rozk: (crumpet2)
Or maybe not. Perhaps we lose. The worst
not knowing, but suspecting, as we die,
these fools have killed the world. And don't know why.
Desperate people rise up, and the first

shot down as we were, and the next. Paid thugs
kill sisters brothers hoping they'll not starve
yet do. In south and north great icebergs calve.
Floods rise. Crops fall to blight or rot or bugs.

Last child falls to last sleep pus in her eyes.
The last birds charcoal on last burning trees
Art knowledge love just ash on burning breeze
charred dust with husks of roaches, lice and flies.

Those curses true we screamed with our last breath
Dying rich men will fuck the world to death.
rozk: (crumpet2)
It may well be that they will kill us all.
A thousand bullets in a thousand brains
would solve most of their problems. What remains
of any opposition will soon fall

to broken hearts and age. Yet, tense, at night
they'll brood on murders missed. Fear that we'll rise
somehow from death. Their lies will glamorise
us to their shiny children. What we write

somehow survives, however much they burn.
Regrows like bindweed, underneath the ground
Your essays and my sonnets will be found
on barrows, shelves and websites. No return

for you or me, my dears. We're dead and gone.
Their children praise us. Freedom's just begun.
rozk: (crumpet2)
You'll probably outlive me. Unless shot.
If things get bad, as very well they might
And we're arrested on some foggy night
I will not last on Dartmoor. Feet will rot

joints creak I'll catch the flu or fall asleep
and not wake up. This happens when you're old.
Bad food, some brutal guard, or just the cold.
They'll put me in a grave twelve inches deep.

And burn my poems. Keep them in your heart
where they belong. Admonitory advice
to learn, digest, remember. Once or twice
use them to teach. Yours is the harder part

suffer for years kept going by the hope
of seeing your tormentors choke on rope.
rozk: (crumpet2)
I have no particular interest in replying to any of the anti-trans self-called 'radical' feminists. However, one of them came, in spite of their perpetual whittering about respecting boundaries, into my time-line on twitter this morning in order to harangue me and so I was provoked into replying, briefly.

Elizabeth Hungerford, co=author of a submission to the UN asking for the exclusion of gender identity from protection, said this

Exactly, #nosubstance! @RozKaveney has lots of words but refuses to address that naturalizing GENDER HURTS WOMEN. #gendercrit4life

I was irritated and so replied as follows

No substance? One of the many words I have is gender, a word with many meanings and nuances all of which we inhabit.
Radical Feminism tries to impose a single meaning on a fluid word and impoverish language and life, and endanger women.
However, transexuality has very little to do with any meaning of gender save people's sense of embodiment in physical sex.
Being trans is not about social role or choice of partner or occupation or collaboration with kyriarchy in its patriarchal mode
Trans rights are about the human right to feel at ease in one's own skin. And you would deny that for a theoretical position.
You and your allies are bullies and liars.You are also like other bigots, losing an argument we no longer need to have with you
It's weird to wake up and find people who go on about boundaries trespassing all over my timeline.
TERFs chose long ago to refuse debate on equal terms. You do not have the right to unpaid access to my time. Go away.

That's an elegant enough formulation of my position that I think I should post it here as well and on Facebook. She won't be able to complain about evasion any longer. She and her friends will doubtless invade here and on FB to yell at me.

I repeat, they are not welcome there.
rozk: (crumpet2)
We are all broken shards. Each other's wrists
get slashed each time we move. We breath harsh words
poison to our own ear. We squelch through turds
pray that they are not ours. We keep long lists

of who said what to whom and what they meant
precisely by its subtext. Analyze
each word that'S spoken. Everybody cries
and every tear is special. Time is bent

each crisis comes round twice. It's such a bore
recycling one's own anger yet one's back
is sore from last time, raw, torn and bruised black.
This cannot be forgiven, and means war.

We interact for hours remain alone
mistake each other's torment for our own.
rozk: (crumpet2)
There are things death can't take – the song of birds
whose notes cut short continue. Always born.
Passion's blood rose with danger as its thorn.
Millennia wear brass: we hand on words

like runners in a race against the years.
They change remain the same grow richer still
each time they change their tongue. Somehow we fill
meaning so full of echo that our tears

our loves remain when eyes and heart are gone
to dust. And cuckoos call their double note
the same, and there's that tightness in our throat,
ache in our head that Sappho knew. All one.

Master, you told us this. Your thoughts were sound.
We hear you still, a voice from under ground.
rozk: (crumpet2)
We won't be silenced. There's a case for tact,
more for ignoring it. They'll say 'not yet'
tell us to wait, be sure they'll not forget.
The laws they are proposing are just packed

with such good things, although they leave us out.
There are not many of us, and the hate
some feel for us, gets stressed in each debate.
So don't be selfish, demonstrate or shout

outside, or weep. It's really for the best
we wait our turn. Again. Patient and mild
we stand, and they talk to us like a child.
Then turn their back and bitch with all the rest.

How our sick acts give sleepless fever nights
to proper people. Fuck our human rights.
rozk: (crumpet2)
You do the things that only you can do,
be useful, kind in unexpected ways
to sisters and to comrades. When malaise
creeps over you, accept it's like the flu

you are allowed to spend a few days sick
a few days off your game. Recovery
is sometimes slow, never obligatory.
You learn doubt's shape. It fits, a sudden click,

part of analysis, that's never done
always in progress. Brick on brick gets placed.
Each momentary problem that you've faced
part of the process. Always try to shun

the simple lying versions leaders sell
that silence stories only you can tell
rozk: (crumpet2)
It's almost sexual, that sort of rush.
A meeting listens to you. Feel their hearts
your hand upon their strings. That's how it starts.
You get addicted to that breathy hush

in meetings when you speak. Like good cocaine
it makes you briefly sharper than you are.
Words race round corners as you'd drive a car
hand brutal on the wheel. And it's your brain

whose tyres you burn, but also it's a cause.
That's more important than soliloquys,
or disagreement sobbing on its knees.
It is the people's struggle, and not yours

Beware of leading. Easy to enjoy
the ride. The revolution's not your toy.
rozk: (crumpet2)
I count my years. Like coins that I would spend.
And neither hoard nor waste. My drooping purse
like ageing flesh goes slowly bad to worse
Yet nothing seems quite ready for the end.

Most days are bright as stones. Wrapped in gold wire.
My glory friends dance round me. Word by word
they come to me so lush, sometimes absurd
this flood of language. Some day I will tire

but this was not that day. Spice, pizza, sun.
Protection racket hiss of urban geese.
Bustle of market. There's a sort of peace
that goes with crowds. I feel I've just begun

to love this world, this work. My heart won't break
to leave if I am bold, live wide awake.
rozk: (crumpet2)
So many fights we can't afford to lose
so fight we must. With blood upon our hands
perhaps. Important each one understands
it is the fight, but not the blood, we choose.

Fight that's our dialectic changed to will
we do not fight to win, perhaps to save
some fragments of what Money would enslave.
Freedom and love. I do not want to kill

Reluctance has a price we might not pay
but others. Pox and ignorance and ash.
Unending brutal tyranny of cash.
Perhaps it does not matter what I say.

Blood answers me and sneers. Intoxicates
Kills innocents, yet throws down nightmare states.
rozk: (crumpet2)
Stone through and through, it turns around the sun
every four years or so. It never had a name
before, and, named, it still goes round the same
unaltered. But our gazing has begun.

We do not pray. He would not want us to.
He'd mock perhaps, simmer in quiet rage.
His views set down quite clearly on each page.
To mourn him, we should read. It's what we do

to keep him in our minds. It's piety.
Authors still live, while read. We hear their voice.
This asteroid gives us a further choice
we speak his name aloud, watching the sky.

A better toast than whisky drunk in bars.
'Take him and cut him out in little stars...'
rozk: (crumpet2)
Murder at the Convention

The guest of honour blew up on the stage
quite silently. Emerald flames that smelled
of parsley burst. A centaur's sex call belled
over the intercom. A sudden rage

caused bloodshed in the artroom. Canvas tore
and sculptures crumbled. It was hell in there.
The cosplay elf with her vermilion hair
burst from her corset.Embers all aglow

still won the Clarke and Nebula.The vote
based less on sympathy than on our fear
that he'd reach out though ash, through death could tear
and take each con attender by the throat

and each of us would choke.grow pale and fall.
Convention murder happens to us all.
rozk: (crumpet2)

Snow falling slowly and the music died
in slow diminuendo. Giant flakes
as white as skulls echo that slowly breaks
like waves or snowdrifts. And she sat and cried

icicles on her lashes, broken strings
taut round her hands. The snow fell without sound
and sheets of music lay upon the ground
now blank as snow. It is the silence brings

A sense of death from cold. The music loud
for one last second a cacophony
containing ends of every symphony
In one last chord. And overhead a cloud

Dark as the end of music. And her death
was silent and as white as frozen breath.

Not bad for five minute improvisation...
rozk: (crumpet2)
We might well lose. Our enemies are smart.
They have the guns and money. And the power.
Do not assume that this is not their hour
to gloat, stamp on each face and break each heart

that cares and weeping sees the world decay
music and kindness. They won't understand
why victory seems to crumble in their hand.
We'll die in pain. And quite soon so will they,

Our only consolation that we told them so
Cold comfort of correct analysis
inadeqately argued. Synthesis
Perhaps the last sad true thing that they'll know.

Death's dialectic. Ashes of our brains
Mingle with theirs. Hot winds sweep empty plains.
rozk: (crumpet2)
Goddess of chance and fortune, hear my plea.
Let me not hate, and put into my sock
Feathers not lead. I'll delicately mock
More often than I'll smite an enemy.

Because they are such fools – though vicious too.
And goddess, always keep me on my toes.
Save me from smugness. Years ago I chose
to see respectability as flu

It stops you breathing. After all these years
I'll take what small successes come my way.
And so I'm here. At Pride, also the day
I do my Paltrow, smiling through the tears.

Honoured to be, thanks to my friends, and Luck,
The Patron Saint of Things That Rhyme With Fuck
rozk: (crumpet2)
It's you instruct me. All I do is tell
you what I've learned. Perhaps I summarize.
You need to know what I've seen through your eyes
that we can use. My generation fell

Comfort seduced us. This time they'll use fear
to break you into bits, devour you whole.
Each of us has a kapo in their soul
to do their work. And some will disappear

At random, just to keep you on your toes.
I'm old and toothless. I will write things down
you've told me, hold your words here, when you drown.
They are not quite as smart as they suppose

Some of us whom they thought they'd bought and sold
find something left of rebel when we're old.
rozk: (crumpet2)
How do you love in hiding? On the run?
When every hour is precious, how begin
to talk of love? When there's a war to win,
your deepest intimate a well-cleaned gun

For hours you practice taking it apart
putting it back together. You can't learn
lovers like that; you've not the time to burn
learning the way to stimulate each part

take them to bits, then snap them into place.
Guns only ever talk to those they kill;
you have a need for conversation still,
or heart grows steel. It's there in your cold face

Worst tyrants sometimes from best comrades made.
So risk it, fall in love, at least get laid.
rozk: (crumpet2)
We quarrel, often. And of course it's true
and rarely trivial. We'll get it right
although it means we sit up half the night
in rooms, on twitter. Such a shame that you

will not accept you're wrong. As obstinate
as Trotsky, though no ice pick to the head
occurs. Because we do not want you dead
just very sorry, dialectic's weight

heavy upon your chest. Then you confess
quite insincerely, but we do not care.
What once was solid melted into air.
The question's time-expired, well more or less.

Just mentioned briefly in some final bitch
when fascists shoot us all in some deep ditch.
rozk: (crumpet2)

To fight the tyrants we give up our name
become the rebel only. Spend each night
on different couch. No life except the fight
we fade dissolve. And so become the same

Anonymous as roses. Change our voice
to electronic buzz. A pastel vest
padded or binding hides or fakes a breast
The world has left us very little choice

Masked save for eyes and mouth, witness and speak
And have no fear of death, because no life.
The policeman's gun, the state assassin's knife
All power theirs. Our options are so weak

Save to refuse to serve, refuse to cry,
refuse to live and dying, never die.

October 2013



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