parasites feast on underbelly
of fevered daily news cycle
self-dissections in smelly
articles whiny and spiteful
try hard toffs from dullard spires
slink to fourth and fifth estates
scribbling vanity in slimy mire
farming twitter with their mates
waspish handmaids of plutolatry
shrouded by capitalist carapace
bear bitter fruit from tortured tree
white stockings hold the winning ace
paratexting regurgitated paratext
pile-on, pile-on, bullies, who’s next
my liberation is a prime number
indivisible by misogyny
the boot on my neck
also crushes the workers
chose me first
so long ago
that which frightens
must be controlled
in the child’s face
he recognised himself
unsubstracted from bliss
a calculus of thundering heavens
waves, winds, sun and
a surfeit of constellations
yet the great moon mystery is intact
On World Bulletin, Levent Basturk provides analysis on the role of orientalist western disciplines on development within islamic countries, and how this phenomena serves capitalism, noting that:
“The Orientalist viewed Asiatic society as a society whose social structure was characterized by the absence of civil society. In other words, a network of institutions mediating between the individual and the state is absent. The conditions for Oriental despotism were created as a result of the absence of these institutions because the individual was exposed to the arbitrary rule of the despot. The absence of civil society simultaneously explained the failure of capitalist development outside Europe and the absence of democracy. Such an absence fortified the Orientalist explanation of Muslim psychology.
England was characterized by Marx as “the unconscious tool of history in bringing about … revolution.
In light of this view, the societies of the Orient could only be changed and transformed by exogenous forces because of their internally static condition. This exogenous force is the destructive effect of capitalist imperialism and colonialism. What can be inferred from this belief is that the struggle of colonized nations against the historical growth of the capitalist mode of production was, by definition, a reactionary struggle. Like other major figures of sociology and political economy, Marx and Engels concluded that the economic backwardness of the Middle East resulted from the combination of social and political causes, of which the absence of a middle class of entrepreneurs was especially important.”
As a result of the information ‘revolution’, the insertion of the orientalist point of view is deepened because it is elites largely who have the access to the information network. What happens when knowledge and access to the net becomes further diffused? The Orient is strengthening its voice, regardless of impact by western capitalism.
Simply stating that you are in solidarity, that you support a woman’s right to don the headscarf, remove it, cover/uncover etc. is in no way dubious. It is when aforementioned solidarity crosses the red line and veers into the seizure of native voices and the tokenization of these voices does this become intensely problematic, ineffective and perverse.
Also it has long been chronicled that women of colour are often left out of mainstream feminist discourse, unless it is by means of humanitarian imperialism channels where they are simply tokenised. Bell Hooks (Gloria Jean Watkins), a feminist, social activist, does a magnificent job describing this in much of her work.
In terms of the mounting questions in regards to how one is to raise awareness in light of such groups as FEMEN: you raise awareness by highlighting native voices, not co-opting them. It is your duty to amplify, not commandeer.
He cares not for mundane semiotics –
weeks of encrusted dishes mount,
all year I’ve begged the bludger
to wash the house,
sombre as my roiling mood,
disdain for stains and smudges
curses my brain.
Mould seethes from wall to ceiling,
the rot’s set in …
devolution is inspiration
for deconstructive brilliance,
of Lacanian castration.
Ragged spiderwebs in corners
mock and spin since he moved in,
from nights of carousing toil
empty cans pattern the yard
with post-structural foil,
laundry unspeakable with foetid heaps,
like his scruffy tangled beard,
I, or is it my ego, struggle not to weep.
He clicks the remote for the footy game,
derisively philosophizes Derrida,
oblivious to temporal flames.
Someone has to clean it up
and I guess it won’t be him.
His mind’s immersed in existential
anguish of being, not doing,
my discomfort his convenient exegesis
to carve another tidy thesis.
Domestic Inconsistencies (from Other Peoples’ Lives)
She made me do it, didn’t get the hint.
Simple things change. It didn’t feel right.
There had been others. I owed her no reason.
Too old, too bright, too cosmic,
her song had ended.
She came to take her furniture.
After all I’d done for her. I needed it.
She stood her ground.
Her quietness incited,
inviting me to strike.
The barbed truth prodded my hands
to encircle her neck,
clasp her thin body and throw it
like a curse across the room.
Who would have thought
she’d be so light. I didn’t mean to.
She bounced off her old table,
fell against her lounge,
I nearly laughed, pushed her from my house.
Hurled her bag after her.
She provoked it, this matter of perspective.
Everyone says there’s always two sides.
He dropped the blade on our love,
smiled when he dismissed me.
Kept my furniture. To compensate for
all he’d done for me.
So I visited to ask for my heater to keep me warm
now I was alone.
Like Anne Boleyn on the block,
my head in his hands,
across the room I flew,
ricochetting off the table against my old lounge.
My head rings still.
Once he called me his gentle rose.
Excuses are words, not blows,
not the black petals on my body.
I’ll extract the thorns,
release the angry pus in private.
Everyone says there’s two sides and
asks whether I provoked him.
I stood my ground, wept,
now weep no more.
may our love never become bad poetry
jolting and crashing in verse
jarring and halting
prosaic metre, catastrophic
pompous self-indulgent girth
striving to fit another
neologism into ironic mirth
reading Burns by turns on the verandah
is a small happiness,
antidote to overwrought malignancy
the saccharine lies of romance
when it’s quiet meaning
behind our leaning day on day
together in our private dance.
Valentine’s Day 2013
AMBITIONS FOR A MODERN SPOUSAL EQUIVALENCE
If you honour my requests,
we may live together –
my own room,
a balloon to carry my dreams,
to play my piano when I choose,
wrong notes and all,
no criticisms of my lousy housework.
an occasional neck massage
no ifs or buts,
let me float above the abyss
courting perilous risks
a free return ticket
travelling alone if I wish
entrusting you with my paradox.