Hell for monsters like you and me, In a 7-11 parking lot at five in the morning. Sanctuary, where we breathe in smoke and exhale whispered prayers That are swallowed by the smog clouds When we've grown too old to care.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world