Saturday, December 31, 2011

The Scent of Nostalgia (16)

At times, narrations seep from solitude to the pen of the anonymous artist. The memory was drenched in grey hues, sepia stretching from the edges to the centre, where a massive torch blazed, illuminating the architect of the revolution on the fictitious island. Decades ago, the island revelled in its layers of rock formation. its inhabitants came closer to defining citizenship than their forthcoming generations. There was a time for a flag, a time for grand rhetoric ...

The narration started with a conflagration that drenched the island in red.

I realise I might have distorted the torch and the rain, as my eyes had distorted the mushroom cloud engulfing the television screens in my childhood. In a similar manner to which the workers degenerated into middle class morals and a flaming torch melted into a parody of the abstract.

Sunday, December 25, 2011

Dictatorship relics in Chile: Paying Homage to Miguel Krassnoff Martchenko

An article I had published in Upside Down World, discussing the homage to Miguel Krassnoff Martchenko and subsequent outrage by human rights and activist groups in Chile.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

The Scent of Nostalgia (15)

In a collection of portraits, revolution celebrates its existence. Within the realm of history, I behold a mosaic of clandestine newspapers, flags, brigades and the architect flanked by a man whose testimony reaches me through his daughter. From the shrines of the hidden biography I learned the inscription of the workers – an ideology sustaining itself through a combination of perseverance and patience. My mind is wrought with vengeance ... the necessity to sustain myself with the destruction of the oppressor.

The mosaics surround me – a torrent each claiming a fragment of truth. My fists are still clenched over the petals, reluctant to part with the primordial veneer. A smile, an expression of triumph, an act of insurrection against an oppressive censorship, and suddenly the gentle grey hues dissolve into a cacophony of colour. It was a transition into generations which constructed a memory from the periphery.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

The Anonymous Artist (10)

Beyond the walls laden with the inscription of torture, the anonymous artist beheld a poem from the narrow land. Language assumed a disparate dimension, mingling with the marginalised to create a metaphor which floated amongst bright colours to the berated shades of brown striving to survive of the fictitious island. A nation was guilty of treason and society embraced an ephemeral purity. The poem imprisoned treason's voice within its own monotony. As colours from the narrow land descended upon the unwanted nationalities, the sanctimonious society was engulfed in pungent shadows, a nationality persecuted with a reverberation of their own malignant constitution.

Monday, September 12, 2011

The Anonymous Artist (9)

The anonymous artist traipsed on the fringes of the fictitious island, observing the dynamics of manipulation. Hegemony's primary manipulation was that of memory - a distortion that shattered a definition of justice through centuries inscribed in patriotic verse. The remnants of a flag drenched in crimson fluttered miserably within the echo of a national anthem. In an aberrant part of the collective experience, society was expected to relate to the emblems of patriotism as an adherence to justice. An intonation diverted the anonymous artist's attention; it was a call from a philosopher to delve deeper into a fragment of renaissance memory, into the shrine of a vilified prince studied within the concrete walls exhibiting the torture of law.

Monday, September 5, 2011


The pebbles succumbed to their subterranean abode. Their farewell reeked of distortion, as their opaque smooth flesh expanded and writhed beneath the dark water, requesting that the silhouette conduct their memorable descent. As he strode away from the water, I beheld the waves subside in gentle gestures, promising to obliterate the sensitive presence on the shore. I saw the magnificent eyes swell, as the silhouette steered me towards the streets that widened and narrowed, depicting our shared awareness in elapsed frames of fragmented portraits.

Friday, August 26, 2011

Friday, August 12, 2011

Administering a Form of Justice (52)

Beneath the lacerated land lies a black stream enticing a ripple of devastating humanitarian aid. On the island of contradictory landscapes there is a fragment of stolen land which violates humanity in the name of justice. Alienation and isolation celebrate their sanctimonious union by administering the ethics of torture. Shackled with the illusion of freedom, society celebrates the distance and difference between the fictitious island, the lacerated land and the fragment stolen from the island of contradictory landscapes. Justice applauds the gullible and seeks the means to exploit the correlation between oppression and protecting civilians against a backdrop of swirling sands and forests spanning the anti-imperial realms.

Saturday, July 30, 2011

Administering a Form of Justice (51)

Beyond the purple sea, shreds of flags portraying legitimacy and illegitimacy shroud crude boxes hosting remnants of death. The lacerated skies bear the burden of hosting murderers and their weapons, pausing at irregular intervals to console the sand dunes, bruised and stained with bodies and blood. International justice fabricates and multiplies the mystery of death, violates a colour spectrum of skin, and fails to differentiate between acts of terrorism by defining death under a warped mandate of protection. There is a necessity to combat the exploitation of the continent however, need is rendered a victim of its own ephemeral survival. Genocide combined with the hypocrisy of humanitarian aid rain down on populations whose existence is vilifed and nullified through exalting the tainted hues of white.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

The Scent of Nostalgia (15)

The anonymous artist bequeathed a sliver of memory to the realm beyond the fictitious island. It was a relic of poetry and music woven into the contemporary, overshadowing the plundering of humanity just across the purple sea. Decades ago, revolution was the solution of the exploited. An anniversary led to history inscribing itself into a trial. A song that stirred from the peasants' abodes triggered a murder that perforated the memory of the yellow land. Fighting against the confines of an alienated society, the anonymous artist mingles tears with the ancient definition of revolt, bludgeons the rules of diplomacy lacerating a fragment of a continent and turns to the solace of the historical guitar defining a testimony of the poet who embraced the thousands of anonymous hands mutilated in the stadium.

Monday, July 18, 2011

Administering a Form of Justice (50)

In its quest to avoid the tarnish of conspiracy, justice incorporates conspiracy within its own structure and authorises its legitimacy to haunt the invisible narrator. The unnecessary testimony is separated from the fictitious islands by the purple sea - the witness to shards of decomposing brown as sanctioned by the realm of foreign policy. The months in different continents merged to create a conglomeration of history steeped in a fabricated revolution, the trickle of oil, the concealed identity of cluster bombs, international and fabled courts; all subservient unto the fallacy of the universal declaration of human rights.

"A high level accusation, sustained by lies, and one which cannot be criticized once it has been consecrated by justice." Antonio Negri

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Administering a Form of Justice (49)

The marble halls of justice are epitomes of intimidation and national revenge. A conflation occurs between justice and revenge, with authorities christening this aberration a conquest for truth. A nation's immorality is represented by flawed declarations that shelter the oppressor's realm, treating conspiracy as an elevated expression of art. The invisible narrator's solitude is tarnished as justice renders patience an obsequious virtue - just as a fragment of a century ago the anonymous artist experienced the epitome of how education fostered a culture of rampant evil that fettered the revolutionary to wallow in a mediocre caricature of attainment.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Administering a Form of Justice (48)

Justice wallows in the remnants of its rhetoric. Shifting its stance between notorious resolutions aimed at aiding a travesty of revolution and the necessity of activating the rules of diplomacy, justice fails to ponder the bloodstained moon. Within the articulation perfected with bouts of intentional stammer, observers of a bloody season are regaled with the dynamics and consequences of irrational warfare punctured by the politics of discomfort. With the trickle of oil still a distant mirage, imperialism decided to shift the balance of power to introduce the discomfort of persuasion. The spring shifts to autumn and remains entrenched in a parody of seasons and allegiances, while the fictitious island continues to open its ports and flagellate its constitution.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

Administering a Form of Justice (47)

The inviolable declaration of human rights resented a universal interpretation. It desecrated its terminology in favour of the tyrant and mellowed the outrage of wasted veins into the vocabulary of the helpless. The substitute for freedom was enslaved within its own necessity of survival, assuring its reign by advocating anomalies. Missiles were portrayed as special agents of serenity, blood was an inevitable shade of worthless red. On the yellow land, constitutions of neutrality were gently lacerated, allowing instruments of torture to display their insignificant worth to a population which had travelled in a realm reeking of worse prejudice than alienation.

Monday, July 4, 2011

The Anonymous Artist (8)

Scraps of paper and tattered photographs cluttered the room. Beneath the pile of abhorred relics was the apparition of a signature in blue ink, engraved in tiny, careless calligraphy. The voice emanating from the scribbled name taunted the present with echoes of history. In the highest institutions of conformity, philosophy was moulded into degeneration - a relic divested of its own solitude. The anonymous artist edged towards the signature, intending to condemn it to a conflagration and rejoice in its demise, but a new assertion of power made her snatch her hand away, preferring instead to listen to its raucous resentment suffocating under its own definition of democracy.

Monday, June 27, 2011

Administering a Form of Justice (46)

The oppressor's terminology creates bulletins which vanquish the necessity of freedom. On the fringes of society, the identity of the lesser crowd is submerged into incoherence. Within the stronghold of bureaucracy, the crowd is classified into diverse echelons of anonymity, to be tried in various halls commemorating the fallacy of justice. On pristine manuscripts, the lesser crowd's memoirs are tarnished to deplete the memory of its own existence. The crowd is incarcerated into the oppressor's definition of freedom - an anonymous entity scavenging for survival within the sight of an alienated society.

Friday, June 24, 2011

The Scent of Nostalgia (14)

Fragments of a century fluctuate within history and a contemporay realm, mingling words with the philosophy of patience. The sepia shrouds the anonymous artist from a fallacious lament, allowing language to disassociate itself from its dissonance. The epitome of trust lingered within a realm that defied the mundane laws of necessity. From beyond the borders hindering our vision, the soothing tone lingers to create an abundance of sentience - a testimony that withered incoherence with its infallible tranquillity.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

The Anonymous Artist (7)

The anonymous artist gathered fragments of dreams, blood and sand obliterating all traces of morality and eradicating ethics with the remnants of survival. The declaration claiming universal protection deserted its definition, embracing explosions and entrails wasted beside corpses. The lament wavers within a fragment of recollection imprisoned on the fictitious island - surrounded by the complacency of an alienated society. There are instances where speech becomes incongruous - ridiculing the necessity of articulation. Within the confines of the fictitious island, the fragments of dreams weave a narration that differs from reported technicalities, with the entrails imploring deft fingers to soothe their mutilation by uniting them in a testimony beyond the disfigurement of 'revolution' and the insatiable appetite for oil.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Administering a Form of Justice (45)

In the fable of mediated revolt there is a conglomeration of conspirators and a conflagration of the unwanted. A united authority protects the realm of power in an assertion brimming with misconceptions. Language is butchered before civilians to allow no argument for discrepancy between collateral damage and spilled blood. In the purple sea between the continents, shades of brown on splintered wood are embellished on agreements that deride declarations of human rights. In democracy and democratic revolutions, blood is retained as proof of success and the epitome of protection, neatly bypassing the necessity of debating the reign of a tyrranical majority.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011


the stuttering serpents silenced the wind
whining about journeys jeopardised by dust

photos crammed in gutters impregnated with remnants
of innocent scorpions tangled in slaughtered lace
trailing from the executioner’s pen

a shard of image peers through its trapped breath
frothing beneath the colours, pining for its ancestors
drenched in sepia, stolen and fabricated
from the stained blade of a blunt guillotine

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Monday, May 23, 2011

Administering a Form of Justice (44)

There are instances when the fictitious island embraces a pungent reality to assure itself of its existence. It pretends to forget its disdain for blemished colours and stained passports, willingly embarking on a resolution to devour conspiracy and embellish it with the honours of justice. Diplomacy retains its dictatorship over the reality of events and departments assert their authority over freedom. The fictitious island goes beyond alienation to mire itself into oblivion, as an invisible narrator engulfed in the scent of sand and fumes returns to the philosophy of patience without resorting to the obligations that come with the necessity of hope.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Administering a Form of Justice (43)

Once upon a time, a hall swelled to massive proportions to fit a representation of political borders. In a gesture of humanitarian appreciation, a document was embroidered with rationally selected words. The declaration was highly regarded by the jailers of humanity, who had been persisting in convincing their followers to forfeit their freedom to think. They littered pavements with copies of the document, insisting that the concept of human rights went beyond the realm of necessity. There came another once upon a time, where humanity was categorised into civilians and civilians, depending on the stain of oil and the cry for intervention. In another ravaged land, a memory was tantamount to conspiracy and the people seated in the massive hall treated the lacerations with the dignity that accompanies a cacophony of words devoid of any significance. Protection, safeguarding, humanitarian aid ... All became subservient to propaganda, anointed to their privileged status by the idiotic applause of the class that was always right.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

Administering a Form of Justice (42)

Beyond the realm of the yellow land in a purple sea, the stench of death is categorised into colours and mourned less than paler shades of white. In auburn sands, the abhorred hue decays in sweltering solitude - fodder for swarms of flies. In fragments of fictitious landscape, a word trembles above all others. A new glossary is launched, defining illegality within a context. Miles away, the ephemeral declaration of human rights is also recited within a context of condemnation after failing in enforcing protection. The yellow land in a purple sea breathes a sigh of relief at the prospect of death preventing the staining of their patriotic hues.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

Reflections from a Companera (2)

The anonymous artist is wedded to the magnitude of embellishing the embodiment of loyalty into a restricted version of utterances. On the island of contradictory landscapes, the crevices of historic buildings are impaled with the memory of a defence that vanquished its brutal oppressor. The words seep to the fictitious island, seeking an eloquence that stutters in its recapitulation of the revolution. In an alley that holds the scent of past years, a house is converted into a library. The anonymous artist wanders in search of a name and speaks to an echo that is as ancient as its reality. In the swathing darkness creeping through the open door, the memory sustaining the anonymous artist etches itself into the palm of her hand - a testimony of loyalty transferred to her name.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Realities (8)

There is an absence of fundamental freedom in the realities constructed by forces streaking skies in hideous light. The reality conjured by people who rupture the notion of borders is replete with erroneous justifications. Citizenship becomes categorised into a prejudiced philosophy which vilifies the undeserving and resolutions explode beneath their flimsy definition. A voice that lingers over words usurps our limited vocabulary to differentiate between blood congealing in the sands, lending captions to tag our photographic memory.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Realities (7)

Realities restrict memory to resemble a string of incoherent utterances. Coupled with incessant scenes of fragmented documentary, history is moulded into categories of resolutions reflecting a conspiracy that shields itself within the silence of diplomacy. Within the ravaged borders of paralysed butterflies, resolutions shimmer and mock a community that has suffered a profanation of identity. The rhetoric induces societies to embark on an unconscious mission of selective memory, splitting hues of red into nationalities and spectrums, whilst conveniently neglecting the necessity of unadulterated recollection.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Administering a Form of Justice (41)

A fantasy woven out of the consequences of oppressive justice begins with once upon a time ... , and obliterates the assumption that narratives may be extracted from one of the many variations of reality. Justice abhors the scent of sepia and relegates memory to a parody of language. The scenes and characters performing in its theatre are directed by tyrants who uphold selective freedom. The characters follow the script of conspiracy and act within the perimeters which may be ravaged only on merit of prejudiced preference. Once upon a time on the fictitious island, there was an anonymous artist who spent days mixing primary colours into hues of green to illustrate a poem. The poem transformed into prose and the spectators deemed the anonymous artist a character from a fable. In the fable flourishing around her, society was a mass of listless eyes that failed to acknowledge the absence of the narrator in the story that separated her from the crowd. The separation in the story was due to the manacles that bound the protagonists to a fictitious island. The only certainty was the existence of a crowd as fictitious as the island itself. Shifting from poem to prose, the anonymous artist sought a manifesto that sanctioned relics from the monstrosity of hatred, modifying the concept of revenge to a philosophy that sustained memory from the corruption of justice, wedding it to the fallacy of hope.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Administering a Form of Justice (40)

Malfunctioning justice is infested with terminology that gives it a semblance of prudence. Beneath the sheer vestige of honour, the layers of truth embraced by justice spell out a different reality. Justice eliminates the power of innocence, succumbing to a parody of itself. In the narrow land, justice ensures its own survival by masking the owner of fabricated testimony. On the fictitious island, there is no mandate for masking voices. The hindrance of voices is eliminated by exile, allowing corrupted courts to manifest their power in a cacophony of actions as irregular as the logic that law strives to uphold. Beyond the shadows, a voice remains chained to itself, trampled upon by justice that deems it unnecessity to define its vile assertion of power to an alienated society.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

The Scent of Nostalgia (13)

The setting sun silhouetted our memories in sepia. Within the hues of history, another biography slithered out of its confines to witness its signature shimmering in the sand. The memory seeped out of photographs, sustained by a testimony of love. The revolutionary narration was steeped in the poetry of the past. The voice that lent its vibration to my calligraphy was cloaked in resplendent solitude. Until sepia bathed her memory with the dignity and ideals that could never be tarnished by temporary process of mingling with the earth.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Administering a Form of Justice (39)

Silence renders justice a valuable form of servitude. It protects the irregularities sanctioned by law, enabling justice to act as oppressor. Society's lenience with the concept of trust has resulted in the spectre of false comforts to refrain from questioning the role of authority. Society has been corrupted by justice in the pursuit of reducing dignity to the quagmire of terminology to be debated and framed for future reference. Justice continues to assert its role as the greatest immoral entity of social deprivation, persisting in isolating invisible narrators within the confines of imposed acquiescence.

Friday, February 18, 2011

The Scent of Nostalgia (12)

The biographies were not relegated to those inside the conjured borders. There was a narrator whose voice had been obliterated by the politics of oblivion, the anonymous artist whose metaphors had hibernated for thousands of days and a fraction of hours. The companera who travelled incessantly to the island of contradictory landscapes, inhaled the scent of ideals and found herself once again a caricature within the fictitious island. A singer from the narrow land who explained the betrayal of memory. A poem that flaunted a reality distorted by those abhorring shades of red. There was the embodiment of loyalty who reflected us all in slanting calligraphy. In a tiny room surrounded with dilapidated books of history, the renouncement of borders seeped through the crevices in the wall to engrave a testimony that went beyond the failure and limitation of justice.

Monday, February 14, 2011

The Scent of Nostalgia (11)

The singer's voice reverberated, muting the mundane echoes that flourished after his assassination. I grasped the narrow land in my hands, letting the jagged borders tear into my skin. The blood reeked of melancholy, of a history that should have triumphed. In embracing the memory distanced by years and citizenship, the revolutionary song preserved the lonely strings of the guitar. The hues that visited me pertained to the era when a poem written before death paid homage to thousands of hands. Melancholy transformed into resilience; a thousand voices clamouring for their biographies to be scribbled in the sand.