Was asked to write a poem on the “most important issue we are facing- Brexit.”This is the best I could do.


Withered women cradle starving sons

Who’ve ran out of tears before they are old enough to speak.

And they sit, eyes cast down,

silent and meek

As we continue to fund the war.


And as their children die needlessly

Of things we can easily fix

We pretend they do not exist

As murdering children is below Brexit on the list.


Teachers are buying their pupil’s winter coats

And washing dirty clothes

Because as it goes,

No one cares about fractions

When they’re fighting the cold


And whilst stuffing their free lunch

For later up their sleeves

Knowing it could be the only meal they receive

Our leaders are too busy

debating remain or leave


Kavanah, , Weinstein,

Universal credit and Griffiths

Shows once again

They don’t care about women


Casting couches, beer lovers

And “can she take a beating?”

Reinstate him for the vote

And I guess that’s not cheating


Discarded bodies,

Wash up on our blooded shores

More common than seashells

And easier to ignore

When Brexit is the only debate on the floor


The NHS dwindles

Homeless die on the street

1 billion for the dup

to hold onto her seat

Yet her naughtiest moment

Is running through wheat?


You want a poem about Brexit?

The Europe debate?

Don’t you think that we all have enough on our plate?


Once equality is prevalent

And war is through

Then I’ll write you a poem

on the fucking EU


Good girls

At four in a store

She tugs st her mother’s sleeve

With inquisitive eyes and bruised knees

And innocently asks “what does fuck mean?”


And in a moment of complete despair as surrounding shoppers stop to stare the mother replies “good girls don’t swear”

The girl finds this terribly unfair.


As she grows she finds there are lots of things good girls don’t do.

They don’t refuse.

Or they refuse,

the opposite of whatever you choose, either way you are going to lose this distorted game.

They take the shame.


Good girls don’t speak, they stay meek. With invisible hands wrapped around their throats,

they spend each day trying not to choke

They don’t provoke.

Be that with words or deeds,

an outfit that sows the seeds of prosicimunity


They don’t show unity.

Instead they compare and contrast, exclaiming with misplaced glee

“That will never happen to me. Not to a good girl”


We are not good girls.

Stiff and wooden

Whispered words and delicate gestures

With ankle weights of tree roots.

Trained into submission


They will listen when we speak.

Be that a lisp or a screech,

whatever we wear when we walk down the streets.

We will be heard.

Through action or word


We are not good girls.

We are women

A woman’s word

From the ball-breaking bitches

Abrasive and rash

Gold digging whores

Feisty with sass


The haughty and hysterical

Who don’t know their place

To the daintiest wallflower

Submissive in grace


The bossiest ‘bosses’

Shrill, catty and pushy

To the raciest harlots

Ditzy and slutty


The middle aged lawyers

Referred to as “girls’

Petite and dainty

“Gems” “diamonds”and “pearls”


To all of the animals

Cow, bird, hen and shrew

Dog , pig and chicks

To name just a few


From the frigidest spinsters

And the dried up old hags

The bubbly wrench

The hormonal nag


The babes and sweethearts

The old ball and chain

To the women called everything

except their own name


To the ones that are trodden

Buried deep in the dirt

Those silent and patient

Who don’t know their worth


They can only be kings

If you’re willing to serve

So rise from the floor

And make yourself heard

The dragon guard

Curled beside your aching bones

Throughout the night or day.

Watered eyes and trembling lips

A stapled unmoving grin,

Cheesy jokes and tumbling words

Mask the pain within.


A dragon around your prison bed,

A blanket or a flame.

Cancer sniggers ruefully,

Playing its personal game.


The rules too cruel and ridged,

For the dragon to understand.

Treading water, catching breaths

Staring wistfully at the sand.


But dragons have other strengths

That cancer cannot see.

So we’ll tread the water, catch our breaths,

And one day we’ll be free.

Ban the burka bullshit

The tool of poverty,

Sharpens the knifes

Filling the jails with empty bellies

And skewed statistics

Supporting their latest cause


And the men,

With their eyes on their wallets

And stained hands pressed firmly against your breast

Declare sexism in religious attire

Politely reminding her to undress

It’s a mess

But we pretend we are free

Liberate her from her identity

Make her look more like me


Stand with London

Stand with Yemen

Stand with France and Syria

But the suits keep us tied to the chairs

Unable to declare,

Anything but war.

Hoping hashtags can stop the pain


It’s unfair,

But it’s all part of the game

As we tell our children alternative bedtime stories

Where power is created by good not wealth


we watch, Idly by

Whilst our kids assault their own skin

To escape the world we’ve created

Destroy themselves from within

We tattoo snowflake on their hearts

And then wonder why they freeze.

Unable to feel anything but numb


Boxer chanting “I must work harder”

Becomes an every day motif

Promoting the fake news of prosperity

The truth hidden beneath


It’s sad to proclaim,

Although we all understand

It’s easier to thrive

With your head in the sand


But the beach is overcrowded

And the demons within

It’s time to step forward

We won’t let them win


Tear stained mirrors cannot lie

Or mask the grotesque

Nor the disappointment in their lust filled eyes

When they realise I am their prize


Racing to turn out the bedroom light,

Grateful they’re only here for one night.

Out of sight, out of mind

As they slam themselves deeply inside

Conducting their alibis, protecting their pride


Glancing at my scar-filled thighs

They wince, treat me like one of the guys

Forcing themselves to ignore the disguise of femininity

Buried under repulsive skin

Tarnished and tainted, trapped deep within.


So they smile, make a harmless joke

At my unappealing frame

Accepting that I am out of the game

“Beauty is within”, they grin.

Gazing longingly at her chest

Unable to desire the body I posses.

I’m a mess


And in a moment of pious support

They tell me I’m fine for a last resort.

As long they make it crystal clear,

To anyone lingering near

I’m their final choice

One step up from their hand

Not an encounter they ever had planned


So I search,

For that zip on my flesh

Shedding my intolerable form

And yet when I raise my eyes from the floor

The mirror screams the word “whore.”

Apple tree

My body is an apple tree

The branches weave so far down my throat

I spend most days

attempting not to choke.



You can’t have a fire

Without any smoke – and I am burning.


My body is an apple tree

Some days the twigs expand,

entwining around my lungs

until I’m sure each breath will be my last.


Yet it will pass.

And the birds will still sing,

Each breath will become a wonderful thing

Though even the maggots

can see through my grin.


My body is an apple tree.


The fruit filled with allure,

An illusion of perfection

And rotten to the core


Inquisitive delusion, a lesson to learn

Visitors are plentiful, but never return


A lifetime of loneliness

Is no more than I’ve earned


A long time worn,

Yet the roots hold strong

Throughout internalised scorn

And the notion that I can never belong

Is it so wrong


To need some relief

A moment of weakness

A lifetime of grief

Unevolved from the child

Hiding under bed sheets


My body is an apple tree


Through the storm and the sun

The light and the dark

The old and the young


Entrapped in existence

With one final plea

My mind is in turmoil


My body an apple tree

Chasing nightmares

He stands.

Changing the world in 140 characters or less

It’s a mess.

We all bow our heads

And pretend we are distressed.

we say he’s harmless, an unwanted joke

But  you can’t light match then complain about the smoke


Fighting for change with our eyes tightly shut

With a look of surprise that we’re stuck in this rut

Hoping our children can finally be strong enough

Yet before their voice breaks, they make their cut.


They take their first drug before they can drive

Have sex with strangers, so they feel alive,

Child suicide figures quickly on the rise

Broken before they learn how to survive.


The media is powerful, a key for their lock

Keeping us fearful of the next knock,

Yet there’s always an iPhone to film all the shock

Society narrated by Rupert Murdock.


With wrinkles come doubt,

A resigned disposition.

The years stole away with their hopes and ambition

now unexpected kindness, raises only suspicion

They no longer question, just blind submission


And when thoughts of equality enter their head

They are forced to focus on their struggles instead

I can only surmise that it’s true what they said

“Everyone is equal when they are dead.”

Little boy to little man

Tearful eyes with tiny shoes,

powerless against the flames.

Gritted teeth and swinging fists,

Are different kinds of games.


Inquisitive boy soon learns to hush, 

Wishing he was strong .

But when a fly’s locked in a spider’s web,

Bravery can’t last long.


As the boy’s too big for the web,

He’s lead to the serpents lair. 

Broken voice, yet breaking down 

Fed only on despair. 


A cappellas of insults drown out The Smiths, 

Head pounding to the base.

Fear takes root, deep in his mind,

Watered with his hate. 


Little boy to little man,

In a world he can’t control.

Conflicting claims and twisted words

Are bound to take their toll.


Then one night, as the hurricane rains 

His courage starts to wobble.

Just one more punch, one more word 

he’s reaching for the bottle. 


It silences the voice, that says he’s weak,

Granting him some peace.

The dangerous drug cannot be wrong,

If he can finally sleep.


Angry eyes and size 10 feet,

Flinch as tall men come near.

Yet forty years from his escape 

he cannot quench his fear. 

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