Category: articles

Resistance is futile

At precisely nine in the morning,
working with focus and stealth,
our entire membership succeeded
in simultaneously beheading no one.

We set, on roads in every city,
in every nation in the world, a total of zero
roadside bombs which, not being there,
did not subsequently explode,
killing or maiming a total of nobody.

Also, none of us blew himself or herself up
in a crowded public place.

No bombs were dropped, during
the lazy afternoon hours,
on crowded civilian neighborhoods.

No stun guns, rubber batons, rubber bullets,
tear gas, or bullets were used.
No one was forced to don a hood.
No teeth were pulled in darkened rooms.
No drills were used on human flesh,
nor were whips or flames. No one
was reduced to hysterical tears
via a series of blows to the head or body.

In addition, zero planes were flown into buildings.

Since the world began,
we have gone about our work quietly,
resisting the urge to generalize,
valuing the individual over the group,
the actual over the conceptual,
the inherent sweetness of the present
over the theoretically peaceful future
to be obtained via murder.

To tell the truth, we are tired. We work.
We would just like some peace and quiet.
We stand under awnings during urban
thunderstorms, moved to thoughtfulness
by the troubled, umbrella-tinged faces rushing by.

We are many. We are worldwide.
Though you are louder, though you create
a momentary ripple on the water of life,
we will endure, and prevail.

A Press Release from People Reluctant to Kill for an Abstraction, 26 August 2004.

Paul

From a walled garden and some shepherds’ huts,
a huge, tri-peaked white zeppelin would come
into view. Then Paul Hollywood would close in
across the lawn, his silver quiff cutting

the air like a fin. A crisp oxford shirt
meant to make his eyes pop—a velvety navy
just across the color wheel from his tan.
Mary dispensed praise prudently, as if

pressing a toffee into your palm. But
Paul Hollywood can entwine seven strands
of dough into an ornamental wreath
with the dexterity of a concert pianist.

The rest of the time, he will handle your
bread like airport security. He flips
it upside down, knocks on its bottom,
interrogates it with sausage fingers.

When he is done, he dusts his hands and sheaths
them in his denim carapace. Sometimes we
observed Paul from afar, smoking alone
near the meadows’ edge, pacing like a bull.

From Inside the world of “The Great British Bake Off”.

Supporting England

England is by many 
objective measures 
a terrible country 
ruled by terrible people 
with a terrible past 
and a terrifying future, 

and I support England. 
None of my forebears 
were born in England, 

and I support England. 
When I watch the news 
or follow England games abroad 
or read about politics 
I often feel utterly 
disconnected from this country, 

and I support England. 
It was an Englishman 
who snarled at me 
on the street last month 
while I was taking 
my daughter to nursery: 
Fuck off Chinaman, 
take your Covid patient with you. 

Nevertheless, I support England.

The supermarket is selling 
something called “meatless burgers”. 
There are women on Match of the Day. 
You hear vague noises about “defunding the police”. 
You suspect, on some sinister level, 
that something you love is being taken away 
And so amid this landscape 
of shifting plates and cultural norms, 
you have a choice: you can get with the programme 
or you can stand your ground and fight.

I am not one of you 
and you are not one of us. 
But for this month, 
for these 90 minutes, 
for these sunlit days in June and July, 
let’s pretend we are. 

Let’s build a house together 
and watch it fall. 
Let’s pick apart Southgate’s 3-4-3 
and debate the merits of Jack Grealish. 
Let’s elate and commiserate together. 
The past is the past 
and the future is the future. 

From My cross to bear, June 2021.

Turned to glass

The bodies in the container 
partially thawed, moved, 
and then froze again 

— stuck to the capsule 
like a child’s tongue 
to a cold lamp post. 

Eventually the bodies 
had to be thawed to unstick, 
re-frozen and put back in. 

Cracks appeared,
cutting through the skin 
and subcutaneous fat, 

all the way down 
to the body wall or 
muscle surface beneath. 

The organs were cracked. 
The spinal cord was snapped 
and the heart — was fractured.

(From Horror Stories of Cryonics)

The last ten days of Ramadan

I never said a proper goodbye
to the city where I grew up.

On the second day
I phoned my cousins.
We spoke about cancelled exams
and pilgrims stuck in Mecca.

By day four
my cousin could barely speak;
the family were all on the ground floor,
she was too afraid to shower.

A trousseau for a bride,
red slippery glittery tobes,
perfumes, dainty sandals.
Kilos of pistachios,
bags of sugared almonds,
boxes of Turkish delight –
all this would be looted.

The sky over Khartoum
was lit with savage fire,
smoke billowing at dawn.

On Eid day
I dragged myself to the mosque.
I hugged other women and cried.

Eid mubarak.

This time, they didn’t pick up.

(From 5 Sudanese writers on the country’s nightmare conflict)

Left behind

A Jimmy Choo
Cinderella shoe.
A Pomsky
dog called Beyoncé.
An ice-cream cart,
a birth chart
and tarot reading.
A pair of six-foot angel wings.

A Roland drum kit,
an Angora rabbit
called Thumper, an Islamic
marriage certificate.
The bride’s pet lovebirds, Will and Kate,
which she was supposed to take
to the ceremony.
A GT V8 Bentley
convertible.
A huge inflatable
unicorn pool float,
a banana boat.
A telescope.

A DJI Phantom drone
and a coin collection started nine decades ago.

(From dogs to drones)