Hi, if anyone has the time, please read through and let me know if there are any which are really terrible. The first 6 are from a creative writing module I did which I got a first for so assuming they’re good. For the rest, I really have no idea, some of the ones I usually perform are probably not good to submit but I’m so confused and really don’t know what’s good or bad, or even if I have enough good material or if I just write loads of crap and have very little good… that’s kind of how I feel with all the rejections from submissions I’ve had, feel like I have very little chance. Anyway, help! Please! Argh!
Plasticine
I remember the feeling of lying with you;
head nuzzled in your chest
like a human jigsaw puzzle,
our bodies moulded together.
The faint scent of yesterday’s cologne,
morning breath after midday
and the movement of breathing.
Hearts beating.
The slow rise
up and down.
I laugh along to the television screen
as the sound blurs behind your eyelids.
How it used to be.
I do
not
want
to
forget…
The Very Hungry Caterpillar
The Very Hungry Caterpillar eats away at me.
each bite dulls my eyes,
a revolving merry-go-round in my mind,
repeating lines like π.
Tell me what I am.
Trapped Jack in a Box.
The comfort of darkness,
curled under the covers,
hoping the monster won’t get me.
I search and scramble for the edges of the hole,
to lift myself onto some solid earth.
Your hands still hold the rope wrapped around my stomach,
as with each step I take, you urge me to plummet,
and I long to turn the page.
Party Rings
It’s the
seven year old skin
of porcelain,
with a plastic ring
on every finger,
dipping into the icing
of the cake,
wishes blowing in the wisp of smoke
from each candle.
It’s the passing of the parcel
where everyone gets a prize
and where a blown up balloon
is a symbol for happiness.
And dancing is just jumping
and games are just bumping
onto the floor.
It’s the photograph of a smiling girl
And the ever-present party rings
at birthdays.
Say goodbye to your childhood.
The Photograph
“There must be a draft from the door,
‘cause in the room there’s a chill,
and the photograph’s edges peel, from the wall;
to press it back with Blu-Tak,
Or to simply
Let it fall?”
Baking Cake Alone
v Press play
to keep a consistent flow of Music into your ears.
v Take a large mixing bowl
and place in the measured out creamy butter.
v Combine with 6 oz of caster sugar,
stir in with a pinch of I Will Go To The Gym Tomorrow.
v Add 3 beaten eggs
and a line of sing-a-long All I wanted was a simple kind of life.
v Next, sift in the flour.
v Then fold it in with the eggs
like the rolls in your stomach, created by the apron strings.
v Also sift in some cocoa powder, as desired,
along with the salt from Happy Tears.
v Place in a greased cake tin,
bake for 30 minutes,
then eat like the fat boy in Matilda.
v Serving suggestion: especially good in front of A Repeat Episode of Friends.
Dreams
My oldest friend,
you cried on the bed in my childhood home,
and I joined you, unsure, of what the tears were for,
but neither of us were crying alone.
So we cried and we cried and we cried
until our tears must have formed a pool
and Latchmere’s wave machine engulfed us inside,
so that the saltiness smelt like chlorine
and we had a place to
breathe
and
hide.
But the waves,
the waves were just like the sea.
And we swam and swam and swam
until we were stressed and dressed like waitresses
but we didn’t know what to do.
so we thought back to the memories of the pool.
the warm wetness of the water, sliding over our skin,
tears running down cheeks,
hands moving over heads to reach,
and smiles spread across each of our faces.
The Mirror
My face cold and pale
I levitate above my bed
to feel the empty space surround me.
Why do I always see you when I’m ill?
I close my eyes
and I feel the faint warmth of your body like fever.
I have met strangers sat on fences.
They claimed to love me
but I just blew them away with the smoke from my cigarette.
I have been shouted at by other women.
I ran away into the shower
and it sang to me then laughed at me
as it took away the water,
and I joined in
because there is not much else you can do
when a shower head is mocking you in your nakedness.
Our son looks like you.
He stares into mirrors, recites criticisms of Rousseau
and stands beside the burning bush
but I am water,
as I wash my hair it hangs down
and drip drip drips.
and I become soluble in the room
which is all dripping.
The mirrors crash to the ground
like sea waves hitting sandy bays.
You left me.
You left me standing in a tangle of long grass;
so far away and small.
I will become a simple strand of grass,
blowing in the wind as it rushes by the fields
like thin glass mirrors of green,
reflecting one another:
I blend into insignificance.
Autumn Leaves
Spitting leaves since the bonfire
left like a Guy burning
forked
to the spot. Smoke
choking me for all the words
you wouldn’t let out,
stuffed up inside me
cotton mouthed
like that dumb toy animal
you bought back when you got me birthday presents,
wrapped up with
a dress so small I broke the zip
trying to make it fit
and you replaced it, like you’ve done with me now.
Something new, still nice,
but not quite the same,
not quite as good, not quite…
too much,
a girl that you can take,
doesn’t burn so bright, a firework
when set alight
doesn’t rise quite as high,
but as you watch me fade and die,
beside her at the back of your mind,
do you repeat the way I shined
like the pattern of our bodies
intertwined.
Roots
My roots are more than the people in my bloodline,
more than a diagram of my family tree.
They are in my ink stained name at the bottom of a love letter
filled with drawings and poems and random thoughts
all scrawled with desire of wanting to share everything I can.
My roots are the curl of the C,
the curl of my hair,
and the waves I have swam through
and the wetness of my cheeks
from downward eyes and quivering lips.
My roots are in my laugh, my smile, and my skin;
in my seasick stomach,
my loaded liver
and my beating, blood-pumping, jumping heart.
My roots are a love of olives and omelettes and paella and tapas bars.
give me sweet sangria, good music and great friends,
a shyness that shines
not a shyness that defines.
Bull star signs and red fabric of sex and passion and blood
All draped over me like the emperor’s new clothes.
My roots are gravy over everything,
baths and showers full of gravy,
rivers and lakes and scuba diving tanks.
Spinning round in tea cups
and breaking saucers.
My roots are words words words,
reading and poetry and essays,
talking and shouting and not getting a word in edgeways.
My roots are art,
sculptures and paint splatting and CSM.
Drip drip drip
into colouring books and dot-to-dots.
My roots are musical notes and little songs,
bringing on the trumpets from my grandad’s brass band.
The tinkle of his father’s piano fades with memory,
and I wish I could play but all I have is a DVD and a dusty keyboard
and amputated arms;
my hands running away from ticking clocks whilst my laptop melts.
My roots are present through my bark to my branches to my leaves,
even when fallen,
even when the wind sweeps them away and scatters them among the earth.
My roots are everywhere I am.
Cinderella
These days
Cinderella stays
out past midnight
gets into a catfight
covers up her love bite
with her long hair
as she stumbles on each stair
and she doesn’t really care.
What you lookin’ at? she says
with holes in her tights, wearing last night’s dress
as she gets on the bus
better not make a fuss
‘cause she kinda looks like she could throw a punch
and has acrylic nails that’d make you bleed
and straighteners so powerful: could make your hair recede
and as she bends down to adjust her shoe
you better pray she’s not coming after you!
In the street she stumbles again,
her slippers not made of glass,
trips on the uneven pavement
and nearly falls onto her arse.
She flicks her heels off in frustration
and lets her soles get dirty.
Her stomach is rumbling badly
as it’s coming up to three thirty
and she hasn’t had a bite to eat
and all she wants is put up her feet
but other than that her life is sweet.
So sometimes I wish I was like Cinderella,
she drops her shoe and soon after gets a fella.
But he always disappears after one night
with his true love Stella.
Recipe for Pills
A grain of Medication
to target whatever it may be
you want fixing.
A spoonful of sugar
because Mary Poppins knows best.
She is Practically Perfect in Every Way;
you are comatose in bed
and have lost your rosy-red cheeks,
face painted with canvas primer.
Now.
You’re going to need a gallon of False Hope,
and the Concerned Smiles of Family and Friends,
but leave out the Tears Behind Closed Doors.
Next, add hours of Rest,
lucky for you, exercise was never a great source of pleasure.
A dose of Daytime TV
and a handful of grapes.
One of your five-a-day.
Add seven glasses of water.
place into a large saucepan,
stir gently on a low heat.
Leave in the fridge overnight to cool.
By morning it should have crystallized, but still be soft.
Insert five grams of the mixture into capsules.
Once finished, put into plastic containers.
Take twice daily.
Note: there may be side effects.
Passing Time
Pass the condoms.
Pass the salt.
I cannot come.
It’s not your fault.
I’m over here.
I’m over there.
While I remove
your underwear.
It’s been so long
and I am weak.
I just want touch,
so just don’t speak.
Squeeze my arse,
slide inside and thrust.
this is not love;
it’s only lust.
And it feels good.
better than drinking.
I may not come
but it stops me thinking.
Fancy Dress
In this same natural fancy dress,
always propping the same face on the same palms
and letting it be reflected from the looking glass.
I am a doll.
Drawing and colouring in my face.
Mouth poised
ready for a kiss.
Ringlets ready to get messed up.
I am wearing my party dress.
I am rage.
Screaming in my ears.
Red and black.
Ripped fishnets.
Metal ready to draw blood.
I am wearing my armour.
I am a whore.
Flesh exposed.
Easy access through this silk
slip a hand high on my thigh,
I won’t mind.
I am wearing my sex, or is it gender?
I am an intellectual.
Glasses and BHDs.
Book in hand.
Pen in mouth.
I am wearing my pencil skirt.
I am nu-rave and nu-grave.
I can’t decide.
Bright colours.
Dark black.
I am wearing a way to hide.
I am ghetto.
Hoop earrings on show.
Mispronouncing my words
that my mother tells me end in t.
I am wearing roots and childhood tracksuits.
I am a dancer.
Leggings, leotard
and legs spread.
Cartwheels in your head,
to make you think I’m good in bed.
I am wearing music.
I am a drama queen
my mouth wide open.
Microphone, loudspeaker,
spotlight, audience.
I am wearing a mask.
I am a sailor.
Anchor round my neck.
Thinking cap.
Google map.
And ready to take you away.
I am wearing stripes of past mockery.
I am a poet.
Let me read to you.
I am naked.
I give you ugliness.
I give you beauty.
I am wearing everything all at once.
Claymore
Claymore welcomes you with white walls
but you hand over your paints at the door.
We give you pills for those days
when you want to cry on the floor.
We’re very nice like that.
You’re not normal, you’re not healthy
but here we’ll make you better.
You can’t just leave of your own accord
because you’ve signed the consent letter.
We watch you while you’re shaving
to make sure you don’t slit your wrists.
It’s for your own good,
so put down your fighting fists.
The place we call the living room
has the Dead Poet’s Society, for you to watch on the TV,
but outside the doors, you can be wild as dogs
under the supervision of me.
Guns aren’t lawful, nooses give.
Gas smells awful, so you might as well live.
Live but say no to love
because soon you’ll fit right in.
Marriage would only hit you
in the head, with a rolling pin.
Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do.
I’m half crazy, but darling, look at you.
Hanging from the ceiling
can sometimes be appealing,
But it can all be made better,
if you just tell us how you’re feeling.
Poet on page and stage. Creator of She Grrrowls. Facilitator. Writer. 