Banshee Boy
Mama
Incoming
mnemonics, too much grime in the poetics as people spit on streets and curse the blessings of their birth reborn generations crying unborn generations discounting existence as only transistance in this broken current machine not even gears anymore but harder, driven mad with grief as to what could be what is isnt shouldnt be and is and is we raise fist cry battle cries born ready to fly find freedom and be to sing dance to our beat in the blood we know heart and pain might and mercy then tear you down with courtesy oh no siree we did it when you didnt with our bitch sisters and brotherly bros there aint need for grovelling by our toes stand proud and know count in fingers the blessings made and there hope shall grow spitting lyrics not hate not dissipation and venom tearing down war torn marble like chalk in the sea online bubbles porous the drums make the chorus we find each fighter amongst us and love each as daughters ride hard to the sunrise and arrow hold know knew each among you~ singing strong among you being true for you let the rhythm hold you there is grace among the many with pennies rolling fools into the weight of pounds as digital stones in monoliths saturated steep in the boundaries of dissidence aint much of a coincidence and not enough chance Im writing red flow here in too many words broken sentences try to disrupt the verse and carry more subtle warning than a hearse we say as we mean it and try to do better others kill we feel each pain as we fall seeking wings remembering the sound of strings the whet hiss of a blade and path made picking up the story and pushing harpies and vultures histories ultrasound sonic found sultry basking inbetween things breathing found secret in pose of group mind stature and we have to say they are fucking us off a bit and sometimes its a decision not to be violent that is frightening because of how close you come but do one better and walk away coz not everyone does do they thats whats bad bruv now are you sure you wanna slap that glove? when dual legalities hold and yeah so many stories have been told like Odysseus, Timias and new words spoken too and whispered in dark and day on street and hearth in class in art in heart too true these knowings everyday and felt waifs craving data and connection complete new wave wires and none maddening irony is rabbit woe as wormholes form and the numbers vortex and stay rigid fiscally as we said they would and yet wonder why also others disappear and reappear not recognising how to magnify even as the trend algorithm and spy collect the wrong data and pry coz those cogs werent counting remember we laughed until december and put up a tree s that a mask bearing gold weight its not so quietly they go under with player boy thunder grey headed men not mice trading rice and old games and has beens in bloody bullets and haste such waste filth firm and justice no one is too proud for this and we're stacking boxes unloading crates twitching the curtain aside and tinkering with the mic stand smoke waiting in the wings and a backdoor open with the sound of mates ain no much bother a lot of the time things happen in reverse we stretch and hesitate listen well drink from the well and thirst making esses occasionally dressed in white with red lipstick and memes of justice to hand top to bottom we weave a curse it gets very political us trigger darlings we did warn you though as you are aware not in need of your validation due to pre-driven data bo selecta dont let trendy get cha too late and now you is saying it is you that suffocate and not in admittance no but for fucking serious as you sit cushioned calm on fat arse and wail thought it was we that sent banshees but nevermind that you did tell we do know our rights i am so tired of the agitation the knife fights bullet grazes and scars the tears the losses the deprivation lurking in each state and yeah awake picking our teeth clean as we a light from ash to name to self in each all on journeys full tilting the apparatus and scoping climate and change swift as glib gab gob given poets glad their long rotten and dont have to see this as giants arise in a smaller knowing and that is the only truth and safer for it we continue old knowings no shame growing better minds more power to you us ma cherrie we've sung of our troubles and our hurt become undone and redone as ourselves as we always are thers been fight songs and drammer a lack of justice in lash and occasionally found bound by kisses and a different sort of faith with hope truly held there has been too much blood spilled my sisters and too many askes for forgiveness betrayals and lack of witness just duty they pissed up the walls hemmed them in and science let in a sort of side door as we already had a backdoor and a trap door and the attic was an illusion and so was the box put into it and that one within it and the next and the concept of palace and a few books, tv shows, films, fame, rinse, repeat, do over, incite, demographatise, drmatasise, fame, rinse, repeat, celebrity, more media, more news, more biz, more words, more belief, more education and access, faster connections, unfortunately have to wipe away the jizz from their screens and plan staged arresting tensions bleary eyed and weary from writing all those books including that book from the spcace it is now everyday we are making movements and mattering and your hate is but a miserly spattering of cinnamon on a poorly baked pie bite the apple the litmus test says purple so did the culture shit gets weird sometimes sometimes lighting strikes twice and thought grips you in remembrance and the winds howl with fury and potential water is rain water is love fallacy is not the stars above they too exist actually tho no need to take it on good faith aint we all got a broken family background? at least we know whats what and what is mate not sure everyone does its worrying the water ran murky I think we all feel that now and again, dat is a tru ting so is the sound of a shackle breaking and something almost found or going maybe coming back if you linger let goddess hold you be and in embrace is life some things are simple we all have blessings to bear and beat beat a breath breath no anger to fled but burn burn burn burn and ease and strive and take dives and roll and block and throw and strike and spin and lift and balance find harmony in the unbalance slip through and no not how you been thinking but with the truth of it, aint no hack mate but flow me words through space and meaning till they find whats fleeting and watch the show unfold there are many many reasons as you might say ehcos. sighing as we watch snitches twitching on these imaginary corners lit is led no back light filter brightness probably set too high and gadget grasping with an addicts quiver in live time or running after whats with this game lately why bother sit back and take a cosy view as you write what counts too in headlines and intellectual wander wondering as else does whats a fucking curring long looking at things never forgotten we've got friends in business we coerce them into not destroying the world but it seems to be happening anyway and this makes us sad and angry sick with fury and calm drawing circles making arrowheads small bursts of energy small coins for chaos the medicine bags open saying shush sweety with a look of love and sharp turned heel gladly lost in ourselves multitudinous becuase its we that count and crunched those numbers too hear the tills ring and receipt these actions as evidence and track traced identities in system regardless of so called willingness of victims and said sundry excuses whats that dear it was too 80's for me a shallow conscription of hell it all feels a bit dated and worn thin in grey scale and ambiguity too held fast now as dystopic when tropic in realising as it was when they forged the shackles and now put the broken parts in museums to be beheld numerous trinkets of a broken and frayed hivemind constantly regenerating totes time lord now you're caught in lady doth protest too much then peril to demands of trial henceforth so on so forth rinse repeat everyone rinses everyone out nothings left apparently its dismal did you think you was my friend tho who even has a pop thats locked in? no men be speaking thats all the women do men werk it say my words and ride it its not like we're trying to hide it all plain sighted of violence the taste of blood upon the lip we go online and say hey look the worlds there like we did with maps to those who were lost and found both treasure and dross things centred leery in the nineties glitter became a thing and we were repeatedly told there was no colour and that colour was white and christian and better than us us sluts and outcasts feeling downcast and finding that cool to sit under with the stories and the hubris make aegis and forging new paths in the grass and calling to birds that knew freedom they held onto with claws and caws knowing false plumage showing things be different in the country the taste of salt ye kenning wild yonder yenning where the brightness is and sparkles aceanward here is the place where truth still dwells and shadows rest in last loneliness where we breathe aend are well that is a lot of super productivity better than monkeys you must see but then you could only frame that so mebe not is this tits and ass too much for you oh no such charmers we got you there too its all movements sometimes its bitter to say theres no hope on that one at other times its funny it that bitter and twisted way those masques too askew and a few bottles of rum nice earrings hey dragons we will always find a way to entice you or stalk you slowly manners made to kill that old bond street interruption its them that went through the windows and stole ur cash and telly riffled thru ur pants and pictures stole that little weird thing you like so random and blase a crime some metaphor like this is also filing the tragic becomes the sorrowful and a violin will sing its actually odd how small the world is and that is where the delicacy lays in feminism we each need secure safety in space repeated representation as I write this I realise again why it must be so hard to translate these so called dead languages juva ain well, eh perhaps that is too partricianed for you you didnt get that either usually becuase it means nothing and life seems to set you writing tasks with all our endless words and barely any trees of forests smog shrouded and speared with buildings along rivers rather than bodies on pikes the blood from your lip runs down your chin you learn to grin and bear it fleeting feral fast and ready yet shying away from too much lest it blister you again into reconfiguration reboot repower slightly different app normal hours are good hours here wherever you are in the world whoever you are in the world it renews a world ordered by better analysis and presentation code and spectruum and we had to deal with so many cunts please dont try to lock us into towers you will loose hours and transistors then put it into animation mixed order is flow water is the mind
Drink
Cocktail: Queen of the Forest
1 shot ameretto
1 shot Cherry Cactus Jacks
1/2 glass advocat
Stir in 1 table spoon cocao powder
Fill with cream soda
Fuck yes
Cocktail: I Used To Have Friends
1/2 glass of Tempranileo Rose
(cuss becuase you cannot put an accent on the e on the vino and or verbally exaggerate the accent)
1 shot Cherry Cactus Jacks
1 shot of ameretto
Fill with cranberry juice from concentrate
Concentrate on the good times
Its actually lovely
Cocktail: Dr Moda
1 shot cherry corkys
2 shot ameretto
dash of cream soda
fill with kvass and hibiscus (steampunk style)
This ones for you Scotland/Prussia
Cocktail: Sweet Thief
1 shot cherry corkys
1 shot advocat
3 shot spiced rum
Fill cream soda
Heart reads; its not totally wank
The Watercooler
In the land of Twitter where the writers gather upon the digi-shores of the collective imagination is the watercooler. A Vampire approaches...
Vampire: I thought it was understood they are fed up with the middle ages?
Trope Elf replies: Yes but the new gen has aged, as we have not.
Vampire: Ah, the hubris.
Trope Elf: The wrinkles
Vampire: the loss of innocence.
Trope Elf: the immortality of naivety
Vampire: what then when heroes grow old & lower their shields?
Trope Elf: they take up the pen & remember their youth & expect such vigour to be re-awoken.
Vampire: yes, to pass on what was won. What was lost.
Trope Elf: and so find the cost: the simplification of ideals.
Vampire: shine upon the dross.
Trope Elf: furies fire with no spark.
Vampire: are we then the total of sum our parts.
Frankenstein walks up: no, that is me.
Trope Elf: hey
Vampire: hey
Frankenstein: I have young & old body parts.
Trope Elf: kinda gross, but ok.
Vampire: look, that bits black.
Frankenstein: I'm diverse now.
They sigh, drink, ponder their souls.
Frankenstein: at least you guys still trend. Vampire: sex. Trope Elf: its perennial. Vampire: sometimes they do not even want that sweet relief. Trope Elf: vaginas are pagan & so is bum sex. Frankenstein: can they not see their hate of themselves is their hate of me? All I want is love. Vampire: love eternal. Trope Elf: love inherent. We drinkA Provocative Reflection (cancel culture debate)
Here follows a reply to Verso's blog 'The Use of Free Speech in Society' re the debate about cancel culture and Harper's 'A Letter on Justice and Open Debate'. I return to the history and perspective behind the pseudo-intellectualism.
Il flama. Without soul you are cursed, severed from the divine: this is the fata of evil. If you believe there is no soul you curse yourself & live that harm each day; reduced in pattern. Autonoman rather than autonomy.
Indeed, we need to look at that more closely.
[Listen: System of a Down "Science"]
The Enlightenment was a reawakening of cultural values with ae priori in those who wrote the texts the church pillaged to repress, stolen in turn & circulated with a continuance of kenning to create the blossoming sciences & art to inform. Oh the cursed, unwashed masses how the tyranny of the majority does rule when ignorance is dictated by destruction. It must be acknowledged that the church is based on suppression of the Divine Feminine, committing generations of genocide & slavery, infanticide & pedophilia. Is this the position one we should accept in good faith?
Reply
Reply to John McCullagh's 'Spout'
I see red in you though you speak of
blueness
but do not turn your head away
the rivers know all sorrow
and the ways of shadows
where wisdom waits in purple
free
select the ambiance of gold
as the honey of your tongue
and know we hear.
Old School
Sometimes you get so caught up
in it
you forget what the sages say
forget the guy: work.
This is being young.
Like the way you bounce,
and hold firm,
have things your way,
be the darling
and shoot to kill
but hold fire on yourself.
You are always of worth.
Every hard won penny,
and tolerated ego trip,
so you dont trip into the trap.
Born ready.
But never their babes.
Infantilise this,
that faux power dynamic;
be empowered.
You are more than tits n ass
a pretty smile
a pout
tears of pain on a painted face
(metaphorical or otherwise)
you are more than a label
(or the)
[this is rock n roll]
Dont forget to update the narrative,
learn to refresh, live, lose,
remember what is lost
and who.
Take time to be community
without loosing shine.
Never give into hate
and always be brave
[...the Scottish way]
all tribes know the hearts way.
Now; be curious
and seek truth.
[Old advice updated}
Boom
There was once a world with no stars. At night, when the last the dark ate the light, a terrible loneliness would settle upon the people; a yearning ache, the jittering disassociation of lostness stilling momentum, as their hands shook, as their eyes grew wide and round and their voices fell silent.
But for that stirring hush of their breath. A monotone consonance was all that passed for life.
Of course, they killed themselves in the small hours or drank until they forgot or beat the ones they claimed to love but did not becuase all there was...was silence and fear.
The noxicity of advancement.
They say it was different, once.
They say, there was hope.
There were other worlds...
We have not always been so isolated.
No longer, if ever it were true.
In the dwindling remnants of humanity she had grown, swiftly orphaned, adopted, forgotten about as long as she shifted and grifted and stayed silent. Food was meagre. Love something that came with a hand over the mouth and sour breath and stabbing pains. But that came later for her, after her breasts came. Ugliness a blessing in these foul days.
When the sky turned yellow with the poison of their forefathers. With the pollution the factories still produced.
Somehow, in stolen moments, she had taught herself to read and all such moments were spent so. She had discovered what used to be a library, buried, burned and damp. She understood children used to read in trees, but she had never seen one. They had leaves, like the books, but very different and, apparently, it was the heart of trees that held their story. Not the leaves, they hungered for the light like she. Sometimes she tried to read the plans that remained in the overseer's office but that was a language she could not grasp.
Sometimes she wondered if she was to be cut open whether her story would be found.
But no, she had seen that too and it was not so. It hurt to read.
Sometimes she read nothing for days.
Othertimes she destroyed the most hopeful pages, the ones that spoke of spring, of happiness, of fat children having adventures with their pets, always smiling, and eating things called sweets. Or the ones that spoke of the wonders the future would bring, of how amazing the human race was. She feared others would learn to read and know the anger she did.
She liked the realistic ones best; rape, war, violence; the rants and diatribes and caustic criticisms. See. Look. It was never hidden.
They always knew.
They choose this.
She did not feel guilt for what she planned.
It was inevitable.
It took a long time to collect what she needed, every resource was locked up tight and there was fear of rebellion despite the blasted minds of those left, who did not care for anything. The research was harder though, hunting for loose pages with cohesive knowledge. Couldn't miss a step. It was clear those books had been purged.
But, eventually, her bomb was ready.
She thought long on where to place it, unsure of the expected radius of the explosion. This concerned her. So she made more. A few years, carefully, steadily.
But, something changed. A rumour came. Not everywhere was degraded.
There was still class inequality, beyond the small dichotomy she had always known. There were rich fools, somewhere, and, as they are wont to do, they had preserved their way. Something known as luxury.
She decided she would take this.
At 17 she had lost some of her youthful ugliness and at some point a couple of officers had claimed her. They used her hard, but kept her to themselves and rarely beat her. She was relatively lucky, better that the early ones. Better than being shared by all. Still, she planned to kill them too, if they didnt kill themselves first; in their 30's they were old and becoming bleak. Either way suited her, she would act before there was risk of another taking her.
And she was luckier than most.
She was tempted to test one of her bombs.
It took a few days to work up the courage and, more importantly, the timing. Be senseless to get caught after a single detonation.
However, it went very smoothly. Dinner time, officer's canteen, hidden in an old vent long taken over by various repairs and power circuits. 100 dead, half the building just gone; boom!
In her stories she had read of the thrill, the exhilaration, the killing lust. She felt none of that. Just a vague sadness and the small satisfaction of a thing well made. Her bomb.
Her bombs.
Boom.
She had been unsure of what the reaction would be. In the smoking aftermath the dejection briefly lifted from the workers; one smiled. She was sure a few slipped into the ruins and ensured the survivors did not remain so. Then they just carried on, back to work, back to bunks, back to gruel. Back to the nightly suicides.
Not exactly a workers revolution.
But she had not really expected that.
Her officers survived, and more rumours came. Believed an accident, a malfunction. Some bosses higher up were curious, the explosion had released a lot of energy and if they could figure out which redundant system had caused it they may be able to harness it. Too have a turn around.
There would be visitors.
She looked at her bombs. Did they not know the making of them? So simple, really.
They came in cars. They came with escape plans.
She let them stay a day or two, until the dark loneliness began to eat the light of their eyes and the air to scab their soft skin, to hear what their opinions were. They did not suspect bombs, even when they found a bit of casing that had partially melted but not been destroyed. She was rather disappointed, there was an odd lifting sensation when she had imagined them understanding, being curious. Perhaps it was hope, she put the thought aside. They were no different.
She placed her bombs; overseer's office, one of the dorms, three around the factories, two on the wall. Boom, boom, boomboomboom, boom boom.
The flames were beautiful. So much light!
They had never seen such bright.
Then, she knew wonder. Such colour.
If only there was still paint, or cameras, or...then she saw the way metal glowed and melted, the sparks, the billows of smoke curling through the glow. She wept. She began to understand the stories she hated. But, too soon, a few who had not crisped in her lovely blazes came running to the cars. They were injured. She told them she was a medic, a word she had learned along with a few gestures. They were familiar with the concept and allowed her to help and she easily guided them to the car she had chosen, pointing conveniently to one of the new holes in the wall but undamaged. She had already hidden more bombs and other necessities beneath the rusted chassis and the wheel cavities where they were not likely to be found.
Surprisingly they offered no argument about her leaving with them, but she was stemming some serious blood flow from a man with medals. Little plastic, sparkly things. Did they mean he was rich?
Did they have...sunshine there?
If not: she would bring the fire.
They travelled through several disintegrating days, the man with the plastic medals died expectedly and the others were worried about being disciplined for the lost cars. It was his orders, they said. It was the factories fault, they said. Medics are useful, they said, and kept her on. She watched them drive, cognating the pragmatic bare of it. Stories did not often describe that but for the oft sexually connotated shift gear. These cars were more modern if in terrible repair.
She liked the speed of them, even if she hated what they represented.
The landscape was rubbled, flattened, the horizons lost to smog and shadow.
The next place was not much better than what she had known. More factories. More pollution. More people.
Not riches, nor sunshine. She was not sure she would ever find any, that there was any. Bunkers, perhaps, but not here. But this was better than before. She stayed a short while. Stole ingredients. Left bombs, and booms and carnage. She admired it in the rear view mirror of the car she stole when she left with no direction or idea of where habitations were. But she didnt need that, she followed the remains of a road worn with recent tracks from wheels larger than hers.
The next place was richer. Some people wore colour, once or twice she heard laughter. She tried but only managed a strange huff huff. Here the children were kept separate. At first she thought it a school, that they remembered how to read, remembered stories...maybe even nurture.
But no. No, just corralled early, delegated, bred with first bleeding. Controlled.
Closer to the rich folks, then, that was certain.
She stayed longer here, regretting the enthusiastic amount of bombs she had detonated before. She needed to make more. They were more watchful here, though they had nothing really to protect; no art, basic food. But dismay and the lonely dark did what it always did and her relative freedom continued.
One night she lost a bet with a woman. She had seen her earlier, kicking a cat. She had always liked cats, the way their eyes caught and reflected the light but never stole it, the way they hissed, the way, occasionally, they would let you scratch behind their ears. She lost her coat in the bet, its cut was markedly different from the uniforms here and the woman had liked the way the collar stood upright and framed her face. They were about the same size, similar dull hair.
And bodies often burnt beyond recognition.
After the woman left, she entered the officers dwelling where she worked she set off her bombs, boom, and left.
Undoubtedly suspicions would be aroused by now. She kept the car.
The next place; boom. The next place; boom. The next place; boom. Each as tired and welcoming of death as the last.
Everywhere, hope had died. Until.
She was watching the flames, drinking alcohol whilst sitting over the warm engine and trying to imagine what stars looked like, if they were like the sparks that drifted but harder, steadier, brighter, further. Then she came, hair as red and yellow as the flame and skin as mottled too. Take me with you, she said and smiled, take me too.
She shrugged and asked her if she could read. No but I do have grenades, the other replied. She took her and it was strange to have another with her. She supposed she could be a spy, or intending murder, and the thought broke up the monotony of driving.
The girl said the bunkers had been looted long ago, they could go there but there wasn't much to see. And there wasn't, just a hole in the ground...though she did find a book. Whole if torn and pages stuck with damp. It was a love story about shopping and she read it aloud when they couldn't sleep. It had lesbian sex scenes in so they decided to try that and both liked it better than being raped, being used, and in the others history being bred. Her child was long dead, she said with no emotion when they lay sweaty in the back seat after. The stretchmarks on her stomach were softer than her breasts, her lips.
She thought she began to know something of pleasure, maybe of love. They both despised the concept of shopping and longed for the flame.
The next place; boom. The next place; boom. The grenades made such noise, and ate up the distance she was used to, but oh how the rubble and bodies flew!
The next place; boom. They got shot at there, unexpectedly, in the dark but were only grazed by makeshift bullets, screeching laughter into the unhallowed night.
They decided not to steal guns, to stay pure.
It was a statement.
And then the road ran out.
They had noticed a brightness on the horizon. Was it fabled sunshine, they had asked and frowned, the ever present chem clouds obscuring certainty. The storms that shifted constantly confused the hours between dim day and dark night. Still that direction was better than none and their decisions had led to an awakening of what used to be a fundamental human emotion; curiosity.
Perhaps it was sunshine, they shrugged, perhaps it was riches.
It was neither.
The road ran out at the coast, travelled first through endless stretches of concrete, a broken once city. all cracked and scabbed and materials long pried loose. Bones littered. The road sheered off and there was water. Endless water all the way to the horizon, black and oily and on fire.
An ocean of fire.
So this is the end, she had said. As she had began.
It's always waiting, the other replied.
It cant be fixed.
They found another book.
Of sorts. She thought perhaps it could be called a compendium, but modern and old fashioned all at once with traces of foil still clinging to the rippled surface of fused plastics and still bold font. Inside were photos of sunshine; day spilt in angled luminous in all sun shades, like her hair. In the firelight of the ocean her eyes gleamed umber traced in green.
Inside they found riches; farms fruitful and green, deserts purple with bloom, fish leaping waters, a kaleidoscope of evolutions varieties of life; including people, their buildings whole, then shattered; their smiles gleaming; their hands on swords, on guns, on bombs, on painted grotesque screaming on pier sides darkening with an expectant future.
They found hands raised in defiance.
They found the seeds of defeat.
They found the way to the moon, a distant dream, now, of an unseen thing.
Just smog.
Just endless clouds.
She almost remembered something, but shrugged the smile away.
Later, sitting on the roof of the car and holding rare warmth, the flame sun one asked; you reckon we could siphon it?
She glanced at the remains of the city, crumbled and dusty and grumpy with past. Likely to find something salvage, but where would we pump it too?
Depends on the substance. Do you think the air could replenish?
After a while she sighed, no, and they quieted. She touched the pages, the leaves of the only tree they had, and said; we shift it, convert it, or we linger and make more permanent.
Bio-domes?
Perhaps. We could hold out.
If it worsens, we all die anyway.
If it doesn't we're sitting on a fucking profit.
It was too late for them to conceivably hope, as neither had ever known such or that such could be.
But it was a good start.
The ocean continued to burn, and in their wake the rubble stirred with wary, shifting numbered feet of those the bombs didnt find.
And some decided to seek the fire first before the nullity of their drudgery took them in the self held night. Others took things, and moved. Migrated. Changed. Hunger was always hard fast anyway.
They began to think in choices.
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