'We'll sort you out' blues...

They say it'll all be over

In a month or two

You'll be much happier when

You stop feeling the way you do

It all takes time you see

I mean... what did you expect?

Your problems are only ours

When helping you is easy

And by that we mean pills!

Lots and lots of pills...

It doesn't matter if they

Turn your brain to mush

Until you forget your own free-will.

But it'll all be over

In a month or two

And then you can go back

To doing whatever it is that you do...

And then it may start all over again

And there'll be more pills to fix you up

And catch you out of the blue.

Us Women...

This poem is dedicated to two friends of mine, both of whom are called Sophie and are rather amazing people and brilliant feminists!



We are sensitive subjects,

Us women

Almost as sensitive

As our pretty little bodies

Our pretty little minds...

Such revolutions

Will never interest us

Oh no, we're far too innocent

To think such thoughts

The word 'politics'

Just simply isn't in our dictionary...

No, we're much too content

Sitting here, reading women's weekly

To think for ourselves...

The names 'Joan of Arc' and 'Emily Davison'

Are all new to me

We'd rather you know

'Judith Martin' now she

Really is a real woman to be...

So don't you fret, We're not

Planning our freedom

Our... liberty...

There's just simply

Too much to do

For us to care

About such petty things...

We're more than happy

To sit the hours away,

Staring out the window

And telling ourselves

Everthing will be okay..

Growing Up

There’s an edge

On the cliff

Where we’d sit for hours

Listen to the waves

And pick the flowers.

There’s a place

In the street

Where I first learnt to ride

I fell off

But I never once cried.

And there’s a room

In my house

Where no-one would find me

I’d sit by the window

And draw what I’d see.

They say you’ve got to

Grow up now

Stop returning to these

Old memories

You’re 17 now

Stop pretending you’re 3.

There’s a field

By my old friends' houses

With trees and a stream

The water ran cold

And now it’s just a dream.

There’s a park

Down by the bridge

We used to have picnics

Sit on the grass

And hunt for crickets.

They tell me I’ve

Got to stop

And think about my future

Sit, up

And practice good posture.

I don’t care about

What lies ahead.

I just want

To go back

To a time in my head.

I used to always

Want to grow up

Who care’s

About youth?

I want wisdom and gut.

But now I

Can’t stop remembering

The past, the time

The places, the people

I always thought would be mine.

Short Poem I

What is one life
To another,
When we cease
To live at all?
For the flower we
See as in bloom
Has not yet
Perfected it's form.

Waiting For A Hero

This poem was written after seeing a picture of Stella Vine’s latest public painting which was used as a backdrop for The Chapman Family’s Mima performance. After seeing the rather gory and morbid subjects in the painting, it felt important to me to capture this anti-war message into a poem. I hope it will suffice well.

The last four lines were used in the painting and are a lyric from the Chapman Family’s song ‘No More Tears’.

You can see pictures of the painting on Stella Vine's facebook page here - https://www.facebook.com/stellavine#!/media/set/?set=a.427503997282952.103945.227602890606398&type=3

And if you are interested in The Chapman Family, here is their facebook page - https://www.facebook.com/TheChapmanFamily

We’ll interfere

When money is the reward,

Land, oil,

And all the world’s spoils.

We’re waiting for a hero

The one to end this war,

But this tyranny of greed

Is no comic-book flaw.

The reality is death

At the hands of political shibboleth.

“We’re sorry for such casualties

But, that’s war.

We’d compensate their families

But it’s really such a chore…”

Front page news:

‘Civilian casualties rise’

First it was the prisoners

But now it’s the children’s turn

-to live like flies.

And we’re too proud

And patriotically ignorant

To deem ourselves the ‘cause’

As we become ever more belligerent.

This just in;

All wars have ended

We found the problem…

And now it has been mended.

All we needed was compassion

Instead of money, greed and fascism.

But who’s going to clean all the mess up?

We’ll tell the media it was charity

And government support

Of endless verity.

But deep down we’ll all know the truth,

It’s embedded in our culture

In our youth…

We listen to the papers

And the stories on the news

We want to feel human

But the media's our only muse

And all we can do

Is live our lives upside down

Where we can feel safe

Beneath this crown.

No More Lies

No More Fear

No More Hate

No More Tears

No More Lies

No More Fear

No More Hate

No More Tears

No More Lies

No More Fear

No More Hate

No More Tears

Poisonous Fruit

I may be bought and sold

Caught and told

Always weak, never bold

But at least I’m not your doll

You can chew me up

Spit me out

Eat me alive

And curse me with this drought

But I’ll still be mine

Though never free

At least I’ll live

At least I’ll be

You made my clothes

Sowed my woes

Took my hands

And kept me on my toes

Now I am a porcelain prize

No sailor will call for me

Until my cradle is made

Until I am no longer

Fruit of a poisonous tree.

Eclipse At Sunset

She smiles with weak eyes

A glint of wisdom

Guarded by her age

Threatened by a single hymn

Palms of wrinkled leather

Blue and grey like murky water

A stream into her lungs

Lived on through her daughter

The power and sanctity of youth

Are no longer of any use

Like the arm around her;

No longer tame but ruse

The candle she lit with a frail hand

Will eat away the dark

Until all the wax is consumed

And the light is no longer within her heart

She’ll leave with a whisper

On everyone’s lips

Though she died at sunset

They’ll sing of an eclipse.

To All The Fools...

They splash out on fast cars,
Big houses with pools,
Think they can conquer anything
Because we’re the fools.
They try to make us forget
By doping us with media
The advertisements aren’t a coincidence
They’re not there to feed ya,
No, they’re not your salvation,
Just another damnation.
And we’re happy to live this life
In front of a TV screen
Not knowing how to get up
And realise what we’re missing.
There’s alcohol, cigarettes and drugs
To make us think we’ve got a choice
But they’re just another function
To stop us from having a voice.
Free speech is compulsory
If we pay the right price
Anyone can have it
So long as their freedom will suffice
Our eyes don’t see the things
That their ears hear,
Our hearts don’t beat the way
Their brains make clear.
How can we be of any use?
When war feats a territorial motion
That keeps us thinking we’re on the right side
While the business men benefit with promotion.
It fucks up my mind
To think of how we have been bred,
Brought up to believe anything
Lies since day one, we were all spoon-fed!
And it’s not gonna get any better
Till we stop this slave labour
And make them pay all their faults
And do it in our favour.
It was never meant to be like this
We are our own identity
They never should have stopped our instincts
And put up walls of apathy.
It can’t be helped they say
Just ‘one of those things’
Well I can’t help but wonder…
That we’re the workers in this hive,
And every time we use our sting
We lose our hearts and die.

See Inside My Head

Dedicated to all men and women who have suffered at the hand of expectation and the burden of unfilling what others - before them - have fuillfilled. Especially to all the great Hollywood actresses of the 1900's and the men of Post-war Britain. So much opportunity and so much direction but so little encouragement and pride from those they wish would love them the most. And last but not least; to all those who think they have to comform and comply to anything but themselves, stay the person you are, do not change for the sake of 'duty' or others who do not appreciate the true value of life.


Can you see inside my head?

Reach in

And pluck out

Every bit of jelly-like substance

Untill I am only

Left with an empty skull.

This is how you see me -

Empty.

Like a vase without flowers

Or a book without words

I cannot be rewritten

As you had hoped.

Your ideas are not mine

I am 'The Ideal'

Blank slate to poison

See the blood dripping down

Dried brown like Earthly dirt.

I am 'whole' not 'a hole'

As you made clear

Unlike I - ambiguous and

Buried by those who do not

Seem to care.

I inhabit this shell

And you - my friend

Will never know such hell.

She Only Had Herself to Blame...

After reading 'Inspector Calls' by JB Priestly and Marilyn Monroe's biography, I put the themes together along with my own ideas (arguably the weaker components to this poem) and created this; 
(Still think if it as a draft, not sure when and if I'll come back to it though)



There once was a girl,

pretty as can be.

Grew up in an orphanage,

Never did see her family.


She was told they would come for her

One day, when she was older,

They said her pa would pick her up at 12

And carry her upon his shoulder.


When the clock struck 12

And noon had come,

Every day she would wait and wait

Thinking they were just running late.


But as she reached the age of 10

she realised they never were,

and they never would

come to collect her.


She grew up pretty fast

And began to hate her looks,

She learnt no-one would take her seriously

Never think she was into books.


The orphans used to call her names

Or pretend she wasn't there,

Then she began to use her looks

And they began to stare.


The boys would whistle to her

And beg her to come near,

The girls would talk behind her back

Hoping she would just disappear.


But time came to pass

And she was no longer adored,

Only good for one thing (Or so she thought)

A night out, a meaningless fling.


Some pills beside her bed

To help her sleep,

Were discarded on the floor

Amongst a dirty clothes heap.


She saw the bottle there

And thought of all her life,

Thought of each and everything

And all the troubles she was supressing.


Those pills are now inside her stomach

46 to be exact,

She was calm when swallowing them down

She saw death as a 'matter of fact'.


Now her body rots inside the earth

Below the ground we walk upon,

You see, it's never our fault

The poor girl; we shouldn't dwell upon.


She was always such a hopeless case

We knew it was bound to happen,

I think you'll find it was customary

She got what she deserved,

No self-respecting girl would have done the same

So we can only put herself to blame.