Just poetry.

I have nothing

to say to you

think I am insecure and

that the fault is always me not

you oft dismiss

your follies

and anything

I feel

you  belittle

things I say to

you have very little time

for me

these days

you want me

more away

than near

to you

I am nought but

another

notch on

your ego

is all there is

no

me and you

create a bubble

that is not

compatible with

reality

disputes the things

you have said

we are the best of friends

when it suits you

but not when

it does not

matter what I say

or do

it is wrong it seems

you want me to

go away and

leave me alone

now please

don’t follow me

again you seem to think

the problem lies with me but

I’m not sure

if I want to carry on

this charade

gets in the way

of things I have to do

for me and you

should never have started this

in the first place

it was you

that wanted me

to be close to you

would be just sublime

if you would let me

understand what it is

you want

to let me in

and shut me out

all at once

I feel so wanted

and so

unwanted angst

is not how I saw

the two of us

should go our separate ways

and we would just forget

the bubble bursts

when one does not

accept its rules and

I do not accept your

contradictions furnish my doubts

mean nothing to

you are hiding something from me

I can tell you don’t want people

to know how much

you see me as your inferior

as you so clearly

told me that you cared about me

but you don’t

seem to understand how small

I feel I want to say so much

but we have said too much about

nothing and everything

remains unsaid

I could

split them up

 into fragments…

but you should

watch out!

I might

wrong order

 put them in

the,

 and then randomly

the stem-soaked dew

upon the crusted earth

cried out

make no sense!

But hey.

That’s fragmentation

For You.

For Maddy ‘Rambo’ Wilson with so much love.

I had good news today.

It turns out

Things

I have to say

Are not so daft

After all!

                                                                              But then there was nothing.

No one to say

‘I’m proud of you’.

Just the voicemails

Of the very few

And a faceless

Cold

Computer screen

That cackles

“I don’t really care

Even when I say

I’m there,

I’m not, you know.”

I know.

But can’t I just pretend?

“No!

How dare you

Even wish it so!”

Ok.

And so good news

Goes yet again untold.

                                                For there is no one here

To tell.

And as the news grows

Tired

And old

It might as well

Have not been said

At all.

And so a warning

To all who think

They have good news.

I am sad

And small

And all alone,

And have no one

To tell.

So it is not good news.

‘Twas yesterday

When first I heard

That it is legal

To say the word

*FUCK*.

At last the big-wigged judge

That yields with delight

Just what I should do

And say

And write

And be

Has told me

That I can

*FUCK*

And be

*FUCKED*.

And moreover,

 I can say without fear

Of arrest

Or charge

To those that jeer

And barge their smug detest

At me

For wanting to

*FUCK*

And be

*FUCKED*,

*FUCK OFF!*

If I feel it best.

So now to you, Oh Judge,

I bow, exalt and kneel.

Oh praise be

For granting me

The liberty

To

*FUCK*,

Be

*FUCKED*

And say

*FUCK OFF*

When next I feel

Unfree.

…………………………………

(Fuck off, you fucking fucker.

You have no hold over me.)

DISCLAIMER: While the following text is clearly not what one may expect from poetry, I take a somewhat Worsdworthian approach the topic. Understanding, then, that poetry is the ’spontaneous overflow of emotion recalled in tranquillity’, and in turn understanding that the following text was written under just such circumstances, I retain the right to post the following under the heading ‘just poetry’.

I am very poor. Before you ask, I am not lazy, I am not reckless with money and I am not expecting anyone to hand me anything on any kind of plate. I am a student (boooohissss) and a single mother (booooo… get her off) and yes, I have applied and will continue to apply for any employment I feel I can realistically take on.  Ok, I admit, I am possibly too generous, but if I were the opposite and willingly turned others from my door when I know how they are suffering, what kind of person would that make me? No. Too generous is not a failing. I do not want to ramble on about the injustice of it all (although it is unjust), and I am perfectly sensible of the fact that there are millions upon millions worse off than I can possibly imagine in my council house in the UK. I will however, ramble on about something that happened to me the day before yesterday that has provoked the reawakening of a long asked question; what is it like on the other side?

Returning to my initial contention, I am very poor. So poor, in fact, that I cannot afford to pay my essential bills and for the last few days, have not been able to afford food.  No, I do not want sympathy and there are, of course, a series of unfortunate events surrounding this situation, but I will leave them out , as all that is necessary for my reader(s… ever the optimist) to know is that by UK standards, I am certainly very poor. I am lucky, then, that in my town, there is a charity known as ‘the food bank’. In short, people donate non-perishables/long life food that is then sorted into boxes and given to the poor on request; a Godsend when one cannot feed one’s child. I will never have anything but good words to say about the food bank. It is simply marvellous and embodies everything I feel charity should be; given directly, where and when it is needed. Now, at last, to the day before yesterday…

With no money, no food and a hungry toddler, I made the decision to collect the two parcels I am entitled to from one of the food bank distribution centres. Not only did my parcels contain the basics (baked beans, milk, pasta etc.) but even a few treats (such as chocolate bars, biscuits, mini boxes of cereal that sent my pleasure receptors into childlike spasm). I unpacked my boxes with relief, gratuity and excitement; food glorious food indeed! Carefully and attentively lifting each tin from the neatly and completely packed treasure coves of direct charity, I suddenly felt as if things were not so bad after all. Then I saw them. Sitting there, grinning at me like a spectre released from another world; a tin of stuffed vine leaves. I do not want to appear ungrateful; I love stuffed vine leaves and am very much looking forward to eating them, however, I have to question the circumstances that lead someone to donate a tin of stuffed vine leaves to relief for the poor. I myself, in better times, have donated to the food bank. Indeed, when I am able, I make it my business to do so. When I donate, however, I do it with my experiences of poverty in mind. I give pasta, rice, tomatoes, soup; essentials, I suppose. I must admit, sometimes, I donate chocolate or biscuits, as I know how good that feels (and my God does it feel good) but never, in all my bids to give back to this heaven-sent charity, have I donated something as extravagant as stuffed vine leaves. While I cannot say for certain how vine leaves came to appear in my food parcel, I would hope that my forever-anonymous patron gave from the goodness of their heart… however, as I am sure any reader that is still with me can tell, I am somewhat sceptical.  

On looking up said vine leaves, I have discovered that they retail at c. five pounds per tin. I know that this should penetrate my heart, filling me with hope for the future of humanity but alas; my current state of poverty allows me to see this only as an utterly thoughtless, ostentatious gesture. I can hear it even as I write; glorious, wonderful, humanitarian food bank volunteers, standing hopefully at super-market doors sending out the desperate cry ‘the poor have no food’. This gives me hope for the future of humanity. Sadly, I can also hear the response; ‘they have no food, so let them eat vine leaves’. The allusions here to pre-revolutionary France are not by accident. Indeed, I cannot think of another example from the top of my head of a time when the rich so flamboyantly teased the poor with their wealth. Can it be that the upper section of society is so utterly disconnected from ‘my lot’ that they see stuffed vine leaves as an essential?  As much as I am grateful for any food that comes my way, I cannot make a meal from a tin of stuffed vine leaves. Moreover, my toddler will almost certainly reject them and while they could be a nice ‘side dish’, when one is so hungry that one will happily gobble down corned beef and instant mash, they are not the ideal accompaniment. Whilst I do not wish to seem accusative, it seems to me that the aforementioned section of society are indeed so alienated from the poor that they honestly do not understand the pangs of genuine and inescapable hunger. While I would categorically not wish it upon them (or anyone), there is something fundamentally wrong with a system that allows people within arm’s reach of one another to live in such disparate economic circumstances. I say all this with a full awareness that in the great scheme of capital-born injustice, this is a daft, pernickety and almost laughable example. So why do I write?

In short, it is because I am angered, saddened and bemused that my son and I should be given a luxury like stuffed vine leaves at a time when lack of food is causing me, an already slim woman, to loose on average 3lbs of weight per week, but there is a little more to it than that. Despite the pleas of starving, disease-ridden children gazing at us daily through the lenses of patronising journalism and corrupt charity campaign cameras, the message does not seem to be getting through to the vine-leaf buying population. So I write to you now; it is happening. Not only through your plasma-screened television sets that you feel almost understandably alienated from. It is happening here, in the UK, just a few minutes’ from your front door. Children are hungry and their hard-working, good-natured parents that love them as dearly as you love your own children cannot feed them. I will not ask you to resign from your position of power and join me in the anti-capitalist revolution as I am sure that if tales of sex slavery, human trafficking and global scale starvation have not been enough to persuade you already, then my vine leaves tale will certainly not swing it for you.  I will ask however, that you do not turn down your nose at people less fortunate than you and yours. Indeed, I will even be as bold as to ask this; if you are the charitable sort, next time you are donating to something like the food bank, use that five pounds to give us something that will feed us. We are genuinely in need.  

I know that on a day not far from now I will return from a long study stint, my stomach aching from yet another day of limited nutrition and will eat the tin of vine leaves as if it were manna from heaven. Still, I can’t help but wonder… what is it like to be able to give five pounds worth of vine leaves to a total stranger? What is it like to simply not understand that people only a few minutes from you are destitute? What is it like to live on the other side? 

“Come in…” he tenuously states

The faceless knocker waits a while,

Then enters with a smile that says;

“I’m going to make your time dissolve.

Beguile all tongue communicates

To suit my likes, dislikes and hates.

And you will let me too,

As it is your job to do.”

I don’t get paid enough for this

He thinks. Something’s gone amiss.

All the inks and leaves the worlds possess

Would not entice me to address

This daemon for another more.

And yet, he smiles;

“What can I do you for?”

“Nick, I think I’ve failed”

ARGH!

Yet again her tale is tailed  

With cries of woe and doubt

And that she cannot figure out

“I really have this time!”

Yes, I’m sure you have…

(but I wouldn’t bet a dime).

Just like the last.

And one before…

It really is a bore.

I don’t get paid enough for this

He thinks. Something’s gone amiss.

All the inks and leaves within the land

Would not equip me to withstand

This constant state of ‘I can’t do’.

You got a First. Or is that not enough for you?

“I don’t know why they do not read

And plagiarists should be shot.”

 We’ve had this conversation…

Sorry you forgot.

Yet all the same,

He plays the game

(although he’d rather not).

“Anyway, I have to go”

He beams relief; “well let me know

And if there’s anything I can do…”

 I don’t get paid enough for this,

He thinks. Something’s gone amiss.

All the inks and leaves the world could stock

I’d trade in for my door to lock

So I could sit a while, unvexed.

“Goodbye, until the next…”

*Knock knock*

For Dr. Nick Rowe with thanks

Wonder…

Sip it…

Mmmm…

Tip it…

Tip it…

Mmmm…

Tip…

Is red now.

Mum went on 

And on.

I nod.

Na!

Not new Mum.

For Maude.

I’m sick of pickin’ chicken.

It’s all I seem to do.

I long to pick another bird

And stop this déjà vu

When yet again,

The loathsome hen

I plunge my fingers to.

I’m tired of makin’ bacon

And shoving it in bread.

The stench of porkies bakin’

Leaves me hanging by a thread

And then of course,

There is the source

That soils my heart with dread.

And it doesn’t matter if I quicken pickin’, frickin’, stricken chicken…

You make no mistakin’

That the bacon will be waitin’

Just to boil me in the furnace of my brig.

So if you find me hazy,

Cookin’ cuckooed, cold and crazy

You will know it was the chicken and the pig.

Presentation, presentation, presentation

But what to do with education?

How does this expand my thinking

Drinking from a spoon and sinking

to the depths of deepest dull

that penetrate my willing skull?

How does one construct one’s thought?

(when processed through the gulf of naught

that seeps beneath the skin and

squirms within the bones and blood

and shit I sought, nay, FAUGHT so I omit

from who, what, where.)

Who the hell is Dave?

Is all my pen can bear engrave

while trying to remain in state

of consciousness and not negate

My sense of be to death-by-dull.

Repetition speaks to me of things,

So self explanatory.

It’s ok to disagree

Can I, can I, can I    ARGH!!!

 How big should be the ears of Spock?

They should grow.

No shrink!

Or maybe stay the same, I think (however big that be).

I watch the clock.

[Tick]

[Tick]

[Tick]

PATENT NONSENSE!

Yes, but is it academic?

No! Boredom epidemic

As yawns engulf the pit of N   U   M  B.

So, now I draw a ———

Less original than the same.

Oh God! Why do I play this game? How it sank

to nothing I am yet to find.

Oh my poor, expectant mind!

Presenting presentation.

Presentation.

Presentation, presentation, presentation, presentation, presentation, presentation, presentation, presentation, presentation, presentation, presentation, presentation, …

For Dr. Liam Connell with thanks                          

If I were in charge,
Just for while
I would turn each frown 
To be a smile.
I would exchange 
The dull lit lamps
For Lollipops 
And postage stamps
Would line the ground,
Not stuck down
Gum.

I would paint
The grey town Red
And purple flowers
Would instead
Be dancing 
In the sordid clubs.
Milkshake would be 
Sold in pubs
And cups of
Tea, of course.

And then I think
I’ll pass a law
That makes each shout
A loud guffaw
And give with love
The whole world cake
(Not just on
Their coffee break)
But all the time!

And we would dance 
Among the stars
To music played on
Pink guitars 
By fairies lit by
Moonbeam blush,
But just for us,
The world hears hush
As they eat their cake
And drink their tea.

Won’t someone give the world to me?


How very silly! :-P

There is a monster in my bottom draw.
She waits for me to dream
And then comes out.
And with her buckled breast
She takes me, it would seem
Piece by piece.
And puts me back together
In her way.
Not in the fashion you, 
(Or I)
Would esteem.
But to fit in her own
Curious regime.
And though I have asked 
For her to leave,
She seeps into my play
And will,
Until
What you now see
Has completely gone away.
I’ve tried to hide from her.
To disguise,
Ignore.
But this monster in my bottom draw
Will not relent.

I cannot help but feel
A sense of blissful charge
In her pursuit.
I fight,
Don’t get me wrong
And yet,
I long for her
To come to me
At night.
That twinge of ecstasy, delight.
I am not alone in that sordid place, you know?
This monster hides in scores!
And one day soon, 
If you are to look at me
She will come to be the one you see.
And what then?
Am I to hide in bottom draws
Or risk parade?
That monster.
Me?
Not such a monster, 
Maybe.
Her caress is sweet, you see,
But somewhat sad.
I’m sure she wishes only fair display.
Give her that
And she, no doubt
Will go away.

For Kate, on the announcement of her second pregnancy…

To bring forth life, they claim, a gift.
But what of population shift
And ever growing poverty?
(Not to do with Bourgeoisie)
But greedy broods intent on chicks
And phallic vessels saucy sticks.
If not be chaste, then please, restraint!
Forget ye not the rubber saint,
And save us over-crowded villes!
Spare us rising treasury bills!
Can I not persuade your womb
To keep itself a vacant room?
For time too tough for bairn in quick succession.
After all a dark recession
Creeping every ten year round.
Higher people, lesser pound.
And beg do I you contemplate
The stretch mark saga, gaining weight.
The stench of spew to first-blush song,
And pain. And endless dusks ere long.
The lonely cry of absent brawl.
But time will fly and lo! How tall!
The shouting, slamming, tireless angst
And school, cool, wallets naught but minor banks.
Or something different do you see?
An Oxbridge graduate maybe?
A blonde curled, rose-cheeked, bright-eyed bub,
Charming miss or strapping cub?
How optimistic one can be
When faced with still intact debris!
And rest assured, when life as slum
Distain will face your need to Mum.
And when your cherubs hark out-shouts the piping crow,
I will smile and say, ‘I told you so’.

If I were a bear 
With hula hoop hair
Would I cower to the custom
Of clumsy compare?
Would I follow the fad?
File my fair in a wink?
Or willingly clad
Each enamouring kink?