You, woman,

with your many forms and faces,

have taken so much from me.

A cash flow now trickles;

a booming heart now constricts.

You, woman,

with your labyrinthinian mind,

have wrapped me in webs.

My body robbed of its bravery;

my mind shorn of its strength.

You, woman,

have your wild world still hidden;

oh baby, baby, its your feminine wiles,

that have binded me to your kind.

You, woman,

embrace who you are,

raise up your dress;

show me your soft secrets

and put me under duress.

You, woman,

with your youth, cold truths

and cruel callous laughs,

should embrace this present power;

for life is long and lingering

and of many a dark hour.



Stranger Danger.

The pigeon was so recently free

from its cage beneath the tree.

It had been in the urban wild 3 days

like an innocent child, but grey.

The two legs had begged for his return

but to return to that cage made his pride burn.

Everyday he saw a cat that sat,

that smugly smiled and raised paw fat

but this pigeon knew this cat was not  friend but foe

because it followed pigeon everywhere he’d go.

One day the pigeon was cornered, caught;

and the cat, it smiled and raised its paw

and paused for thought as the pigeon scorned:

“He must have a million spores of evil spawned

within his skin and that is why he does begin

to everyday destroy my day,

get in my way and make me pay for some sad deed

that I’ve betrayed, for eating breathing, being grey,

much to my chagrin and dismay.”

The cat it smiled, lowered its knee that is the cradle

for the seeds. The seeds that burn, the spores that blister,

the pigeons life saved daily by a split whisker

of possible fate or divine intervention

of those hairless two legs we don’t mention.

Not part of this world, they live in houses,

fridge cheese, boil broccoli and have spouses.

The cat, it sat and smiled with wolvish glee

and tensed its evil spore filled knee.

It pounced and punched so playfully

this little bird so recently free.

The pigeon squealed, an uncooked meal

and the cat laughed and mewed a great deal

“You think the two legs can save you now?

They can’t, they won’t. To work they bow.

9 – 5  is when you are mine. Mine to catch

and mine to find.

You think they care about you, little bird?

Or will run to your squeals and sorrowed words?

This garden’s mine and so are you

so this game is forever, until you lose.

There is no honour, is no truce,

to keep on fighting there is no use.”

He raised his paw without pause for thought

but the pigeon fled and cat had caught

his hand in pale and sticky pigeon poop

from getting too close to the coop.

The cat began to scowl and mope,

to get pigeon today he had little hope.

The pigeon smiled and spread its feathers

knowing he would get peace never.

This garden was his little home

and to not be here was to be alone.

The hairless two-legs were his protectors

from this evil, feline Hannibal Lector.

This cat was cruel and pigeon was new;

he needed to learn quick at this school.

If there was one rule to remember

it was to talk to smiling cats never ever.

Bobbing for Apples

Bobbing for apples,

humming on plums,

feeling his shaft

around my gums.

Tugging down panties,

drinking my juice,

fingers inside me

like I’ve been goosed.

My mates will all call me

a dirty, sad slag

but then they will call me

and ask if I gagged.

They are just jealous

’cause I’m well fitter, blates

and all the boys want me

more than my mates.

Without E’s we argue,

we fight and we bitch,

with E’s we cuddle

and lez up and kiss.

The boys fucking love it

but I don’t like minge

I like cock-a-plenty

after a binge.

The boys they all want me.

The girls want me too

and if they say they don’t

they’re just jealous,

I’m better than you.

Who needs good grades

when you’ve got looks like mine?

Who needs good grades

when you can get high?

Buns in the oven

can be deflated before cooked

and drugs, they’re just fun,

none of us hooked.

Like a fish in the water

my gills take in and flush out;

you can drown in ecstacy

but from E you can’t drown.

Fair enough you can’t piss

and you chew up your cheeks

but your bum cheeks will be clenching

when you both reach your peak.

Fuck, I love life.

Uni’s for geeks

why try and do well

when the future is bleak?

The money goes to darkies,

we don’t look after our own.

We give the greasy cunts money,

a car and a home.

There’s not any jobs

so the best way to make dough

is to lie and your back

and watch as he grows.

Stopping and starting,

breathing fast and then slow

until you’re lying on your back

at the funeral home.

That’s the life for me,

a variety of breaths

from drink, drugs and fucking

up to my death.

Rounders, Sausage, Chips and Beans.

I am six years old and have been called in for lunch with my cousin Alex and my twin sister Gemma. My brother is a baby and is therefore too young to play rounders with us, which thus makes him irrelevant. We are puffing our cheeks out, red in the face with exertion and dispute. Alex had cheated and hit the ball on a “No Ball” and, ignoring our shouts, had ran and kept running as we desperately tried to release the ball from its jail in the rose bush. He had completed five home runs by the time we got the ball and was beaming like a con man who had just ripped off his third old lady that day. The problem was we weren’t doddery old women, we were stubborn six year olds who were not willing to let this go.

“Just let it go, will you?” said my Mum, clearly not understanding the politics of youth. What did she know anyway, with her crazy Michael Jackson perm and checkered lumberjack shirts. No wonder women would wink at her in the streets. We scowled at her as we walked through the salloon doors that allowed us into the kitchen.

Sitting at the table, we saw laid before us was one of our favourite meals: sausage, chips and beans. Unfortunately Alex had a speech impediment that caused him to stutter and repeat the word “and”. When he saw this glorious feast he excitedly shouted “Wow! Sausage andandandandandandandand chips andandandandanandand beans!” With a meal like that, ours was clearly a health conscious house hold.

Ecstatic, we used our fingers to pick up the soft and slightly greasy chips and asked Mum to put the radio on. She obliged, squinting as she fiddled with the radio as the sun glared at her through the window. The radio came to life with the croons of Wet Wet Wet’s ‘Wishing I Was Lucky’. We jumped down from our chairs, united in our love for 90’s music and danced around the table, picking up a chip or sausage as we skipped passed our plates. We never picked up the beans though, what do you think we were, animals?

Alex’s favourite song came on. It was Ace of Base “All That She Wants” which made us dance faster and sing louder despite the low tempo of the song. My Father, who has never been a fan of children making noise, stomped through the salloon doors and looked us all in the eyes, his own slit. With a fag placed effortlessy between his lips he looked like a cowboy about to tell some no good varmints to skeedaddle. In his Scottish voice (which was terrifying for its intelligabilty) he ordered us to “Sit doon” and eat our dinner properly.

We fell silent, sat in an orderly fashion and bowed our heads. The cowboy took stage exit one, sucking the joy out of the room with him, leaving us with a smog of sulleness.

“At least I hit five runs today.” said Alex.