I She said he raped her but now seems to not speak of it or it didn’t continue to enter into shared reality — when a woman says she is scared of a man, says jacqueline rose, it is not for no reason — psychology gets you nowhere, empathy is for the self or figures in resemblance clustered others ceasing that are not figures to be here therefore to be within the enclosure — hosting — jobs benefits costs — he took over quickly — no recordings but also, no one to show them to, to share them with, when someone walks in to a meeting with a tape recorder something has gone very wrong already — but the already- wrongness will be used against you, you in fact, are culpable, for being here, for seeing it, for not contributing or — sociopath — he has nothing but this — she abused him — we should call their parents and tell them what they’ve done — you fucked with the wrong — you fucked with the WRONG — nobody gon fuck w my poetry again sd shabine thru walcott’s knife — if you insist on inserting yourself as a — if you insert yourself — without asking — or — without asking and without letting anyone — insert yourself — you’re inside you fucked w you fucked you nathan should when he spends all day FUCKING YOU — you should — you should spend your — you should be more careful who you spend your — pounds or even people — you should insist on the impossible which is what — you shouldn’t have done — you are done — come back — and I hear what other people said and they don’t trust — to x oneself out — to X oneself to be Xed to be fucked to be really fucking fucked to be Next (clap — clap — clap). and the dream of you no as never you as him he is never you the dream of someone we all know to whom I refer as in the centre the web if you know of whom I’m speaking you’re complicit now too. he came up immediately, I have my journal the first day. someone called someone a. someone — a man with a name — called someone — a woman — a parasite. he is — or — if you are — a parasite — of the sickness that we are all feeding from. not to choose, not to limit. and you are sick too who remove yourselves as tumours complicit or why didn’t you or, you didn’t, go, public, just go, for god’s sake hurry up the idiotic british man yelled behind me as i glanced back. II we should forgiveness is we all we don’t want it’s not as if what does that for the at least we can save something I pulled the trigger with my foot In my interior And I want you to know my interior to know it like knives if you presume to reach over which Bitch I am not the one Beyond which I cannot save you. III I got your back. I got your back which is to say. I have decided the cost of you is worth me. But also that the labour you extends me. But also that. You are not labour you are the extends. You are not what kills or you are and I got your back shooting out loud not the one today is not our day But I am the extension of what you’ve done. IV When she also spoke it seemed like stopping I thought she didn’t it wasn’t it didn’t help first you kill yrself then you move to the others. V There’s nothing left to say that isn’t sordid — sort it — sorted. Domestic tragedy at which we all feel revulsion. Why didn’t somebody do something. Refrain of women thru time. Do you, actually, give a fuck, about anything. If so, why. If not, why not. Enough murderous delusion, now time for the weather. My diary from the first day — someone else behind him, so cheerful. Sickening to die, end it, don’t you, name inscribed everywhere even where I — No one. Wants. Anything. To Do. With. You are lower than the metaphor used to lower. Far much proto-fascist — if you disagree, ask yourself, would you be willing to live there? If you disagree, ask yourself, would you be willing to live — with him — with her — with them? If not, why not. If so, draw a picture and tell us what it’s like. VI If it isn’t true then we’ve ended up somewhere worse than expected, a place where best intentions detonate a pluriversal anarcho-xenocide. Ask yourself who owns your fear and why and if he’s coming back. VII Ask yourself why it only lasted a few days and went underground the inscription of names. We found Miguel on a tree. VIII Nothing to do with trust or daily life even motorised and you want us all to sit through it. And we do. 3 hours on average, is it a job, were you, burn down, I want you to burn down. IX I dream of killing — not you, him, her — I won’t gratify with the you of the lyric, with the love, I dream of stabbing him, of bashing her with a golf club, it doesn’t feel good, it’s horrifying to watch something die, but there’s also the alternative, not watching, not watching as something plural dies. X I hate you for what you’ve done and the words you’ve used to do it and to conceal the crime knitting over like scar tissue, I hate that I will always be a part of where something happened and the horror that perpetrators never see themselves reflected in the shine. They move on. We burn. XI End ownership. End faces. Whatever happened to B narrativised and imprisoned in a gallery. Who tells the story owns you. Kill the story. Death to the story. Who crossed out my name. He never had to deny it to me about to beat and drag him until now, funny the language of threats and the language of the X’d. It’s no good to someone’s face. It’s no good to anyone’s back. And no one should know. Fade to blk. Drop. XII No use forgetting if that’s a labour itself of crossing out your own name write a hundred times “I will not remember what somebody did” and sign practice bubbles n cursing. No use remembering for whose sake for a collective formed by the enemy’s rhetoric disassembled years ago the mission deteriorated self-owned. No use forgetting if you see their faces and names while you linger in the half light of the X’d. No use remembering if you can’t sustain the things you did wrong in the wrong name. No use forgetting when you might get your chance on the bus late at night at least to cause minor damages. No use remembering when no one remembers you. XIII Now is when I’d list your names like some idiot who sends raw emails. But I don’t have any. Name names. They say. I know it’s a good idea. But that’s all they have. Names. And we don’t. Or I. XIV If I had as many lives as I had hairs. At least one tongue. And it’s much easier to kick someone to death when they’re already on the ground, that’s one problem I foresee. Understanding is a luxury of perps. If even the sun. I could start from any perspective. That’s part of the problem. We are in the foothills of a great mountain said someone who didn’t understand but was right anyway and dead elephants Hannibal brought. You can’t call someone a traitor who was unfaithful to an unarticulated idea, an X’d idea. You can’t call someone a traitor if they’re just normal. Why do you even exist his gaze suggested. Who the fuck are you then. Would you like something to read. And there may have been no way anyone got to you. Maybe you. XV In the un named of all the X’d. In the unseen shadow of the tunnel. In the motorway. In the inexplicit and fucked up in the shadow of risk. In the unlist of the unthere, not the not there but the made to unbe. There is no confession. Only the guilty forgot what they had to confess to. There is just a mark. Where something was. And then was made to never have been. There are a million ways not to think about it. Pick one.

Poets Resist is published by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.