here's some stuff i wrote recently.. Hoping to get some feedback.
The sun sets and she sits in a small cell, a modest chamber in the stomach of a world that is eating itself. The sun rises and she slowly dresses her body in a khaki uniform, clearly announcing that she is but a mere appendage in a vast and hideous organism. Some call it god, come call it a dream, still others call it progress. As the sun sits high in the sky she stares out a barred window to a landscape of concrete and concertina wire. She has known this place before, in her childhood, in the form of certain traumas suffered by her soul. A friend commits suicide. The numbness spreads as she discovers that her father is an abusive drunk. There are the boys who taunt her and threaten her with vicious sexual assault. How can she afford to remain sensitive to the world, she realizes, if it is but a freezing storm without relief? As the starless night sky still manages, somehow, to conjure memories of better times, she stares out across the gray barbed nihilism of this world, objectified. She shudders with futility, enveloped by loneliness.
He has slept alone every night for the past three years. Not quite alone, but the only one in his bed. He curls around his pillow in a tight embrace. Sometimes, as he sleeps, one can hear a faint whimpering, as if the pillow were not enough -- as if the vast reservoir of tears refused to burst forth without a warm someone there to receive them. In three years, he has cried three times. The world invites him to forget how to weep. A real man whimpers.
She cannot understand why, yet she has little choice but to accept what she's told.. The water is poison -- don't touch it. That was in kindergarten. In the third grade her mother died of cancer. In the fifth grade her best friend stepped off a very high cliff. Later the same year her uncle stepped in front of a train. In the seventh grade she stopped taking adderal and started taking oxycottin. By the end of the tenth grade she had had one abortion and two miscarriages. She didn't care much if the pill was an upper, a downer, a goner. The world had long since become a gray line. She had dreams of immense storms roiling through the oceans, as a child. Around eight years old she thought of the world as an ocean of suffering.
From: STEVENS, CONNOR C open letter v.3.#madworld May 2, 2013 9:24 AM an open letter from an anarchist prisoner
May 1, 2013
It has been a year of nightmares, of renewed struggles, of rebirth and mass death. The passage of the seasons and the dreams that come with them revitalize the mysteries of time. One year since i was arrested, i write this letter in the interests of a few brief reflections.
Much has happened in these past twelve months. First and foremost i extend my gratitude to those who have supported my comrades and myself, and to those who continue to do so. Without this support the world would certainly seem a totally dark and lonely place to us. Thanks for a little warmth. Also i extend my humble gratitude to those supporting political prisoners, prisoners of war, and prisoners in general. May it not be forgotten that when it comes to prison reform, the only acceptable tool is the bulldozer.
"It's about time we stopped acting so reasonable." ~ Arundhati Roy, Democracy Now! interview, March 18, 2013
We are dealing with psychopathic murderers.
They attempt to control the world, and by doing so only bring unnecessary pain and senseless destruction. Even as the hopelessness of our situation becomes more obvious every day, the enemy pursues the same old game of maintaining monopolies on their illusory control -- thinking they can corner the markets of information and violence. With the faith of fanatics they believe their tools will make them exempt from the list of the dead and endangered. When the course of events shows their fanaticism for what it is, they call it an "accident," an "isolated incident." If anyone challenges their self-declared monopolies, they are denounced as terrorists.
"... [P]eople tend to justify whatever affronts they don't avenge ... " ~ Guy Debord, In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni