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Craig David

By on 16 June, 2016

craig_david

Almost as read (slightly mended) at Find the Right Words last night, 15 June 2016. Includes references to sexism, xenophobia, homophobia, fatphobia, racism, manipulation, and a bit of self-harm and suicidal idealisations; all in connection to horrible current events. Plus, a few swearsies in Spanish.

This week
has been like a rubbish
Craig David song.
Every side of my identity
has been attacked,
vivisected,
out loud
and in silence.

christina_grimmie

On Friday,
a young voice was cut dry
by an obsessive fan
who dragged her along to his grave;
the 100 virgins of Valhalla
concentrated in one small girl
with a roar of thunder inside.
The female Dimebag Darrell of pop,
the female Dimebag Darrell,
the female,
whose crime
was to become famous.
“If she sang just in the shower”,
the purists say,
“and not online,
she’d still be around”.
Singing,
quietly,
offline,
at home.

russian_hooligans

On Saturday,
the ultras from a wounded
mother land,
factories dismantled by capitalism,
the lover that split countries
and blocks apart,
aimed to flare us into disruption.
“May your divorce be as gruesome as ours”,
they charged into us, the horses.
“May your star fade away
in your constellation”.
In the eyes, the tear gas eyes, of the police,
when the victim fights back
against the bully,
the victim becomes the bully.
The hooligan,
as usual.
“If those drunk gits
stayed at home,
mouths shut,
jazz hands for every goal,
in England, in their own country,
this wouldn’t have happened.
Guess who’s not having a party.

orlando_pulse

On Sunday,
shots through the stomach,
nails on every limb:
Queer bar,
Latin night,
“callense el hocico, putos”,
was the shout,
but in English;
none of this “Allahu Akbar”
the same people who hate you,
hate me,
swear they heard all the way
to their Hamptons cottage.
Some of the dead
had previously died
when their parents said
“you’re dead to me”.
Wish granted, mami and papi,
now shove that lamp up your arse.
I may just be a greedy pig to you,
and maybe you read me as part of the norm,
but my head still hurts
from all the panic and crying.
Mis tios, tus tios,
all caps on newspaper message boards:
“si no anduvieran de jotitos
y se quedaran en casa,
calladitos,
casaditos y con hijos,
seguirian con nosotros
y no ardiendo en el infierno”.
(this is why I don’t talk to them)

jaime_bronco

Don’t get me started on Monday:
back in my other house,
our independent,
super punk,
vaporwave governor,
quoted as saying
“nobody likes fat girls”.
Set ablaze for bodyshaming,
he dug a deeper hole in the ground
and made his point clearer,
more hateful:
“I didn’t mean ‘the obese’,
I meant teenage girls who get pregnant:
nobody likes them,
baby daddies leave”.
I swear
to the Virgin of Guadalupe,
that if I were a teen mum,
after all this neverending rain of dung,
I would have hung myself
from a Job Centre sign.

murdoch_beleave

No time to put that rope away
back in that chest in the attic:
as, on Tuesday,
the only bloody foreigner who should get deported
(if he lived here in the first place),
obliged the masses to change their minds
and give away their rights,
your rights,
our rights,
because he’s a nobody in Belgium.
Because
he is
a nobody,
he wants us to feel
like nobodies.
And sometimes,
unfortunately,
it works.
It nearly worked for me
enough to take the knives out of the cupboard
but I didn’t want to
clean up the mess afterwards.
So instead, I took out my pen
and bled red ink all over the paper.
Please:
let’s go and party,
let’s stay and shout,
let’s stay together
and hope
for a better Wednesday.

castrolove

And then, of course, on Thursday (today) a Labour MP was a victim of a terrorist Britain First attack. I could expand this poem forever. Please, make it stop.

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