Late Night Writing

I have thought i must try to write – so I put on disco and see where I will go.

I have been carrying words round my head, words that eat at my heart.

I have been carrying memories that no-one should know or even imagine.

Words and memories are what makes me a determined abolitionist.

I have looking at the sex trade lobby, and it make thinks of human with masks.

These people come from my background, the background of the privileged, the background of the entitled, the white middle-class background.

I can understand too much about the sex trade lobby, especially when they enter academia or the world of business.

It was a world I was born into – academia, the arts, business – all worlds that considered themselves above the plebs below, a world where empathy is destroyed, a world built on ice and blood-letting of anyone who not their class.

I am sickened to be part of that world, and fighting for abolition is one way of me giving back to the oppressed by my class.

But I do not do self-flagellation, for that class is just what I was born, and I can change myself to be more than my background.

My class did nothing for the many prostituted women and girls who were destroyed by the sex trade – no, my class has for many centuries been the drive, demand and supplier of the sex trade.

My class turn its back as it own women and girls were sold, move around, fuck by endless men and tossed into the gutter.

My class wrote books, poems, made films and paintings, made TV programmes all to make the sex trade glamorous and with absolutely no violence.

My class is the entitled punter who collects the prostituted as he torture her to near-death.

My class can and will murder the prostituted – with the full knowledge that his money and privilege will mean the body will disappear, and it cannot be murder if it a non-crime.

My class is the backbone of everything that is destroying the prostituted class.

I will speak into certain types of punter, academics, sex trade profiteers to show my class. Show the wound that is a worm in my heart.

I was owned by middle-class men who never said words like –

Prostitute, pimp.

They were all pimps, but they had the appearance of any old businessman, they were detached from their reality.

They were clean, never doing any the dirty business of punishing the prostituted – that just happened as their eyes were firmly closed.

It was just a business – as the move round prostituted women and girls, as with each move the prostitute is broken down.

A business that turns women and girls who had dreams, futures and loves into living dead sexual goods.

That is my class – the class with blood on its hands.

Then comes the rallying cry of academia – the posh voice of the sex trade lobby.

I was brought with academia, I lived in an university city, academia was my norm.

I know academics have the power to manipulate ideas and ways of seeing the world – for they also have the privilege of money and access to power.

I see the sex trade lobby using academic words – making lies into facts.

I see the sex trade lobby infiltrating universities, publishers, the media and government – all the building block of communication in my class.

My class have promoted porn as just jolly safe fun. My class promotes the unionisation of indoors prostitution. My class paint romantic images of brothels and escorting. My class writes on how stripping is empowering for the women.

My class is speaking the propaganda of an industry where the prostituted dies about 40 times more than other women and girls of same age and background.

An industry where the majority of the prostituted cannot exit, for many are too ill, or have trauma to ever truly leave. And cannot exit coz they have died from violent means – suicide or murder.

An industry where it is wonderful to still be alive when you are 28.

This is what academia is saying is just a job, which we should not look too deeply into.

Finally, punters are often from my class – the punters who are entitled, the punters who owned the prostituted.

These are the punters who love the dirty thrill of fucking a whore who had been used by tons of other punters – but then hate the prostitute for being so cheap to give herself to any punter.

These are punters who make their brief fucking into some kind art, punters who collect the prostituted like pinned butterflies.

These are punters who use their money and privilege to time and privacy to be as sadist as he wants to the prostituted – knowing he will use his power to get off scotch-free.

I had these entitled bastards in every cell of my body, they are my nightmares, my push to abolition.

I have that class, I still am – but I can also help rot out the corruption from the inside.

I see them – I know my class.

That is why they hate and fear my turning to abolition – it like a betrayal of my class. When maybe it coz I still have some love for my background, I want and need to have the freedom to learn empathy and compassion – learn to join the human race.

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4 responses to “Late Night Writing

  1. Dear R Mott, you continue to sear my soul. You are a true poet and you have no idea of the affection and respect you inspire. Please keep going. Your words are so important and will not disappear, I promise you that.

    Like

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