The Leader’s healthy as the Land!
Just watch him running down this strand!
Don’t ask why the second shot
is just the first, recut
and zoomed as if to hide a lack of spoons,
or why, elsewhere, he sits in rooms
with empty eyes and shoulders sagging,
a new bug post a heavy fagging,
or why, upright, he grips the lectern
as maskless yanks clutch ivermectin:
just smile and watch him mangle Ovid,
and don’t suggest he has long covid.
Right.
This here is my novella, Incidents of Trespass. I self-published it via Amazon a few years ago and then, a few months after doing so, I read an article about Amazon's labour practices and delisted it as a futile act of protest. Currently it only exists in the form of less than fifty hard copies which are currently cluttering up my flat.
So.
You may have seen the news coming out of Texas, where that state's excuse for a governor, Greg Abbott, has directed Child Protective Services to prosecute parents who provide their trans children with trans affirming care, and to remove said trans children into foster care. There are no two ways about this: this is state-sponsored child abuse on a massive scale. I have always said, and will continue to say until such time as I am silenced with extreme prejudice, that anti-trans bigots are largely motivated by a grotesque sexual pathology, in which they get off on abusing and exploiting women and children. They get a sick thrill from denying people bodily autonomy, forcing trans people to endure a traumatic puberty developing as the wrong gender, and then attacking our bodies in grotesque, sexualised ways for the scars they display as a result. We saw this demonstrated earlier today when it was revealed that anti-trans bigots had been sending sexually explicit images to the mother of Grace Lavery, as 'punishment' for her withdrawing from a debate with penis-obsessed weirdo Helen Staniland which was to be hosted by a website which frequently and approvingly platforms fascists.
I call these people not TERFs (which they claim is a slur), but TERVERTS. Because these people do not have a political position. They have a paraphilia. And it happens that, among other things, one of the things Incidents of Trespass does is explore that paraphilia.
So.
If you can provide proof of having made a donation, of any amount, to any of the links below, I will send you one of the last surviving copies of Incidents of Trespass. Help me declutter my flat, get your hands on exclusive, ultra-rare AJ McKenna content AND help desperate trans people in the Lone Star State! If you make an especially big donation I might throw in some more stuff while I'm at it.
The links:
The Transgender Education Network of Texas: https://www.transtexas.org/
Transequality: Texas Action Centre: https://transequality.org/texasactioncenter
Texas Trans Kids: https://www.txtranskids.org/
Central Texas Transgender Health Coalition: https://txtranshealth.org/
Trans Kids and Families of Texas: https://www.northtexasgivingday.org/transkidsandfamiliesoftexas
And finally, May Leitz, one of my favourite YouTube creators, who is currently trapped in Texas while trans and desperate to get out. I contribute to May's Patreon https://www.patreon.com/nyxfears but she also has a PayPal link for one-off donations which you can donate to: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/nyxfears
Thank you for taking the time to read this. Please donate, and do what you can to oppose this disgusting decision.
St Francis of Assisi, and if the hangover
was all that would be bad enough. He
knows he's being recognised, he sees
the questions in their eyes, he hopes
he can disguise the way he's walking,
that he won't give himself away
by flinching when he sits. He hopes
no-one took photos: knows that phones
were surrendered on entry, but also
knows Evgeny is the type to hide
a lens behind a mirror. Midnight Climax.
Kompromat. He must assume the photos.
Yet more dirt. Humiliation. His whole body
aching, joints especially. And arse,
of course. A different kind of pain there.
Thought he left all that behind with Fives.
And even then at least it was organic.
Rubber's new to him. Cold. How was he
to know? She was presented as a
present. Well done, good and faithful,
Ev knows what you like, B, time to shine
in use… Some of them knew. What he
was in for. That she wasn't like the girls
he used to bully at the Speccy.
They were laughing. Jeering. Cheered
her on. Threw things that hit him.
Couldn't meet their eyes that morning.
Keeps his head down as he shows
his passport. Finds a corner. Closes
eyes to hide from conversation.
The whole room saw her fucking him.
That's just as bad as photos.
People in Ev's line do not forget.
but at least he sweats alone,
no-one around to catch him out
by tweeting pics of sodden shirts,
no-one to tell him how the case is going,
which papers today have decided
he should be cut loose. He turns on
the telly, forgets it was tuned to the news:
sees a protesters' cavalry clashing with
police in a country whose ruler's
son bought one of his houses,
throwing an extra three million in
for a few of Jeff's signature sweeteners.
He switches it off. He doesn't want all
these reminders of the way his world
has started shrinking. Pours more whiskey,
thinks about the better times:
late nights at Haviland, with the man
whose statue he unveiled, one island over
from the place where one masked monster
took a fall to keep the other faces hidden.
Masks: they used to joke about them,
safe in their unhooded anonymity,
their Very Kubrick Christmas parties.
'It doesn't need to be a costume…'
What else has he ever worn?
Inspired by the information about Mr Inverness (whose security detail, according to Popbitch, had a much more amusing codename for him) contained in this episode of Podcasting is Praxis, and its sources
So I saw a tweet asking...
Well...
That the city, after this enormity, may be renewed
They told me that my sex drive would be
'ruined' - the exact word that they chose,
as if the hormones were a bomb
that would destroy the proud erections
of an engineered city.
What they didn't realise
was that my metropolis
already lay in ruins:
behind the neoclassical facades
of banks, the people gathered
'round the fires that burned in drums,
bartered shoddy goods under the tarps
slung far beneath the shattered skylights
of the covered market;
that taps gasped air and dirt
in sailors' bars beside the silted harbour:
and here, hormones came as wrecking ball
and blueprint for renewal, as mortar
in the sense of both explosive and cement,
as the new broom in City Hall,
and that, where once I had a Miesian libido,
gridded and predictable, what sprang up in its place
is more like Gehry: complicatedly
amazing; twisted and baroque,
always apparently about to
tumble in upon itself, but stronger
than the mess it seems to be.
Where once I was the New York Subway,
now I'm Harry Beck's map of the Tube
reimagined as a rollercoaster
(though I happily will go
South of the River):
complicated, multi-coloured, centripetally
alive in all directions, and I know
that cut-and-cover, and the pounding
of the tunneling machines
can look like demolition
but they aren't. I'm not in ruins:
this chaos that you hear and see
is not a war:
it's just my future,
working.
Strictly protected. She’ll tell you the story
all came to her on a train. The owner will go to the papers,
gush about saving the table, but whine his first edition
can’t be found. The cultists will claim it was arson:
they have such quaint ideas, these people,
of causality.
The only place that got to print the legend
on its legend, since her brother-in-law’s property
became a Chinese buffet. Went on fire, they say round here,
with knowing intonation. Like the School of Art.
No word on Muriel’s location this time, but the spark,
they say, caught from the basement of the woman
in Room Four. Why don’t you come on over,
said the paintings and statues of Indian animals,
fetishised like Joanne’s mensa, shown off like Maratha
treasures plundered by the Royal Scots, sick of
being implicated in her veneration, sick of queues
of tourists, sick of chintzy white folks saying how exotic
it all looked, oh how Bohemian and quirky, longing
for some peace and quiet, they rejoiced to burn.
And if you’re picking through the ashes
and the rubble in the hope of finding footsteps
or forensic spoor, a connection to the photographs
retweeted from her door, you will not find them
where your eyes and fingers scrabble. But there is
a footprint here, which you cannot see the way fish
don’t see water. There are things
that move in ways we see
by implication only, that use people
as their moving parts, and happen
in a dozen or a hundred spots at once.
Take a ruler. Draw a line from here
to her Barnton house to Killiechassie.
Plot the times. Of course you can’t.
Some days you cannot see yet since,
to you, they haven’t happened.
 |
| Some things are bigger than elephants |
The joke is that it never was a robot.
The joke is that 'battery hens'
is a reference to conditions.
The joke is the advert's promise
that you won't speak to a robot
is a promise you will be accused
of breaking by a caller who knows
fine well you're a human. The joke is
that you know this line is monitored
and when you say 'Yes, I am a real
human being,' in a sing-song voice,
you can say you are not doing me,
you are doing the girl
in the advert.
