The Sound Of Bo Belle

Frank on Kneecap Hill, Mo Chara Court case. In the shadow of Belmarsh  where political prisoners breathe through concrete IRA veterans counting decades in their cells, Julian Assange's ghost still bleeding through the walls, they chose this courthouse like a surgeon chooses scalpels, psychological theatre staged where dissent goes to die.   This was never about flags. This was about the children—always the children their small hands reaching through rubble that our taxes bought, whilst Starmer's fountain pen signs death certificates in diplomatic blue.   They moved court dates like chess pieces, chose Belmarsh's shadow for maximum intimidation, but empires make the same mistake: they think fear travels in straight lines. Coffee steam rising from paper cups like prayers, voices weaving Gaeilge through Arabic, Kneecap Hill called to us not just any hill, but this hill,   London clay soft with centuries of rain and the bones of the conquered. I gripped the tricolour's w...

  Financial Times   © Finally, finally, the suits shuffle forward, Starmer's careful words cutting through decades of diplomatic cowardice, while Balfour's ghost rattles chains in Westminster's haunted corridors. One hundred and seven years listen to that number roll off the tongue, taste the bitter mathematics of empire since Britain carved up someone else's land like Sunday roast, promised Palestine to the Zionists with ink still wet from Ottoman blood, with pens that never asked permission. Now the recognition comes, slow as justice, grudging as empire's apology, Western leaders reading from scripts they should have memorised generations ago while Palestinian flags flutter like prayers finally answered, like ghosts given bodies, like children learning their names. Beating war drum rhythms pulse ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum through diplomatic chambers, A Ginsberg howl echoing off marble walls: "I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by colonial madness, by t...

Trump State Visit The golden handshake becomes a stranglehold Trump's tiny fingers crushing Britain's windpipe while Charles counts the carats in his conscience, finds it lighter than the air his subjects breathe.   September 17th, 2025, 8:37 PM The state banquet bills itself as diplomacy while billing taxpayers for sovereignty's fire sale, each golden spoon excavating the grave where Britain's backbone lies buried.   Air Force One's landing gear crushes more than Stansted tarmac each wheel a millstone grinding the bones of independence into flour for fascism's bread, kneaded by hands that once built empires, now reduced to begging for scraps from their former colony's table.   The palace menu itemises empire's liquidation: Starter: Dignity, served at room temperature Main: Sovereignty, carved paper-thin Dessert: Democracy, set alight tableside Wine: The tears of Grenfell mothers, vintage 2017, aged in courtroom delays.   Charles's crown jewels catch...

They finally said the word. 710 days too late, but they said it.   Genocidal acts.   The careful counting while children stopped breathing. The documente d death, delayed decisions. The shuffle of papers while families screamed.   My Inner-Roma child asks me: "Why did they wait so long to say what we could see?"   I taste ash when I try to answer.   We know this rhythm how institutions measure murder in acceptable doses, how they academic-ise annihilation until it fits their forms.   The commission's words sit heavy in my stomach. Truth that burns the throat to speak: Recognition without action is just another form of complicity.   710 days of choosing to look away, to gather evidence instead of stopping bullets, to debate definitions while defining a people out of existence.   But some threw their bodies into the gears: Students occupying campuses, workers refusing to load weapons, artists breaking complicit silence.   The machine can be sto...

UN confirms genocide this morning... we've known for months,  screaming into Westminster's deaf stone ears  while Israel writes epitaphs in rubble and bone-dust  across Gaza's broken spine,  and my friend texts from the coast.   "Family to the water, I stay behind.  We will die; Palestine will live" words hanging like cordite smoke over Cornflakes,  bitter as the BBC's measured dance around genocide,  and my friend texts from the coast.   Tommy Robinson's march draws ten thousand for "Britain First"  while Rafah's children burn in hospital beds,  these flag-wavers blind to the truth  that free Palestine means fewer desperate boats crossing dark waters,  and my friend texts from the coast.   The global flotilla cuts Mediterranean swells  toward Gaza's blockaded shore,  Greta's young face branded "terrorist" by those  who rain white phosphorus on refugee camps,  Israel mocking witness as vanity,...

Charlie's down sniper's thread through Utah air, and suddenly the world weeps salt into soil for wife and children left behind, for the conservative voice silenced, for democracy bleeding in earth that remembers other blood.   Twenty-two-year-old Tyler surrendering through telephone wires, his father's voice the bridge between rage and reckoning, anti-fascist phrases carved like morse code on bullet casings, the American Comeback Tour ending in percussion's final note.   But where were your tears for Hind Rajab? Six years old, trapped in a car full of silence, pleading down a phone line like static seeking signal for three hours before 335 bullets wrote her name in Gaza dust, in frequency's failure, in our selective hearing loss.   She had family too cousins, uncles, a grandfather who'll stand before whatever listens demanding receipts for every voice that heard her transmission and chose static over clarity, interference over connection.   Two paramedics died t...

@shumakerart The government says it wasn't drones, just like they said the camera lied when Zapruder's 8mm caught the skull exploding backwards, physics screaming against the lone gunman fairy tale.   Now we got Family Boat footage, 11:45 PM off Sidi Bou Said, the Portuguese flag burning as mechanical death drops from darkness, six souls on deck extinguishing flames while Tunisian officials call it "a fire in a life jacket".   Same day Starmer stands at his podium, mouth full of parliamentary honey, declaring "no evidence of genocide" while the Mediterranean burns red, while children's bodies wash ashore like broken campaign promises, his tongue black with Palestinian ash.   The film doesn't lie. Instagram pixels bleeding truth across fibre optic cables, more honesty than Downing Street's daily briefings where genocide becomes "self defence", where five countries bombed becomes "protecting democracy".   Gaza burns, Lebanon ble...