Monday 31 December 2012

Learning to swim



27 degrees in the shade but never enough to  bring us back to earth. 

Every drop of sweat from underarms was glorious damp and crumpled sheets of abandoned bed, every sunburnt cheek the flushes of ecstasy, every layer of peeling skin a reminder that there was so much time to take each other off and expose the raw selves underneath.

I wasn't allowed to find my bearings. It ruins the magic. I must leap,  naked and terrified, engulfed and consumed by the fear of drowning. I must dip my head and be cleansed, burn with the chill or die ignorant ashes. 

I trusted, and I leapt. I expected revolution but breath deserted me. My lungs drew waterfalls. ice rushed my bones. 

Through foil and saline, I swore I'd never do it again. Was it not sufficient to destroy my body and flood my mind with fear? 

'No,' you laughed, pushing tattered spectacles up your button nose. 'And darling, you never even swam. All you did was dip your toes.' 

Thursday 13 December 2012

For Ben

Catch my eye, my love,

I hope the fleeting glance gives you the smallest ray of hope that it's not just you, it can't just be you.

If it is then what are you but another of Ginsberg's angelheaded hipsters perpetually struggling against the darkness?

if it is, then we are all doomed.

If it is then you will never throw off your shackles and run defiantly into the night with an army who bear your scars and will carry you tear choked and stumbling when you can't find your way,

You will never surface gasping every single breath the first and last you will take, never fix the watery sun in your sights and pierce the membrane emerging into the sunlight sepia tone can't fix,

You are not alone, and my love on your broken body you keep the secret of a life which has threatened to destroy us all;

But you had the strength to fall from grace, to land on asphalt and linen and padlocked cabinets.

and I swear you have the strength to climb, even if your hands bleed and your lungs burn because there are countless like you, dangling toes and dropping rocks from the precipice and praying for your gaunt limbs to drag themselves back up and tell them,

How you ate the fruit and charmed the serpent and couldn't bear it again, how you crawled destitute on your hands and knees towards the smallest glimmer of light.

If you won't catch my eye, my love, catch theirs, hold their hands and feel the sunlight warm your back again.

Tuesday 13 November 2012

Flesh


Borne of passion and continued because its razor-sharp teeth had clamped down on our flesh, because its intoxicating brew had worked its way into our bloodstream - the lovesick disease was killed before it had the chance to sever the spinal cord and change the future forever. 

How did it happen? Our bodies, our bones, were supposed to grow old and fuse together, not twist and crumble and turn to dust. We are so old, our faces distorted to cover a truth neither we nor the world could bear.

You have taught me how to be disappointed, and instructed me not to trust the world; You have opened me and poured in hate; You have sealed me shut and left me to decay. 

a part of me will always shine a little less brightly for having known you. 


Thursday 11 October 2012

white bread and restlessness


conversation laps at the edges of our consciousness but it never really threatens to engulf us.

we'd all like to write ourselves as the misunderstood hero, the boy who might or the girl who did, to twist our lazy slump into a night watchman biding his time. but the truth is we stay in all week because we spent all our money in Soho, we eat curried chickpeas and we fall asleep in front of Newsnight.

we drown in books and films, and music and radio, and still we have nothing to say,
somedays I look inside my mind and marvel at the wide open spaces,
why is my body so slow that it's all I can do to walk and breathe at the same time,

why

when I say I'm reading Lenin am I nearly always fucking,
when I say I'm writing my magnus opum am I eating white bread and watching mindless television,
all the while wracked with guilt that I'm not reading Lenin?

Thursday 6 September 2012

losing my head


I awoke this morning to find my head so cumbersome that my neck could no longer take the strain

millennia bearing down on just twenty two years of skin, sinew and a soft cushion goaded into life by second helpings all day long

dreams of grandeur piled under the concrete block of the work-pay-rent beat, the wallet that never stretches to a new pair of shoes but softly squeezes another round at the bar, caresses cocaine and greases the cab driver's palm

the thousand books I devoured were light; the unbearable weight of the millions I will never read finished me

today my body crumpled and sagged with the impossible understanding of what it will never be.

Tuesday 4 September 2012

Notes on socialism and sex..


Some random notes I've put together this evening after reading Lenin's writings on women. Thoughts appreciated - these are very rough, so I'd like to know what to develop and whether to write it up into something more coherent!

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Given the constituent parts of my daily existence, it's hardly surprising that sexual politics is a large theoretical preoccupation of mine. There is passion, excitement, comradeship and beauty in equal measure in both.

And in imagining a better future, a socialist future, I have always been incapable of detaching political and economic liberty from the freedom to love in a new way. To love, as Kollontai argues, without possession or boundary. To love without the fear of reaching an impossible peak, to love without dependency or shame.

This is why, as a socialist, Lenin's insistent sexual moralism is such a constant disappointment.

In his discussion with Clara Zetkin, painstakingly retold in her notes 'Lenin on the woman question', he makes no bones about tearing Alexandra Kollontai's theory - that 'sex should be as easy as drinking a glass of water' - to pieces. 'Would a normal man, with normal thirst,' he asks, 'lie down and drink from the gutter? Or even from a glass who's rim had been greased by many lips?'

He will not vouch, he adds, for 'male comrades who chase after every petticoat', nor for 'women whose love affairs are entwined with politics'.

This from a leader who had an excellent position on the organisation of women in the party, and on the importance of extending revolutionary ideas into the home as well as the workplace.

Lenin's letters to his suggested lover, Innessa Armand, lay out his proposals for communist love. In place of marriage, he proposes a proletarian civil union; indistinguishable from marriage in form, he envisages the partnership as monogamous and lifelong. This is an exact replica of bourgeois moralism.

Of course, the Bolsheviks legalised divorce, so they were eager in one sense to tear down the oppressive family institutions. But as socialists we must understand that it was not simply the label 'marriage' that was so destructive to familial and sexual relations. It wasn't even the fact that divorce was illegal, although this was undoubtedly a huge constraint on the rights of women and the possibility of  unrestrained love. What ruins love under capitalism is the insidious nature of every intimate personal relation. The fact that every single interaction is bound up not only in the economic base, but in the ideological superstructure.

The superstructure is the terrifying mass of ideas, practices, ways of living our daily lives that come not from 'nature' but from our relation to capitalism. The base might dictate the need for women to work in the factories during both World Wars - but the superstructure created Rosie the Riveter. Likewise, whilst private property generates the need for patrilineal societies, it is ideology which supplies us with the ideal of lifelong love, of finding 'the one'.

Of course, this superstructure cannot simply dissolve immediately as soon as workers seize power. Lenin himself recognises this to an extent - he discusses the problem of women, post-revolution, still being confined to the eternal drudgery of housework whilst their male partners throw themselves into party work. This serves, he says, not only to perpetuate the oppression of women the Bolsheviks were wholeheartedly attempting to destroy, but also drives a wedge between women and the party as they begin to resent it for taking up their husbands time and energy and leaving them in much the same position they were before. His solution was eminently sensible and inherently progressive - a true socialisation of housework and childcare, leaving people of all genders free to work, relax and continue building a better society.

The fact that Lenin is so progressive in this respect makes his conservative attitude to sex almost ridiculous. Clara Zetkin points out that sexuality and the moral maze surrounding it is where women feel their oppression perhaps the most. If this is the case, it is likely to be where they find their liberation first too. A sexual awakening can be inherently political. Many people only discover love or sexual arousal for the first time when they discover someone of the same sex; given the social castigation that follows, how can we say this is not political? Or the freedom women discovered at the onset of the sexual revolution: the contraceptive pill and Shere Hite's groundbreaking study of female sexuality meant women could sleep around and enjoy it too, changing the way we interacted with sex and men on one level forever.

It's true that socialists can't substitute progressive sexual ethics for committed political work; we can't, as much as some of us might like to, move into polyamorous communes and spend our days wrapped up in love and sex, removing ourselves from capitalism. We need to work for a society where everyone has the opportunity to love without fear. But reinscribing the same conservative sexual moralism - or ignoring the question altogether - can only harm our cause and alienate those we wish to reach the most.

Sunday 2 September 2012

hide the flame


Your words sting harder than your fist ever could. When you write of me as a child, as incapable of constricting my emotions or repressing desire, I long for you to just punch me in the face. It would hurt less than a ruthless deconstruction of my personality flaws. Isn't that sick? Well, it's no sicker than  months of emotional turmoil, of so much guilt for demanding what I need, for being uncompromising, for refusing to be second best. No sicker than staying with a liar. No sicker and no more disgustingly misplaced than hating the madonna for making me the whore.

Well, no more. You called my demands monstrous, you said I burned too brightly. You are a dry husk and I am sorry for your loss, but I will not apologise for setting you on fire.

Tuesday 7 August 2012

standing beneath the shard



I stood beneath the Shard and watched its peak disappear into the clouds and lamented a life spent on the ground. Where the colours are too bright, the focus too crisp, where people move with all the ungainliness and imprecision you'd expect from someone trying to force their way through a game they were never taught the rules of.

I stood below the Shard and my heart raced, my skin turned pale, my breathing rasped and fluttered.