Im gonna write something new in English 4 the West

creating a space

Creating a space;

So we have this precarious transitory shit going on; tryng to break into a new place and make a new space wit some new peeps and many old ideas- the place Berlin, Germany. It’s as if its still 68 sometimes cept its lots sadder, lots more privileged, out of touch with  the world; precarity a mere lifestyle choice and its odd with all this s p a c e . yeah its kitsch and whatever and its not gonna end capital or modernity’s insecurities but man the quality of lyfe can be so gr8….

Not to say its been easy being brown being queer being woman being foreign being complicated being quiet and confident and comfortable with oneself cos well its fuked really all these insecure white heteronormative oversexualised fools looking to conquer looking to subsume you into their little world like we’re some happy Indian face going with the white supremacist hippy flow or some traveller.

 Oh god the fucking travelling

like its only thing left cos your own fucking lives are so easy and dull and square and white and yet they’re not but you can’t conquer home only you gotta move on and conquer other people and then tell more people and so the insecurities are socially reproduced and if you actually want to genuinely travel well get ready for these fucking shitheads all all over the place with their little white hippy networks no different to bs antifa blac bloc nonsense go lyfe is fucking infuriating and ‘normal’ people are so hard to find cos club mate cos anarchism cos 68 cos postfordism cos precarity that exists cant access this shit cos white supremacy cos patriarchy cos safe spaces don’t mean shit if you don’t want shit to do with the shit discourse and the shit form and yeah im ranting but whatever my own space is mine and you will be slowly let in maybe but that’s my decision cos sovereignty cos individual thought and fuck neoliberal consumer ‘anticcapitalism’ and its anti-individualist bs cos Stalin was the biggest activist and the most insecure

anyway decadent established alternative marxist nonversations can die in their smokefilled hell of ripped wallpaper and Mao’s imaged culturally revolutionised breast-staring in the traumatic hallways of Mean Girls while fucking off back to Switzerland


so off we go to the hofs and their markets and walking down the streets with a keen eye for some passable furniture and a few too many beers and the hunt for the amp is on cos music and jobs loom somewhere in this hilarious metropole and yay for some normal folk to live with cos well housing’s a fucker and mate its so much easier for the single for the ones who can sleep around and fall into large cliques and their bs patterns of behaviour who all help each other out in their little bubbles of white decadent taste – shite culturally appropriating (need that be said) music and shite aesthetics and just crusty and horribly irritatingly and cringely white ergh

but yeah for own spaces cos guess what treating yourself well and trying to live well isnt ‘counter revolutionary’ or ‘bourgeois’ and is very fukcing important so fuck all those lefties who say otherwise those privileged pieces of demeaning naive shit; life is gonna hit them hard

 and shite my laptop’s running out of battery as a I sit in this hilarious bar with everyone Friday knighting it up while our flat sits here (anti)/suprasocially making use of wifi cos yeah internet lacking homewards lol


On Capital Pee

On Capital Pee Poetry aka straightwhiteboystexting

he he is the first man he on the moon sorry He is the First Man on the Moon he hehe. let’s talk politics and maybe some love for the existentialism in between forever sellable sorry sex i mean with many body parts sellable too. And then synonyms: composition creation untitled /untitillating/ opus pompous ex why zee. serious proper syllables forming cream puff cum hot cross bums yes please we ask you for sexualization, forever placed under the table as if i can’t stomp your sex fire out right there. diy poem recipe fruit and bodies and sex and brutal political prostate cancer still sex-tied not sex slave but sex the encaging. and don’t forget the ‘non-white’ subject-ifiable for decor reasons and construct your spectacled spectacle critique.

””the cyclops doesn’t know you from nobody for insert ancient greece check i’m a poet it is texting penis city flowers flowers vagina and landscape architect sky scrapers itching clouds gray and elderly elusive because pubic crabs built by manhood boots stomping on eggs are special because men don’t cook right you’re special because nonsense i am unsteady you must all know i am unsteady for i believe i am unwieldingly shit splinter in my ass whole hole ass sludge insert sexist poetry woman metaphors similes puns existing man poetry only as woman bodies bleep bleep oh eggs means woman diaphragm oh cheek means bum means woman oh flowers mean vagina mean woman nature is woman nature is woman and man machine technointelligent enough for self creation oh oh oh cambridge in my mouth and one two three i count in order witchcraft and wordery fuck i forgot to curse let the shit hail down from mount olympus shit i meant ah yes eight nine ten.””’

I am incapable of listening now just hearing. maybe this is quite listenable but i keep hearing ‘i am from cambridge i white he your breasts belong to a woman’. along with getting wasted don’t forget the coffee and cigarettes for which the words adverbed adjectived exist to wordily create, men.

at least we all know it’ll end at ten because christianity. 


there’s nothing to achieve


So I’m sitting here trying to work out the pieces of this History essay, a reconstructed recollection of fragmented pasts/fragmented writings/fragmented cultures/// syntax and diction and grammar simulated and reproduced as the liberal arts tradition clashes with the postmodern simulacrum of knowledge of neoliberal subjects of careers of digital futures and imaginary industries as the fabric of our postcrash postfabrik society slowly disintegrates to the European house beat of…. and I’m getting excited about ideas of the future from the past; of modernist utopias and the vitality of the new and I’m conscious of our historical impasse/of our postmodern overload of information and culture and image and electronic beats and lines and cells and likes and selfies but I’m comfortable with myself and my surroundings and my agency and my critical faculty and my formation of my social relations and bubbles and I feel free and optimistic… free from institutional guilt or obligation/ free from attaching and identifying myself with the ‘new’ social/political/cultural movement/trend whether it be movements against mental health stigma or vapourwave and I can still admire and learn and support and gain and grow and I’m still myself and no social media description of my avatar is needed to concretise myself for my ego…. There’s nothing to achieve and nothing to prove and the future is now and the tumblrs are now and the twitters are now and the aesthetic is happening and the music is perfect and the culture is mine and it is ours too (if you want) and the politics is shite and its all imaginary and immaterial and postsemiotic and postwhocares and the expression operates postpolitically cos Stalin was a stupid white boy (cept he was brown)

And yet here I am in a library at the top of a shopping centre under flickering fluorescent lights pasting together 19th century Britain and industrial rhythms and imperial chasms and moral revolutions and I’m feeling drained just for the institutional recognition/for doing the right thing for the future and I know its bs but I might aswell do it and yet the conflict remains and pragmatism remains and I got this gaping emptiness in my stomache over the pressure and horror of failing and there’s so much going on and so much to prove and so many choices and so many people and so many opinions and so many neuroticisms and insecurities and shit going on right on your doorstep and yet you can see through all the shit and the will to power still remains and imposes a struggle for recognition a struggle for  being put in a box cos Difference is the Identity /// the patriarchy and white supremacy and the heteronormativity/// the valourisation of the perfect bodies; minds; statuesque and perfectly white as the cum on the oriental bedsheet and the white dust blowing reminding the history and the present and the continuity and the stupidity and the insecurity blocking critical faculty and perception as the ego is threatened and well we could maybe decide to be Zizek and klugscheiss the lot of you but who does it serve and what’s the fucking point….


There’s nothing to achieve and nothing to prove and the party is over and there was never History and there were never rules and there was a never a Great Man and there was never a Real Economy or a Real Woman or a pure-blooded Black Person and the East is way more postmodern than representation allows… there’s  only our imaginations and only our memories and only our insecurities only ourselves and the confusing multiplicitous fragments of our intersecting lives and that’s something to be excited about maybe sometime

So yeah there’s plenty to draw on from now and from before and from displacement and the reclamation of intellectual and creative agency cos the SWP’s dead and Sid Vicious is dead and Dambudzo Marechera is dead and Bauhaus is dead and bin laden is dead and Charlie Chaplin is dead and Stuart Hall is dead and George Bush is drowning in an ice bucket and Blair is still on the colonial rampage of the Great Game and Hitchens was an asshole and Beyonce is intersectional feminism and modernism is dead and Hobsbawm is dead and loads of other old men are dead and punk is dead and this exists and this exists and this exists and this exists and this exists and this exists and this exists and this exists and this so what’s the problem 




yesterday’s names

last night i slept in the crack between two mattresses, i was in that half conscious state all night so i woke up feeling guilty i hadn’t made the decision to move. and also in half-consciousness all the languages mix in my dreams and they layer themselves talk to each other german shouts at english for being ever-present and georgian says hello i exist too and czech is just guffawing and then my contact-less eyes are covered in a fuzz of that overpowering hippie sheet on the ceiling which I didn’t agree to. and then there’s an old friend - old as in maybe not friend anymore - who is very straight very white and lesbian, you know, telling me i am a strong woman and feeding the lump in my throat, demanding to know how it is i am not lesbian, she a cis woman misunderstanding, and she kept running around me through the forest in circles and she had become herself without a stomach because i know, eating issues… and they were my eating issues in her lack of stomach running and running — it was actually like a gaping hole when I thought about it half-conscious, but physically just a thin stomach, and I felt really empty and like my secrets eating secrets biggest secrets were jogging publicly to be seen frantically and in a flash but without much depth and reproduced into someone i am not and that was sad.


and so i awoke with muscle pain to remind over and over of the night and when i opened the door to the rest of the flat the hippie housemates had this song blaring… and the guy, trying to be both bobs, marley and dylan, was singing about a ‘she’. and it just made me even more sad. i wasn’t thinking or really listening, i was just moving my body and feeling the muscles and looking for water and hating the music just cos i didn’t want to feel nostalgia but i kept having these flashes. ‘who is she’. ‘she’, some history i haven’t uncovered. ‘shit i hate these hippies’. ‘wait she?’ ‘wait i remember a she…?’ it was like when these hippies talk about their past lives that they discovered through tarot cards and i drone out what they’re saying: i was feeling some past life but my muscles were in pain on purpose to drone it out… ‘she’? i felt really sad, like when i hear trashy 90s music and somehow remember being a child, some specific moment when one of my parents held me, fingers gentle on my brow, and i remember their faces and my oblivion to gender or whatever, and it’s like ‘she’ is attached to my childhood just as a way for referring to me, someone’s whispering my baby nickname, even if i wasn’t a ‘she’, really… hrmm. like when you smell your grandma’s perfume somewhere suddenly but you can’t place the smell and feel weirdly melancholic all day until you know and then you realize it’s actually your other grandma’s, the one you don’t talk about…

i don’t know, i feel like i’m struggling to maintain the struggle, like i feel i only really exist if i don’t resign myself to some definition, because this definition doesn’t really exist… but it’s too hard for those around me seeing me to let me float. like i hate it when people say i’m in between man and woman — no, i don’t like the space between the mattresses, i don’t need to be put there, i don’t need to be solid enough to be pointed at. 

it’s really weird admitting that everything’s not super easy and that whilst this who that i am is kind of like a ‘solution’, it’s damn fucking difficult, and it’s not just the ultimate stop, the search-spotlight won’t find me, i’m displacing forever. and i don’t say so, that it’s so hard… 



i feel nervous. a lot. and today, too. hehe. (: (especially submitting this :P)




i feel nervous. a lot. and today, too. hehe. (: (especially submitting this :P)



Upstairs walking


Walking down the street: performance probing

Imagined: irl?


disappearing in the folds of urban anonymity

                urban 3d printed anonymity

                what is your agency

                to pull the wrinkles down across visage visibility eyes

                                and merit your existence

                or have you none,

                                being swallowed question mark question mark

boxed up plasticed up packageability square and


supermarket aisle city scape


                jarring legitimizing contrast for extracurricular hippy love to                       sludge: if DFL where to?

                parallel and parallel and parallel



And still parallel and parallel to exist further parallel autobahn and telephone poles and truck storage space

                And no sharp corners can disrupt robot arbeit

Wake up when the coffee burns

Lingering lack of buds alarming me in nuisance

Multitudes of masculine [imagined?] [imagined?] [does paranoia live upstairs?] monologues sweeping

                My brain

                Sweeping – clean? Cleaning? Or Bristles etching masculinity                   back and forth

                                You dole out space: here, cardboard and parallel and square

                Tongue flushed

                I repeat you


                My tone is mimicry

                Your monologues so normalized

                                Only mimicry jarring

                No you cannot undress me under the table, not even in poetry.


Pruned, actively watered, trees

                Outside, far. English: fill-in-the-blank

Creeping misogyny machine — propelled eyes zooming


Creeping inside

                Soggy accumulations graying sludge, dust dirty mind dusty mixed by/with white bodies

Fuck you for sisyphus for tumbling angry black man angry feminist angry trans stereo-snowballs silencing


Sunset shrouded behind calc not dust on Dover

And the industrial translator looked

                At the vacuum cleaner and thought

                Thank you, planned obsolescence



Really just yesterday

But all the people from all the Ubahns

Rising up from the downstairs factory

Rolling off the conveyor belt escalator

Into level zero

One meter of separation, one meter, no distance for human smell

To travel

                No distance for earphone tinned voices

Drink ok magazine ok life ok lyfe 2k14 ok one euro forty nine bitte

Refrigerator public drone far away from hums

                Through reflecting windows robots plastered shards of                             refracted celeb faces






Reluctant arrival underneath the table

                Where, bodies next to bodies flesh squelching closeness impeding,

                whiteman legs

                                splayed wide

                                splaying, marking, splaying, pushing, gendering, marking: secured existence.

                                splayed open legs splaying space and none –space – for us.

Fuck you no you cannot undress me under the table, not even in poetry.

That table cluttered with Africa*-shop elephant spoons/mandatory beer bottles: fair trade/pushing quinoa inflating Bolivia*/rooibos from South Africa*/weathered south-east-asia* so cool goa* travels whiteman hands/nonversations floating

                Ahem jerk interjection fools under the table ‘where are you reeeally from?’



Compare and contrast

Scram scram sheets of talkings different but flanked by ghost town institution

Jobcentre Plus, employment per square metre

                Water closet door person swiftly, efficiently,

                buyably unlocking locking always the


Jobcenter – no plus

                Bare transliteration, trans


                                Were not hireable

                                Not desirable

                Squarely: multi-culti, it’s globalization you know

Hurrah, you found India*, conquerment of the 21st century

                Been to Thailand*

                Been to Peru*

                Been to Nepal*

                Been to must-be-saved*

                Been to south and east through chocolate gourmet fairtrade journey

                Been to –where are they from?

                Been to the path less taken, banker or backpacker, two two two

                Been to planting black red gold


or: ‘wir’, you think


If I if we but: warning construction underway under always whiteman working binary perception, two two his his, so swiftly practiced: cement over all

         two two two

We cut you, your swinging words from up there,

cut you and your splaying

—Kinder surprise, sweatshop sweetness, we’re not in that cardboard box under that table

Sparkles and pink and sidepartings spacing nowhere in your eyes


bitter shite

↳ ↳

it was kinda like yeah here we are travelling in fortress Europe in a car of two poles (one going to Poland to bring his family to start in England, and the other on the way back to university after a summer of working in London) an aged german traveller-type and us on a school trip. So off we went searching for the green chimney, getting lost to the sound of U2 and Abba, and generally sharing an odd and pleasant transitional moment with these transitory characters in all its absurdity…

to arrive to normality; a transitional fellow from normalcy brains used and sane secure perspectives. peace

 to move to further simulated absurdity – Things and Sex and Safety and Whiteness and Alternative living without a clue of real Difference….. Mother Tongues and Racial Profiling and Anarchist As and Gentrified images

oh the images; wretched imaged and depersonalised and reproduced; from Brighton to Berlin to Rome and elsewhere; the bohemian pseudo-political pseudo-artist Proper Non-Persons Proper Different Proper Small-Minded White Heteronormativity reproduced in the Karl Marx Strasse Commune 2k14 (cough post68 precrash decadent idiocy). Graduates with Futures not that I’m bitter or nothing.

Oriental and African and definitely us German you Other; us connected Proper Non-People you an empty vessel to fit into our ‘flow’ or drown in your societal conforming ways non-conforming with our bohemian pseudo-commune; two paths only; let’s not actual look at the world because everyone is a homogenous white German subject….. white male narratives; echoes from lamentable insecurities 1492 via Trier

↳ ↳

So yeah… for shite jobs no prospects shite simulated spaces shite politics shite ‘alternative’ hippyland anarcho gentrified white shiteness future shite and past shiter// shite bodies and shite art and shite imaginary industry creating shite post-digital nonsense empty shite vessel holder its all fucking shite and its all in fucking English and its all stuck in that shite academy devaluing all subjectivities to shite theory reproduced and resimulated in shite institutional comfort for an imaginary public service shite shite social democratic shite liberal shite art shite career shite. Shite alternatives and shite futures and even shiter writing, not that I’m bitter 


chasmic canals // postindustrial lyfe

privatised people // improving people // neoliberal subject

privatised people // improving people // neoliberal subject

constructed frames of an urban marquis

constructed frames of an urban marquis

greyscale modernity

spectacle of spectatorous screen space / ghosts of german glory

spectacle of spectatorous screen space / ghosts of german glory


It’s so weird for me because recently my presentation has become more and more hard femme, but I’ve been hit with a bout of chest-based dysphoria? I really don’t identify as a guy or even masculine/trans masculine but my chest just feels wrong. I feel totally removed from and disinterested in most…

misogyny’s machinations





every time a man stares at my breasts it’s like WTF. wtf… is this seriously happening right now? huh really? wait, is it ME who’s crazy?wait no, a——, you can NOT think like that. but wait, is this really happening? reaaaally? especially when it’s someone who i thought was a friend, or even just some silly politico who’s all accepted amongst all the other sillypoliticos. especially when i’m just coming to terms with a million things in regard to my gender blablabla and then i just feel put on the spot. is this asshole seriously staring at those things that i often wish didn’t exist, that i try to hide, but then try to like and am just generally confused about because ahh what do i think of them. and then i just feel utterly uncomfortable thinking about those staring events and being around these men and being around people who are friends of these men.


and then these same assholes are the ones who, when you try to say sooooooomething (which is really fucking difficult to do, really almost never done it) are stupidly silencing, make me feel embarrassed, as if it’s my fucking fault they’re a dick, as if it’s not a big deal, even though they should be fucking ashamed and should just go away.

FUCK breast starers. and fucking HELL are there a lot of them and fucking hell far too often it’s been friends……………………………….. :((((

i seriously hate it. it is so fucking sexualizing — and being sexualized is like something that to me feels violent and triggers memories of shit that i do not want to fucking remember. fuck you dear man for taking the fucking power to put me in terrible places. it’s like this weird secret misogyny-machine that anyone can throw in my face and then because it’s all about the eyes pointing in one very certain but later not provably obvious direction i have to be the crazy one. then it all lies on me. UGH just fuck.


Institutional Normativity {whightonia}





Jutting slab of concrete, erecting modernity amidst the cloud of

dishevelled disillusionment creating situations / spaces/ dead


phallogocentric rhythms surpassed / crushed underpasses


ambiguous brown vulgarity / ambiguous caliphate / dead carnivalesque

working towards a new reproduction / beyond social democratic factory enclosures


William Hague / Clockwork Orange / if / The academy / what’s it all

about? / art / institutions / modernist / ‘Artist’s Union England’ / guild /

recognition and privilege / social democratic as liberal / defined /


politically feasible luxury status / reproductive simulacrum of biopolitic

traversed through the modernist underpasses and sharp corners

trundled and churned through the social democratic factory /

toxicity normalised / false postcolonial imaginaries / imaged


commentariat / structured violence and structured desire postbrutalist


sweating cocks trundling sludging / lodged trains dislocated spasmodic

phantasms along the Trafalgar Road


Thing - being intersection / Hito Steyerl / becoming modulated

cityscapes of male gayze / male insecurity / space / appropriation /

visible whiteness / imposed / performed / genital traffic jammed /

image maze / bodies landscaped / female passive thing / acted upon

things / polished and varnished things / unsaid traumas David Peace

'1974' / the beautiful carpets and Baz Luhrmann's glitz glam grime

cringe / active agents of infantile ideology

inorganic domestic reproduction / heterofuturist realities fragments

discombobulated/ speculative accelerationist postmodernist realist

ubertheory / access / status /


//dioramas of futures disembodied into an institutional public-private

corporeal body of postbrutalist depositions immaterially reproduced /

ideology and image gentrified subcultural English estates {whightonia} / 

Art // Academia // Creative Industries // white_facades_