Bones belong in the ground. Bones belong in the ground.
I am from the past; the future has neglected you.
A reaction against identity politics is a symptom of being kettled. A noise of contrary energies. And what it means to fulfil all of your dialogues as a politics of identity is to kettle oneself. No. Not that. What I have done in a few practices of negation is essentially grass myself up. Just as intimacies of the body neglect other parts of the body: Yes in my politics I am not born in the wrong body. Yes in the established world of gender I find my body terrifying. Body and voice and mode. Yes I resist. Yes I fail. Yes this is an internal politics. Yes this is the individual. These are my tracts of affirmation. Yes this is still a jail. Yes I have never been killed in jail. Yes I cannot imagine it. Yes I do. Yes our feelings are not mutual. Yes, you are an enemy of mine. Yes the conditions are speculative. My voice, a revolting chain of lesser evil.
Bones belong in the ground.
And so we go sleeping. And so there is no action. And so you call me a boy. And so I, the unspecified order. ;;;, ,, , burying your last words with your body in the ground. An eccentric perversion. A mite.
If there were a sound
blitzing through the air
it is not yet the sound
of an entire failure.