20 years and counting.

Haagen-Dazs & Palestine.

2012-02-12T03:50:00.002Z

I thought about two of the things I write about the most. Then I wrote this.

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I’ve always had pretty strong opinions
‘Cos I always like to think I’m always right.
So if you ask me what I believe in,
I’d say everything from ice-cream, to human rights.

You see, I believe in Haagen-Dazs and Palestinian flags. In fairytales that finish rich but started of in rags. I think we shouldn’t read the magazines that tell us we’re too fat and I hope to god that human beings are really not that bad.

I believe that seeing sense is never simply seen. I’ve heard that playing hard to get is cool but always act too keen. I know I think too much and talk too much and always speak too fast, but I’m grateful as my thoughts and words stop me falling apart.

I believe in giving blood, I know I’m always late. I think that racism is still alive no matter what your race. I know that Africa’s a continent and not a single place, as over 90 million stories cannot share a single face because I’ve always had pretty strong opinions. I always like to think I’m always right. If you ask me what I believe in, I’ll say ice-cream, and human rights.

I believe in Haagen-Dazs and Palestinian flags. In ice-cream that’s accessible to those who once wore rags. I think we shouldn’t read the magazines that tell us things aren’t quite that bad when bombs still blast away and checkpoints cause delay and living life from day to day gets worse for those who cannot say exactly how they live. I believe we always have a lot more we could give.

I believe in ice-cream, and I believe in life. Haagen-Dazs especially, I’ll try to explain why, you see, I believe that both of them are kind of intertwined.

I believe that ice-cream is a sort of human right – I feel that everyone. Is entitled. To ice-cream. And should consume that right as often as possible on a semi-regular basis. If you want it, that is. I’m assuming you like it, because I do, but you might not, and that’s cool, because honestly, it’s nothing to do with me. As long as something doesn’t affect me or hurt anyone else directly I like to leave people be. And I say that, but at the same time I like to say my peace. I speak out if things annoy me, and I have to say I get irritated easily.

I argue a lot. I rant on facebook a lot. And it’s mainly the lack of ice-cream in the world that likes to piss me off because some people haven’t got enough, and yet others have simply got too much. Some have it everyday for lunch, while some get a whole lot of it at once. A few like to steal some and run, while some choose to stop others getting some, and so most, most people in the world end up with none. And not eating any ice-cream is never any fun. We all know we all should get some, but the decision’s already done. And when you’re young and never had Haagen-Dazs, you think that’s how things are always done – you don’t know that things are supposed to be different.

The battle’s never been won, because the battle’s never fought. And while the law says we’re entitled to ice-cream, we know it isn’t given to us all. And by all I do mean everyone. Not my town or my house or the people around me but everybody. It’s that easy. But in the grand scheme of things, ice-cream distribution is decided by hierarchy. One, two or a select few decides for many.

And by now I’m sure you understand I’m not talking about ice-cream, but using metaphor. And I’m allowed to, because that’s what it’s there for. The option to compare something to something else when what you’re trying to say won’t come out right. Like this. A girl who doesn’t write political poems compares food to human rights. I don’t write for causes. I don’t write to sit on high horses and I don’t write to prove points – I write what I write and I wrote this.

Because I believe in Haagen-Dazs and Palestinian flags. In nineteen year olds telling tales to make sense of the facts. In fairytales that might come true for those who once wore rags, but most of all in Haagen-Dazs, and Palestinian flags.

Vacuum Cleaners & Cupboard Doors.

2012-01-29T02:13:00.004Z

Wrote this last year for the House Party show Rubix did at the Roundhouse & have forgotten about it until yesterday. I was asked to perform a poem for some guys I'd just met & for some reason, I could only think of this. I wasn't sober but did it anyway, so obviously forgot half of the bloody piece. Of course. Anyway, turns out I've remembered I like this one & think I'll do it more often. People love love stories, right?

-------------

Vacuum Cleaners and Cupboard Doors.

I’m not ignoring him, she thinks,
Convincing herself that
She’d be wedged
Between a broken sink and
Something that feels
Like a vacuum cleaner
Even if he wasn’t here.
She knows she’s chatting shit.
Sitting in a room where Hoovers
Grow dust rather than collect it.
She feels foolish.
Wishes she would walk out and
Ignore him to his face,
But knows she can’t.
You see she doesn’t hate him,
She just hates the things he does.
And face-to-face at a nameless house party?
It’ll simply be too much.

She heard his voice for a second so she ran
Pushed her way though boys in baggy jeans
And girls with orange tans.
Past the staircase, found a cupboard then she
Shoved herself inside,
And now she’s trying to convince herself she didn’t run and hide.

She feels sick now.
Thinking about things he did,
Things he said,
She wants to hit something
Or someone.
She gets up. Brushes herself down
And frowns at the sound of his voice.
His voice, as strong as ever,
Travelling through hallways and past underage drinkers
Strolling up to her, his voice
Grabs her and
Catches her
Off guard. Again. You see
With him, she’s speechless.
Rendered incapable of
Polite and impolite conversation.
That’s not right, she thinks.
He makes her feel wrong, she thinks.

And she used to like the sound of his voice, she thinks,
Before she stopped hearing it.

For now, she’s just stuck in a storeroom.
She wants to get out
But she’s scared. How can I do this?
She thinks to herself,
You know what? I’ll just stay here instead.
I’ve missed the whole party already
I’ll just stay here ‘till everyone goes.
And I know that I’ve hid in a cupboard
But it’s fine long as he doesn’t know.
No.
I can’t stay here.
I’ll just open the door and I’ll go.
Her heart beats a bit faster
She’s terrified.
She’s sure that she’ll do it –
Second thoughts start though.

Hand towards doorknob
She knows if she opens the door
She’ll be face to face
With his voice and
She’ll see what he’s saying.
Now, she just hears him.
She listens again.
He’s loud enough
She can tell he still
Doesn’t speak any sense.

She thinks he’s with his friend
But she’s not sure. Thinks he’s talking
About toilets, but she’s not hearing more,
‘Cos she’s not listening. Not listening properly.
She can’t concentrate on words, but his tone.
When they were together, she’d sit on the phone in silence, taking it in.
She sighs. Can’t tell why she likes his voice so much
Especially when she still can’t always understand it.

His voice still rings out, but
It’s white noise.
And she realizes, she still likes it;
She’s still shy;
He always did the talking and
She misses that.
It’s a sad fact.

She sits down again.
She knows if he was here now
He’d tell her to get out
And speak to him –
He always used to tell her
The right things to do.
She feels lost without him.
And before you say anything,
She's a feminist; she knows
She can think without him
She just can’t think things through.
You need him,
She thinks,
He just doesn’t want you,
She knows,
And she hates that.
He doesn’t think about you,
That’s a fact.
And now she’s embarrassed at herself –
She’s become
That Girl.

That Girl who thinks in past tense
And can’t see futures.
Whose present is filled with
Memories,
Of old Valentine’s Day presents and
Mutterings under bitter breath asking
“Who’s the other girl he’s with?”
And spending time thinking of things he used to say that
Once made her feel happy. Now,
He just says things.
Stupid things
From “I don’t know if I love you”
To “where the fuck’s the toilets?” - she can hear
Him, coming near the cupboard door,
Asking for the bathroom
And she’s scared.
She fears what he’ll say
When he sees her.

She’s ready to run, but she’s
Too late. Too blatantly
Belatedly realises her mistake.
She hid from him but
She shouldn’t have. Now
She’s stuck.

She takes a deep breath, then
She waits. She hears him again
Asking again, “where are the toilets man?
Don’t tell me to wait,
Mate, it’s been ten minutes and I’m bursting.
I know the second guy said that way,
But the first guy said straight ahead,
And that girl said ignore ‘em both and go left.
Why are we relying on the thick twits you
Meet at house parties for? You know what,
Forget that, let’s just try this door.”

The door opens slightly
Then all the way.

And now he’s in here.
Looking for the loo, but it’s not here.
She’s here. And he sees straight away that she’s sitting
In the gloom of an unused cupboard in
An unknown friend-of-a-friend’s large house
Where a too-huge party’s going on.

They look at each other.

His friend notices her and backs away.
Walking back towards the party, he’s
Preparing what he’ll say
He’ll be the centre of attention
When he tells them all the tale
Because they all know she still wants him,
But they’re not too sure about things
So they’ll speculate and contemplate
The way that things might go.

“They are definitely getting back together”
“No! Do you remember how much they used to fight?”
“Yeah, but they’re in love, aren’t they?”
“You can’t be in love with someone who you don’t even like”
“yeah you can, why not? It’s all about true love”
“but they lied, and they cried”
“yeah, well when true love happens you don’t remember falsehoods, do you?”
“Really?”
“of course!”
“You haven’t got a clue, have you?”

But they’re not thinking about their friends.
‘Cos in a dark room
Filled with Hoovers & often thought about ex-girlfriends
He wants to say he wants her
‘Cos she’s everything he wants. He
Wants to apologise.

And in a dark room
Filled with cobwebs and often thought about ex-boyfriends
She wants him to remember her,
She wants him to remember them.
He was the end for her.
She doesn’t want a new beginning.

Waterstones on Clapham High Street.

2011-09-22T01:37:00.001+01:00

They didn’t loot the bookshops.
The sad thing is, they didn’t loot the bookshops
like books weren’t worth their time.

They didn't loot the bookshops,
like books weren't worth
breaking windows for,
but trainers were
and trainers are
and JD sports
and Nike Town were all looted, but,
Waterstones wasn’t.

They didn’t loot the bookshops.
Walked past,
told Bronte to Homer to Walker to Hornby
their books weren’t worth breaking in for.
Not worth breaking doors over.
They just weren’t bothered to take
bound pages of writing, instead,
went to Curry’s for free overhead lighting.
Went to Argos for TVs and
went to Nando's for a reason
I still don’t understand –
I mean, does setting fire to it
let the chicken cook or something?
And wouldn’t there not be any chicken since it was night-time?

They took nothing from Nando’s,
no chicken to take
but still windows to break,
but they set fire to it too though.
Nando’s I mean, not the chicken,
the chicken that wasn’t around at the time.
But the bookshops they just left behind, like
books weren’t even worth the minute it takes to strike a match, like,
books were a less desirable option than getting batoned, like
the bookshops weren’t even on their radar –
their avoidance said almost none of them would want to steal a book.
Their avoidance said that most of them would loot
but wouldn't look at books.

They didn't loot the bookshops.
The sad thing is, they didn't loot the bookshops.
Like books weren't worth their time.

Parents' Evening with Miss MacKeown.

2011-09-22T01:34:00.002+01:00

I wrote this for the TED conference on education last week, but fairly understandably, they went for the more, shall we say, positive ones...! I secretly like this one best though. Ha.
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Bridget? Ah, Bridget. Memorable. Good student, good grades, but… what can I say? She does well, but could do better. She tries, sometimes, but honestly? Bridget talks too much and gets too lost in her own thoughts to do that well in class. She reads well though, so maybe she’s got a chance. Let’s just hope her imagination calms down a tad; it tends to run riot, am I right? She’s being creative, I guess, but what next? It’s all a bit… much. Mostly. I mean, we don’t want her to be one of those annoying kids that read too much as child and so as a teenager, reckons they know absolutely everything, eh?

University - for the TED conference.

2011-09-22T01:33:00.001+01:00

He got a first class degree.
Something hard like Maths.
Now he’s working in the bank.

She got an ok degree.
Something quite easy.
Now she’s working in the bank.

He didn’t get a degree.
Started work instead.
Now he’s working in the bank.
I think he’s the manager.

Again? - for the TED conference.

2011-09-22T01:31:00.002+01:00

SATs when I was 7.
They said
“do well, they’re important”
I did well.
It didn’t matter.

SATs when I was 11.
They said
“do well, they’re important”
I did well.
It didn’t matter.

SATs when I was 14.
They said
“do well, they’re important”
I did well.
It didn’t matter.

GCSEs when I was 16.
They said
“do well, they’re important”
I did well.
It didn’t matter.
AS Levels when I was 17.
They said
“do well, they’re important”
I didn’t do well.
Nothing happened.
It didn’t matter.

A Levels when I was 18.
They said
“do well, they’re important”
I didn’t do well.
Something happened.
It mattered.
This time, it mattered.

I thought I’d try again.

A Level retakes this July.
They said
“do well, they’re important”
I did well.
It mattered.

I start a degree next week.

Little White Lies - for the TED conference.

2011-09-22T01:31:00.001+01:00

In Reception,
Mrs Lynch would say
to go and think things up and
so I did. I was 4.
Armed with crayons
and notebooks I
made things up.
Made things up and
wrote them down.
Made things up and then
I spread them ’round
to everyone I knew
and then felt guilty
because really, I
felt like I was lying
and my Mum
said lies weren’t good and so
I felt bad. At first.
Then Mrs Lynch revealed that
secretly, lies are actually allowed
when you write.
Lies that people listen to.
I liked that.

Hypocrites & DD’s aka Thank You Rupert Murdoch, Lots of Love, The Suffragettes.

2011-01-21T16:46:00.006Z

Let’s pretend for a minute I’m a female celebrity. As a woman in our society, I’m expected to be 20 years younger than my male co-host but am still told I dress too slutty when I show cleavage on Saturday night TV. Basically in our society, me & my boobs have gotta be Holly Willoughby.

But in our society I also have to be Amy Winehouse. A no-good junkie with a loutish husband - who apparently only writes good music about him, when I’m high. Or I’ll try and be Keri Hilson. A decent singer for a while but no-one listens before I show my crotch and then I’m desperate for attention.

In our society I’ve gotta be blonde, and have an easy name like Sophie, or Jessica. 20 years old from Manchester my news in briefs adorn page 3 convincing you that you & me have mutual interests in common. Apart from the things on my chest. A box by my head to say I’ve said I’m not happy about tuition fees or VAT rises. In our society I’ve got to know about politics while showing off my double D’s and accept those two things empower me & make me a feminist... but being a feminist is a ‘bad thing’ because then obviously a lesbian who doesn’t wear a bra.

And it might be hard, but I’ve gotta be Natasha Kaplinsky. The champion for the working woman who can win Strictly Come Dancing and be the highest paid female news host in modern history, before I go on too much maternity leave, then abandon my kids with a nanny to come back to the show before leaving the show to stay home with the kids and so ultimately, I’m a disappointment on all counts.

In our society I’ve gotta be Naomi Campbell aka the Black Model Italian Vogue puts on the cover after they’re accused of being racist. And the first time I decline being the token black girl I’m told I think too much of myself and I rejected a chance to further enhance the black female model cause. But the second time I’m asked and I agree, I’m told I’m enforcing black stereotypes by wearing a leopard-print bikini so basically, I hate my own race and don’t deserve to be the famous face of black female models.

But at the same time I’ve gotta be Tyra Banks. Second in command of the Famous Female Ethnic Models society, which at the moment only really has two and a half members. Me and Naomi (and occasionally Halle Berry). And I’ve gotta stay number two because any more black female faces might make Gucci or Prada explode. And when they decide to make me look like the other models, Vibe magazine says I’m letting them make me look white, with too much weave on my head and clever lighting at my photo shoots to make my nose look smaller, and after all that, when I leave my natural hair out I’m told it’s too messy. Then I complain and I’m told that I’m expected to take criticism as that’s what I signed up for when I wanted to be famous and you can’t take it back love so get over it. Forgetting the fact you wouldn’t say the same things to a man.

In our society I have to be Jennifer Aniston, aging apparently too quickly, the jilted wife whose husband left me because apparently I didn’t want to have a baby. In our society I have to be Angelina Jolie. Give money to charity but I’m still a home wrecking husband stealer with far too many kids. But in our society I don’t have to be Brad Pitt because in our society, there is no way he could ever be responsible for his marriage break-up.

In our society I have to be Kate Moss. So I’ll have the perfect figure for everything in Topshop but the newspapers say I enforce and promote anorexia. And it’s a good thing I can multi-task, as in our society I’ve gotta be Beth Ditto too, loving my curves and being proud that I’m a ‘real woman’ because anyone below a size 12 isn't, but still too fat for anything but Evans on the high street because my weight’s a bad thing; I’m enforcing and promoting obesity say the magazines.

But don’t worry, it gets better, ‘cos in our society I should be like Cheryl Cole, basically, seen as perfect in the media on all counts. And I can do that easily; flick my hair back while fluttering my fake eyelashes and judging people singing badly. The Nations’ Sweetheart. Let’s just hope I don’t get the phase before that, where I’m weak and pathetic for taking my cheating husband back or the phase before that, when I’m a racist thug for beating up a black woman in a nightclub or the phase before that, when I’m the third best slash worst singer in a TV band that has men watching the videos with the sound off and only 7 year old girls know the words to my songs. And God knows, I better not get the phase after all of those, when I’m racist again and getting death threats because it’s me, apparently, and not the Boarder Agency that let people get deported.

And I’m irritated now, I’m being sarcastic now, so I’m sorry. But being a woman in our society isn’t so easy, and I’m angry. See, in our society, we glamourise women. Idolise women. In our society, we tell women we can have it all, and at the same time tell women we have too much, and pride comes before a fall. In our society, you’re either virgin or a whore. Beautiful or Heat magazine feature-worthy eyesore. In our society, women are equally adored, and victimized. Told our clothes are too tight but still looked at with appreciating eyes, I know it’s not right but it’s how it is. Bitch slapped on one cheek so you can give me a kiss on the other side – our society doesn’t see things clearly, our society’s a little bit blind. In our society, we have to be celebrities, but at the same time, we’ve gotta be wives, mothers, sisters, daughters, grandmothers and any combination of the above, not to mention the criticism we get for simply never being good enough. It’s too much sometimes, and I’m sorry if I look at things with negative eyes, but I’m sick of it. I don’t fit into it. See in our society, I don’t wanna be a celebrity, in our society I wanna be me.

But it's not so easy. What chance have I got if I can’t think of a famous woman treated fairly by the media or not condemned by other ladies? Saying the same old miserable things. In magazines, it’s too fat, too thin, stars without make-up so she’s hideous. Advertisements on tv screens, eat kellogs cardboard for just 3 weeks so you too can fit into a shit red dress. Lose baby weight with little stress and c-sections make you less of a woman. Four kids, three men, twice divorced so she’s a slag. Our society says equal opportunities but we still judge as much as we ever have. In our society we fight for equal rights but we still hide behind our criticism and we give unasked advice, and I am sick of it. I won’t fit into it. I’m not prepared to be a faceless pair of page 3 walking tits, it isn’t me to look down at my feet and wait my turn to speak, I know I’m not the simple sexy girl with boobs but without brains and I refuse to dance round poles to prove what I can’t bear to say. I’m not asking for role models, I’m just looking for fair play.

what's good?

2011-01-21T16:43:00.000Z

Life, sometimes, without the need to say sometimes. Smiles that don’t hide behind self-consciousness. March of the Penguins and Morgan Freeman’s voice. Haagen-Dazs Vanilla ice-cream bought from Sainsbury’s using Nectar points, so basically you’ve got it for free.

The fact that now you can see poetry at the National Theatre. Art, plays, and the first time you tried Nintendo Wii. Chelsea FC at the top of the league for weeks, and Ghana beating Nigeria in the African cup of Nations. The fact that your local train station has no barriers or gates and the lovely face of TI.

Hugh Jackman as Wolverine, Hugh Laurie as House, and Ice-T in Law & Order: SVU. CSI: NY, particularly Danny and Lindsey, Channel 5 documentaries, and the time Ludacris was in Law & Order too. Ludacris, plus everyone else in Crash, debating with your mates about Nicki Minaj, and reading books. Looking nice and remembering to do something without being told twice. Keanu Reeves in Speed and hearing about that ‘Baa Baa Rainbow Sheep’ thing and laughing.

Jumping out of your skin when a dog’s barking. Making your mark. Trying to choose music to mention in a poem about stuff that’s good and giving up, because you simply like too much. Londontown, especially: buses, Covent Garden, Waterloo Bridge, the Southbank, the dirty South, market stalls, and the sound of the underground. The day you found out you could rhyme.

The first time you successfully managed to flirt, not caring about buying a particularly short skirt and spoken word. Not calling Africa the ‘third world’ like it’s some random alien place and the look on your Dad’s face when Barack was elected. The second time you try to do a new sexual activity, because the first time you do things it’s always a bit shit - theoretically. Being called witty, pretty or amazing, which admittedly isn't very often.

Telling your year 5 teacher what ‘phrase’ meant and getting a gold star, that feeling that ‘this’ is gonna go far and getting muddy. Giving blood and joining the organ donation register. Not being weighed at the doctor’s, and quitting your job at a crappy bakery for a lingerie shop.

The Crystal Maze on Challenge TV and your friends and family. Museums, galleries and The Come Dine With Me Narrator. Realizing you were both just young, and you don’t actually hate her. Saying please and thank you, and calling someone manky in a way that echoes long-forgotten youth, so calling them manky again.

Seeing X-Men on the big screen as a pre-teen and secretly liking the comic books better. Avatar in IMAX 3D. The fact you went to primary school with a boy called Ben who had a dog called Nevis and never found it funny. Food, shoes, and having big boobs.

Watching Doctor Who and still convincing people you aren’t a geek. Eating rice, salad, meat and stew at African parties you pretend you were forced to go to. Not being rude to someone who’s a prick, just keeping it all in and feeling grown up later. Drinking a lot and not getting sick. Getting paid. Room Raiders and Made on MTV back in the day and finding out your Freeview has somehow got MTV Base. Shakespeare.

Not boys, but men, actual tears of joy and the world wide web. Putting your iPod on shuffle and getting someone like Eminem, when you said the other day you haven’t listened to him for ages. Speaking of Em, the Mariah Carey diss track. Snacking a lot and not calling yourself fat. The story you tell about your Aunt's cat dying from an infection of its swollen anal glands that's actually true. Facebook groups that make you laugh, and really warm scarfs.

Mechanical pencils on special offer and that one mate’s sexy older brother. Your Mother. Realising you're young enough for clubs but old enough for pubs and that feeling after you first heard dubstep. The smells of petrol, nail varnish, clean babies and vicks vapour rub. Your Grandma's old kente cloth and hearing that your middle class white friend once grinded against Dappy from N-Dubz in a club. Feeling happy.

What’s good?
To me, it always seems to be the little things.

Like life, sometimes, without the need to say sometimes. Smiles that don’t hide behind self-consciousness. March of the Penguins and Morgan Freeman’s voice. Haagen-Dazs Vanilla ice-cream bought from Sainsbury’s using Nectar points, so basically you’ve got it for free.

the bleaching poem.

2009-11-13T02:39:00.002Z

Speaks for itself I hope, based around a girl at my college. Inspired by the fantastic 'race and science' season on channel 4...

---------------------------------

She doesn’t want to be a white girl
…Just a little bit lighter.

More Mariah Carey than Oprah Winfrey
More Halle Berry than Alek Wek
More Vanessa Williams on Ugly Betty than the Williams’ sisters on Centre Court –

So, she’s bought some creams.

“I’m not using anything extreme” she reassures her friends.
But the rest of us? We’re unimpressed, and maybe, even a little scared
As she cannot seem to comprehend
Why we boo and hiss and take the piss when we see she bleaches her skin.

Fact is? She looks pink.
And I can’t see how she thinks she looks in any way attractive.

My friends tell me there’s a reason behind it, but I don’t understand.
They say “things aren’t always black and white”
And in this case I think they’re right
As with bleaching skin you’ll always find
A hundred shades of pink and orange scattered in between.
From Michael Jackson to… Michael Jackson, it’s something we’ve all seen.

My friends tell me there’s obviously something very wrong.
If she wants to bleach her skin, they think, it’s all a cover for the bigger picture.
And they all have their theories, but I’m not sure which is right.

Shamarah’s sure it’s to do with status.
In the way that years ago the way you’d show that you were rich and never worked outside, was by hiding from the scorching sun in a desperate attempt to lighten your skin. She says it’s all to do with colonialism.

I just think that girl looks pink.

Kayela says she’s just unhappy.
Chynna thinks it’s kind of sad.
And when she comes near Kourtney whispers “look at what her skin's become! It looks so sore. Red raw. Just bad!"

Mia likes to blame the media.
The sexy, seedy, celebrity world where you’re only pretty if you’re four shades lighter than that actress, that singer, and everyone else.
You see, black female celebrities like to change the tone of their skin.
Whether with bleach or L’oreal adverts, she’s sure, the fame world is to blame.
And it’s the same old story every day because it’s a no win situation.
And Mia says it strikes a nerve with black girls everywhere. We know that we cannot compare to the touched up, fucked up photographs and it just makes us mad. And in this girl’s case sad enough to want change her skin. And I know I should feel bad for her but I can only focus on the fact this girl looks pink.

Malika says it stems from slavery.
Back in the days when a white man got his black maid pregnant and she gave birth to a light-skinned child. A girl. A small, tiny baby who entered the world with a father who offered not diamonds and perals, but disowned her and called her a nigger. And when she had grown and had got a bit bigger she worked for her father in the dirt of the plantation, just like everyone else.

And the men who slaved in the blinding heat would try to meet the mixed-race girls who weren’t as haggard as the rest because their fathers – in an act of kindness – tried to treat them best.

And if you were with the bosses daughter you’d be treated well and whipped much less.

That’s why she tries to be lighter Malika says. Malika does Psychology so obviously she must know what she’s talking about – but to be honest, I’m not sure what to say. I havent got an answer, I just know what I think.

That girl, in my college, looks pink.

In loving memory of 1999 (and Geri Halliwell's singing career).

2009-11-03T00:34:00.001Z

She finds it on a Sunday afternoon.
Randomly searching in the spare room through locked up stuff and shoe boxes, under her never used bed. The bunk she's had since she's had since she was 10 but hasn't slept on for a good 6 years; swapped and replaced for a king sized type when she was 12 years old. The year her parents got quite scared that when she started having sex if her bed was not big enough she'd bring her boyfriends into theirs - aka, their worst nightmare.

She finds it on a Sunday afternoon.
An underrated, dissipated, old and dated, photograph from 1999. A smiling kid on a fun school trip flanked by her two best friends for life, who she has not seen for seven years since the last half-arsed reunion.

A picture perfect photograph.
Taken at the time they were unready for the flash; 3 eight year olds, waiting impatiently so smiles are not quite wide enough, yet so natural-looking their mother's get slightly teary-eyed when the long-forgotten photo album is found a decade later.

A picture perfect photograph.
Taken at the time that they wore leggings with stirrups 'round their feet; along with the other 90’s atrocities – the Spice Girl's t-shirts and puffa hoodies, short shorts and dungarees - she can see, they never thought of fashion in 1999. A time of tamagochi's and shit TV and leaving school at half past three and being in love with Lee from Blue – but hating Anthony.

And they never thought then they'd be thinking the things they think of now whilst seeing the sights of the 21st century.

2009. 10 years down the line from the perfect pictures of '99, she finds herself in a modern time with a million possibilities. A time of passion-filled romance and rash decisions, of mash and dash situations (that’s a modern term for a one-night stand) and sexual relations in relationships. Of bloody lips on pretty faces in clubs with throbbing drum and base and the misfortune of the wrong time and place, filled with hate towards some girl who 'nicely' made a racist remark about “how a black girl's with an Asian lad, isn’t that strange?!” – in fact, it's her best friend's boyfriend.

And in the end, it's imperfect picture of 2009; she thinks to herself as she stands outside some crappy club at closing time, waiting a while as her friend has a fag, clutching a Paul's Boutique bag to her chest, only because Topshop or somewhere equally shit says the mass produced is better than the rest. And as she looks down at the skinny jeans and ripped t-shirt she only wears to match her mates she knows it’s time for her to change as it's 3am in Londontown, her arms are cold, she's freezing, frowning, feels pissed off – but then her heart softens, just a little bit, and she asks aloud;

"What happened to the girl in the photograph? So bold and bright and beautiful – she's lost it all, she’s all grown up – when did I get so fucking old?"

And her mate says in reply;

"Babe, you think too much."

Getting Older.

2009-11-03T00:25:00.000Z

Her kids reckon she’s got eyes in the back of her head.
But she don’t –
She’s just old.
But, she is wise.

She has seen everything.

She’s been round the block a million times
And seen it all a million more

Her kids haven’t.

And she wishes they’d realise that
There’s more to life than dreams.

You see,
She’s been close enough to keep in sight
The sights she sees with open eyes.

And long ago she realised that all the lies are led from dreams –
The desperate times and pointless finds and wanton cries and failing lives and feelings feeling overrated, exacerbated, people getting more frustrated, waiting, watching, keeping hope that someday things might change. But things won’t.

Simply, she sees what they don’t.

That their lives’ll stay still and their dreams won’t come true and their feelings unanswered, emotions ignored and new doors won’t be opened with diamonds inside and they’ll have to keep running with no place to hide and it’s always a bridesmaid and never a bride ‘cos Prince Charming won’t ride on a cloud-coloured horse and they’ll hunt on for answers while questions arise and there’ll be no surprises or prizes in store, as awe is for children, ‘cos life is quite boring, it’s all such a chore. And she’s seen it all.

But someday they’ll realise there’s just nothing more.

One day they’ll come to the end of the road, paved with concrete, not gold and wait for the sunrise with wide open eyes, but be disappointed and realise the lies and acknowledge the whole thing was really just nothing and go on with aging whilst waiting to die.

She’ll lie to herself that she’s glad they can see.
'Just like me' - She’ll attempt to convince her closed mind.
'They’ve grown up' – She’ll say in an unconvinced way.
And she’ll try and pretend, in the end, it was in their best interests to realise the lies; after all, it was only a matter of time.

Bu then she’ll repent
And try to undo
The wishes she wished with
That they could see too.

Because sometimes it’s better to be blind.

African Men.

2009-11-03T00:07:00.002Z

Think this is the fastest poem i've ever written, did it on the bus home when some guy started making eyes at me. A bit silly, but nevermind. Inspired by the epic conversation I had today at FreeWord with Belinda, Ray and Joshua after poetry busking. A tip - NEVER poetry busk, EVER.

--------

The African Man of a certain age; at the youngest 32.

A man who has overcome a journey of chance and hope and understanding new things to enter this Great land we call Britain. A man who on any other day would get the upmost respect from me. So why can't he see that I'm not interested in his advances?

A few facts.

Staring at me across a crowded bus is not the way to make me and you become us. And saying that "I only want to be friends" is not the truth, because I know in two weeks if I give you a chance you'll be suited an booted and planning our ridiculously huge African wedding. And to be honest I think it's pretty rude to go on and on once I've firmly told you "no" or "excuse me please" or "I'm really fine sitting on my own".

The thing you need to understand is that no matter what you do, I really will not change my mind because at the end of the day, it's me, not you.

Let's be honest.

You're tall, dark and kind of handsome for a guy who's twice my age. But I simply can't get over things I know will never change. Number One, I think, is the most important - you remind me of my Dad. Number Two you have bad fashion sense and I cannot be arsed to match. Number three you ALWAYS SEEM TO SCREAM, and my ears can get quite sore. And Number Four's the worst of all - I'm not sure if you've got a passport. And at the end of the day you are far too old to take home to my mum and too fresh of the boat to show off to my friends.

So can you possibly leave me in peace, please, you persistent, African men?

That Woman on the Bus Has Cancer.

2009-11-02T23:28:00.000Z

Written on the way home. Trying to stop writing depressing shit but this just came out. My apology to the actual woman on the 185 that no-one seemed to fucking notice until she nearly fell flat on the floor whilst getting off the bus, after standing up for 15mins. You know the ironic thing? She got on the bus at the stop outside King's college Hospital.

-----------

That woman on the bus has cancer.

Why won’t anyone give her a seat? I mean, she’s leaning unsteadily against the doors, she might fall down, she just needs – Oh. I see. We just don’t notice her. I mean, it’s easy to be distracted, isn’t it?

You know, when we’re going here or travelling there or making the journey somewhere we’ve made many times before?

And we’re getting to the place we want or need or have to be at, and we’re getting there by train or tube or bus, and someplace between ‘Aldwych’ and ‘The Old Vic’ we realise, not that a woman on the bus is sick, but that public transport is so full of shit. Here, you can find anything.

But we just ignore the sore, sweaty backsides, or sunken, heavy seats, and the reek of piss and stagnant beer from the leery tramp on the upper deck and we wonder why we’re here, but we make no move to go, as despite how fucking slow it is the bus is our only way home.

Public Transport is so full of shit. Here, you can find everything. Even cancer.

We don’t notice it at first. But wait, what’s that? Ah. Cancer. Hiding behind, inside, the tall thin woman with the colourful headscarf who’s standing behind the loud and laughing guy on his mobile phone, who’s ringing home to say “how great my day was” in spite of all the rain. We notice him. But not her.

Because cancer’s far too smart to be seen so easily. You see, it knows the fact that no-one wants to see cancer on their way home. Once we’ve left an office we despise and lied to people we’re supposed to like we can’t be fucked to acknowledge the fact that cancer’s still alive.

Pouncing on the unsuspecting public passing by, just long enough for us to wonder why we feel so rough, and maybe if it’s bad enough check our symptoms on the internet and come to the false conclusion that we’re maybe up the duff.

Either way the cancer has some knowledge and it knows that if it hides away come Wednesday night, it’s pretty much forgotten.

And we don’t notice it at first.

The fact that this woman is so beautiful.
The Angelina Jolie of the 185.
She is so beautiful,
Because she is so alive.

And I think one must survive to reach a level of beauty where you shine so bright like the stars in the sky that only the gods can see. Not mere mortals like you or me. And it’s maybe why we just don’t see that she is so beautiful.

And we don’t notice it at first.

But as she’s moving through the people as it gets to her stop, with a meek and mild ‘excuse me, please’ her headscarf comes off, ever so slightly, and she lets out a small, soft cough. And then she gets off.

But then, at last, we see. That she is so beautiful.

First two poems I properly 'wrote' with the intention of performing.

2009-11-02T23:24:00.000Z

Wrote these a year ago ish, back when a slam was when you threw something down hard, and performance poetry didn't exist in my head. Nostalgia coming on. They're a bit crap, but never mind. Wrote 'Identity' first, then 'Crossing the Line' afterwards - Got to perform 'Identity' on the Cottesloe so it's a ll cool.

-----------

Identity identifies the people that we are
If we’ll go far
Or if we’ll fail
Because everyone around us
Just wants to know about us

Because the majority in authority wants priority for minorities
So I try and try to identify
The skin I feel I might be in –

But I can’t be bothered any more
It’s such a bore to have to know
Exactly where I have to go
To fit in here or fit in there
With my ethnic background
And cultural heritage
And religious denomination
And sexual preference
And social status
And current nationality
And my personality, morality, individuality –
It’s so confusing in reality.

Because I don’t see why it’s oh so wrong
For me to tell the truth
And just admit
“I’m not quite sure where I belong!”

So does identity identify the person that I am?
I think it does, but it’s for me
So I’m asking, please,
Just let me be.

-----------------

You can walk the line
Or even toe the line
But cross the line? Don’t cross the line

I crossed a line; I crossed the line.
Broke free, went wild
And crossed that line

I cross the line,
You cross the line!
But the question is “who draws the line?”

Who draws the line we want to cross
We have to cross
We need to cross?

Is he the boss?
If he’s the boss
Then why the fuck do we still cross?

I’m at a loss.

We leap and shuffle, skip and hop
Across the lines we’ll always cross

Short poems - 'The Bed' and 'Alex's Poem'

2009-11-02T23:15:00.001Z

First one is kinda different from what I normally do - not as rhymeish or conversational I don't think. But it's good try new stuff, no? Second poem is for a mate of mine called Alex, who I love, and I always yell at because we have different opinions on having kids (she says 18's fine, I say like 30+ earliest if ever). Plus, she isn't a feminist like the rest of my mates so it's easy to have a go. Here's an apology.

---------------

She swims amongst a sea of
Off-white sheets.
Still dirty
From the last of the loves of her life.

Her bed.
Witness to many a marriage-worthy man
Spending the night
And leaving the next morning.

Her sheets.
Able to entangle and entrap
Long legs and arched arms
Lost and found
Amongst the many folds.

Her pillows.
Turned over at dawn
To cool the back of her neck
Capturing smiles
As giggles and tickles continue.

And face down
She whispers her secrets
To 100% Egyptian cotton
And non-allergenic goose feathers.

--------------

She's a normal kid of girl.
Trying to find her way in a world that nobody really knows.

A girl with dreams her friends call unambitious
Her mum calls uninspired
And she calls… nothing.
Because to her, they feel just right.

You see, she doesn’t dream of winning an Oscar or a Grammy,
She dreams of having a baby.

And she holds out high hopes that her dreams will come true because maybe, just maybe, Prince charming might appear.

'Love'

2009-11-02T23:00:00.000Z

Love;
Is not what you might think it is.

Love is not found in magazines
Or shit romantic comedies
Or spending too much money on that pair of jeans for your girlfriend’s birthday.

And love is not him perving on your double D’s
Or grabbing her hand on a busy street
Or trying to find a reason why there’s enough time in the morning for a quickie before work.

And love is not even that sinking feeling that you get;
That rises from the bottom of your stomach, and explodes in your throat, and prevents you from speaking when you finally see the guy of your dreams –

You might call it butterflies
To me it just feels like bile.

And I admit I’m a bit of a sceptical bitch but it’s been a long while since I’ve really seen what love is. As I see love in the most interesting places.

And the last time love was seen by me I had a broken foot in A&E after a drunken night on the day I received my GCSE results. And to cut a long story short I thought it would possibly be a wise idea to leap over a 2m not-so-short gate – but that is another story.

Because that day, I saw love in Accident & Emergency.

‘Cos for me,
Love
Is holding your baby girl to your chest
After leaving work early
Because she has a fever.
And reading her a story that she simply cannot understand
Because, if we’re honest,
Her brain is the size of a golf ball.
And the information that it holds
Revolves around her mother’s breasts.
And calming her cries so her mum can have a rest
After being up with her all night.

And for me,
Love
Is stopping off
For a short goodbye
To the dying guy in Room 17
When the lights are out and the sun goes down
And it’s dark and stark and silent.
And your shift was over at half past three
But you stay up with him so he can see
A friendly face
To face the knock of heaven at his door.

And for me,
Love
Is waking up
At 12.04 in the morning.
And stretching and yawning a putting on clothes
And driving to A&E
Because he came home pissed
And he missed a step
And he thinks he’s broken his collarbone.
And sitting arund watching BBC News
And avoiding the drunks
And needing the loo
But just staying put – just in case –
The nurse calls his name
Whilst he has a snooze.
And stroking his hair as he tosses and turns
With his head in your lap
Until dawn.

You see,
I see love in the most interesting places.
As love has many faces
That we rarely, really see.

‘Cos for me
Love
Is when you love
Because it’s just what you do.

18 years and counting.

2009-11-02T22:58:00.000Z

Hello all.

New blog! Wanted to show someone my poetry stuff, and accidently deleted the old blog... Yeah. Thought that it would be a good opportunity to start a new one though. New starts are fun, right?

Not sure what i’m going to blogging about, probably the same random shit I always do, and maybe I might post the odd poem thing (I call them stories) or link to something/someone really good that I’ve seen/heard recently…? Yeah, so no idea. It’ll probably all just be a way for me to keep track of the spoken word stuff that I do – alrighty?

At the moment though, I’m very tired, I’m going to have about 5 hours of sleep even if I log off NOW, so to bed I go.

Peace x