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My theory was written on the other side of town.
Eyes that had only watched the world through
a single pane of glass, found reflections all round.
Where I used to see grey, crisp formations of cloud.
Even in the house, blocks of door painted one colour
were replaced with dreamlike figures cutting cake.

Anyway, yesterday a man wearing a Union Jack
flag on his waist and sleeve told me his worries.
Five or six cars parked, eight or nine bedrooms
lying cold and lonely while in the south of France.
To lose count of the windows in one's life, I thought,
as he asked me about the proletariat. Luxury indeed.
Poem #16 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad'. Inspired by a conversation I had with a neighbour.
Akemi Sep 2018
lay low
make yourself a nervous fit
imperfect replication

here no one’s happy
staring down narrow paths
burning out the cells
lining their guts

words are worthless.
slow subsumption into academia, narrow tract, staring past the shoulder of every colleague, ten page manuscript of Foucault, perfect distillation of praxis into pure theory, words on a page, exploit the exploiters by using their vouchers at the mexican restaurant down the road, get what you can out of this ****** institution, on non-tenured, precarious part time labour, planning a 30 part lecture series in the weekend because these ******* ******* need their half a million in salaries while all the understaffed lecturers suffer, i ******* hate this place, these ******* managerial ******* ******* **** ******* **** **** ****
Akemi Apr 2016
Someone told me talking to women was completely different from talking to men
Familial desire circumventing physical rationality
I don't ******* get it
Flesh is flesh
There is no separation between this body and the next
No delineation save for my own arbitrary ones
This world is chaos bound by imposition
And none of it is real
I'm not even going to say middle class conceptions of family are constructs
Everything is a construct
Knowledge is anthropic chaos
Don't pretend you can tell the difference between essential existence and our subjective reordering of boundless matter
A gap does not form between a molecule of air and a molecule of flesh
I am trapped in my own sensations but I am not defined by them
So back to the story of material existence reduced to reproductive imperative
Treating all of the other *** as a means to displace one's self beyond annihilation into temporal infinity
Who ******* cares?
Legacy does not carry on after death
Legacy does not even carry through life
Language breaks down the moment we open our mouths
No one will ever view your life the way you view it
Splashing through a pool, ripples morph all reflections into monstrous amalgamations
Hey, tell me
Do you even remember yourself that clearly?
Hollow triumph, grandfather's bones in a grandfather clock ticking past twelve
Sorry, I just don't see the allure of treating half the human race as a means to satiate your own lust whether physical or genealogical
Or even categorising humans into binary dualisms that bored philosophers a century ago
Haven't you heard? God is dead
And there is no meaning to your boring male existence
3:52pm, April 10th 2016

Everyone is so ******* boring.
Trapped in traditions we dismantled two hundred years ago.
This heteronormative, andro-, euro-centric nothing view of ****, work, death. Blah ******* blah.
Stop imposing your sterile, bland patriarchal reactionist views on every ******* woman in existence.
Jesus ****.
I just don't.
I just ******* don't anything.
I just don't anything ******* just anything don't Jesus don't I anything
no no no no No no No no
stop stop stop stop stop stop stop
man wife man wife child man wife
playing in the garden, whee i'm an airplane, not aeroplane who the hell spells it aeroplane who even came up with that dad
well son, language is arguably an intersubjective field of interpreting the world into our subjective consciousness, with no core, filled with arbitrary signifiers to arbitrary signified concepts
but daddy, if everything is pointing to a concept, where does the real object come into--
shut your face timmy and go help your mother cook, until you reach the age of 16 when you must denounce all you learnt from your mother and become a real man who doesn't cook, and just lounges around and thinks 'golly, i sure wish i could be like my dad and wear a suit and lose all sense of self to the capitalist self-annihilating death machine of corporate hegemony'
Akemi Nov 2014
I can see beating a dead horse
Is still in fashion
How vacant
How vapid
How sick

6:26pm, November 4th 2014

The Races, aka horse racing, is an exploitative form of entertainment that continues to thrive so people can relive the glamourous, vacant lives of past bourgeoisie generations.

— The End —