#UsTogether

You Too

White shirt/Black skirt

White shirt/Black tie

Young bird/White rooster

Doors and people shut.

But I was taught you know.

Glances like slugs

Hands like spiders

Your lousy chant, trying to hypnotize me.

But you aint no charmer I aint no snake

Though venom is mine

Cause I was taught how to

Pour the shame on you.

So I sharpened my swords (honed my words)

My wildest grammar (my garbage language)

Broke your pipe Flattened your snake.

Cause I was taught you know

Did I blow the job? No No

Blew the all the doors, the corridors, the hushed offices, the glass ceilings

Blew the whole building Yeah

Just to teach you how to

Smell the shame on you.

School Trip

This way, girls!

Miss Jones waves her umbrella

on the way to the Tube - it is

1989, after the British Museum

your head full of smooth marble,

David, Dido, the Bloomsbury set

then in the crush of the carriage

you feel a nudge, behind

against your buttocks

towards a place you have no name for

(no name you'd say aloud, at least)

a nudge, again, as though the man

behind you carries shopping oddly,

at hip height -

- you try a half smile

that silly me half smile

your mother has

and half turn 

Miss Jones making room beside her

as she catches your eye. 

Experiment

It should have been so romantic.

On the grass, by the river, in the moonlight.

But all my mind would let me feel

was the cold, and the grit, and the dirt

grinding into my palms, into my knees.

That sharp, grating sensation

that made me rise up out of my body

again. I watched myself pressed

against you, like a cheap porn star.

It wasn’t my body,

or even my mind, that held me there

this time. I had to challenge myself to 

stay a little longer, go a little further, 

try a little harder, just to see.

But my eyes were opened so wide

that I became momentarily blinded

by the fact that it was me, going

through these motions with you.

You meant well. I mean, you only meant to

show me that it is possible to experience

the sublime with the ridiculous.

So why do I feel ridiculed by the subliminal 

messages of well-meaning friends-turned-lovers? 

Is it all in my head? Am I guilty 

of my own undoing? I am, however, 

flattered that you at least thought of me, 

as maybe not such a lost cause after all.

Rape is not a variation of normal

Wait, the definition of ‘friend’ has just changed dramatically

and I am not sure in front of life’s mirror who I can look in the eye

Don’t they say that whoever sleeps with you creeps inside your DNA

please no, not you who was not invited, when I felt as numb as the fish sticks

that you once made me bake (because according to you they were no animals),

you grabbed your chance

Wait, the definition of ‘animal’ has just changed drastically

and I am shocked that I let someone else decide over what’s on my plate

You said to me ‘I helped you, you are hopeless without me,

in your chaos, your mess, such a vulnerable state, I know that

you like me, what do you mean not your type, what are you

women on about taste?’

Wait, the taste in my mouth is unbearably bad now you

thought wrecking a wreck was a cool thing to do

and building someone up equals fucking them down

really comforting an unstable girl is the same to you

as getting her near unconscious for a rough heartless screw?

Was that night the magnified version

of the time you got me on your motorbike

after you talked in to me for hours

that this was what I liked

when I fake smiled near crying, thinking the icy wind

and the fear for my life through the curves

could possibly really change me

into your imagined perfect girlfriend

See, hearts don’t lie and no is not a difficult word to grasp

here I get to the chapter I found myself back

your spell got cut through when I found true love

Wait, here is a wave where women speak up now

about dark pages of abuse that we rather forget

you are one of the shadows coming out of that hat

and we look at them together, sick with aversion

but also amazed about how hidden taboos

pop up all around us like ink black mushrooms

Hear, abuse is not #variationsofnormal

because it hurts to not have a voice and we rise now,

here I write for my sons, for who else never knew,

with hope for the future: #metoo.

When alcohol abused the moon

I am the drunk girl on my own bed

my boyfriend in the same room

lives in the delusion of my safety

and his friendship with you

playing trip-hop and ninja

our cat sleeps at my feet

You simply sit beside me

to put your fingers inside

with on a wry sigh the words

‘I know you like this’

That moment I fall off a cliff

no self-defence, no language

when I finally cry, you leave

I tell my boy and we curl up

like a spoon inside a spoon

cry some more until a dull sleep

drifts us to a grim Sunday’s shore

You say to a common friend

it was the alcohol

go tell your wife

and she will wonder while you

cut Sunday’s meat, into eternity

who your fingers actually belong to

I could say you did it to the moon

but it was me, your body should not belong

to what you smoke, drink, feel, see

To my body, that songbird,

I sing the gritty melodies that defend

the ever white sheets of my holy fields

And even forgive me, forgive him.

Doubt

What I didn’t see was

any sleight of hand into a tall, purple glass

but I felt its fog, its misdemeanour.

After an hour I was found 

in the corner of the club, eyes closed,

and some girls piled me into a cab

I climbed the concrete stairs 

to the flat that I shared and fell to all fours

on the doormat, heard the chain rattle.

I was in bed

No

I was pulled up like a puppet

warm acid in my throat, 

sticky face and arms.

I’m hanging over the bath

and my friend is there with us —

she’s holding one hand and 

my boyfriend the other.

I hear him say, she’s not done this before,

I didn’t know who to call

I feel guilt. This comes too close to another death he’s seen.

I apologised so many times

I think it was a spike 

but I’m not sure

Release

a song escapes me

my throat swells with the impossibility of it

                                 *

I lie down in the long grass

let the honeyed rays do their work

                                 *

you were sweet

I drank and drank 

                        but then  -

                                                you split me

                                     broke me apart

                                *

the ocean salts my tongue

wind whips needles

clouds scud across the sun

                                 *

someone was screaming

                                                      screaming

                           I couldn't get up

                                       off the bathroom floor      

Pretty Fish

The bad sister is lured by gelatinous scales – 

she slops the good sister’s carp into a pail,

but the August sun warms the water, turns it stale.

The bad sister gathers the withered bits: a pelvic fin,

a vertebral segment, the delicate inner skin,

displays them on her vanity: their bones gleam like hatpins.

The bad sister arranges the scales in three rows, 

 inhales each glittery flake up her nose,        

dabs her nostrils with an Elizabeth Harkness rose.

The good sister goes to the aquarist for more fish – 

 first he tells her to take him in her mouth, then laughs at her swish

  his own briny creatures into a silver caviar dish. 

i want to know why 

you may think

no one knows

or remembers what you did,

but walls have eyes and ears

maybe not me or now

but someone will realize that 

you are a monster 

masquerading as a something

less than a nightmare;

you forced me to kiss you

when i wanted to be sweet sixteen

told you no but it didn't seem to matter

you then tried to force yourself

on me

don't know how i found the strength to

shove you away but i thank God

every day that i did

not everyone is lucky enough to get away—

i'll never understand why you felt entitled

to my body as if it were always yours

instead of mine,

and i will never quite fathom

why any man feels that way about anyone

because we all have our own paths

our own journies to walk

i didn't need to see your face then or in college

when you said you bet i didn't remember you

as if i could forget the face of the boy

who tried to take from me 

my childhood

forcing memories i had long since repressed

to come bubbling to the surface

like some sickening kind of potion a wicked witch

would brew for those whom she hated,

and i want to know why you thought

that was appropriate.

i remember you 

i remember it like yesterday

was so stressed and depressed

just wanted to go for a walk,

but you decided that meant 

taking me to your room for netflix and chill

strained myself trying to watch a film

i had no interest in as you tried to make

your move and i told you no;

but you still saw the need to force me

to touch your dick

and i was so angry i started crying

you mistook it for sorrow

asked what was wrong

then recoiled as i answered as if you

were any better than the guy that tried to rape me

as a girl—

like you were two different species

yet each of you are monsters

in your own way

you don't get to force yourself on someone 

because they're vulnerable

or you find them attractive or you need some 

power trip because your ego

hasn't been stroked in a while,

and i doubt you remember me

but i remember you

plain as the scars on my body.

Straight Night in Heaven

Techno beats pulse in a kaleidoscope

of bright lasers, lights,

and you have grabbed me.

I barely know you but you have grabbed me.

You hold my shoulders like a book,

reading my expression as you go in for the kiss.

And I consent, because

at twenty years old, I can consent.

Dark corners hide around us.

I barely know you but you have grabbed me,

and as the walls rotate,

instincts kick in like shapes in the mind. 

One thing leads to another, until

you lead me behind a speaker in this club,

this gay club called Heaven,

and it happens. Without shame it happens.

And as my reputation cements,

the girl I have carried inside from the age of seven,

who could not consent,

who was led away to the woods

and only defended her virginity through 

a basic inkling of the facts,

moves to the music, unmolested, intact,

losing that virginity on straight night in Heaven.

Get The Fuck Off 

I know I'm touching on something 

Reaching out to you with this voice 

It doesn't mean you suddenly have permission 

to touch my body whenever you please 

We're in the same neighborhood 

it doesn’t mean your always welcome 

If you entertain one fantasy 

I can see it clearly 

I'm just a person 

searching for herself 

I thought you’d listen 

I thought you’d hear 

Give up this chase, am I doing the same?

If I sing straight to you it means I feel safe 

Let’s make this clear 

Get the fuck off me 

Let’s make this clear 

Just don’t touch me 

If I don't look at you it's because you think I'm special 

but I'm not I'm just like you 

Go home and cry

You may think you're having fun

But there's a girl in there who's having none

Faking everything up to goodbye

To try to save her sense of pride

Then she's gonna go home and cry

Then she's gonna go home and cry

Beautiful People

The town is stacked with beauty shops.

Redheads sits next to Hair-rods

while Dolly Dimples sidles up to Tres Chic.

Curl up and Dye competes with Revive,

as Chloe at La Belle looks longingly

at the customers hurrying across

the street to Inspirations.

The Vanity Box might be shut for

the holidays but Alchemy is open,

eager to attempt transmutation.

There’s plenty of primping but

the high street is no catwalk

and you never see a headshot that

could grace a glossy cover. Except

behind the counter in Peacocks,

where a beautiful girl

who doesn’t need it

uses make-up to conceal a black eye

that’s fresh each time you go in.

The line shuffles forward

trying to look away,

trying not to catch anyone’s eye.

A few weeks later,

after visiting The Style Lounge,

I pick up a leaflet from

the women’s refuge next door

folding it discreetly into my purse

over an appointment card.

But I never see her again

and I don’t like to ask.

Girls

Me and my friend, Maz have a girls’ night in,

a fistful of pills, a pitcher of gin.

When we’re tipsy, more than a little bit high,

she scrunches up her blonde hair, looks me in the eye.

You think I made myself a victim, I was just a fool.

Her girly voice falters with a boo boop de doo.

I say, hey Maz, we do what we do to stay alive

mental illness, foster care, it’s tough to survive.

 I needed fifty bucks for food, I didn’t give my name.

Never bared all again, I couldn’t bear the shame.

That gent made me the centre of his ‘gentleman’s’ magazine.

It gifted him an empire, I bought one copy - just to see.

Whatever Maz, you’d not believe where the world is now.

Teenage sexting, webcams, everyone’s for sale and how.

Women swallowing the lie that it’s a sign of female power

taking off your clothes for men every minute, every hour.

I show her the Kardashians on reality tv, offer her a hug,

pour out another bevvy.

We laugh and laugh and laugh until the programme’s over.

Maz laughs so much she falls right off the sofa.

Then we cry, we’re not sure why. Need a few more pills to keep us high.

Need to stop falling for the wrong guy.

Thanks, Maz, for leaving money in your memory

for psychiatric centres to support girls like me.

You’ve helped abused women to get strong again.

To garner real power and cast off all their pain.

While that sleazebag bought the grave next door so

he could fantasise that even dead you’d be in bed.

How he loved to victimise.

We laugh and sing and drink and dance until the break of

day then I watch her with a tear as she sashays away.

Unforeseen consequences

The flooded race course is an ice rink,

frozen by the morning. Mirrors flash the sun

and seagulls judge their landings badly.

I am on my way to school with a little friend.

We meet an old man with a bicycle.

‘Fell off and cut my hand’ he says,

‘Will you pull out my hanky for me?’

One girl runs. The other feels in his pocket.

‘Deeper’ he says. The seagulls shriek.

At going home time,

I find the police in my sitting room.

My little friend has told her mother

and what I’d half-forgotten,

tucked away as just me being stupid,

is becoming scary. Blame attaches.

Next time something nasty happens,

I keep quiet.

#MeToo

“Take a look at that!

A fine filly!”

I stood at the front of the boardroom

Ankles tight together

Hands clasped in front of my dress

My first Blue Arrow mission

Receptionist for the week

I was eighteen and green

The boardroom sniggered

“That’s it. You can go.”

My colour rose and I left the room

I’ve never forgotten my embarrassment

Or the fact I kept it quiet

His boozy lunch was probably to blame

But I never temped again

Wings 

Not all things with wings are birds: 

bees, moths, bats, flying fish, 

angels, fighter jets, Boeing 747s, 

Pegasus, theatres, stately homes.

Not all things with wings can fly: 

chickens soon flurry and sink; 

stately homes nest in squat, 

aloof dignity; kept falcons 

are cheated, swooping only 

where their jailors allow; 

sanitary towels, like penguins, 

can be thrown but cannot 

maintain independent flight. 

As the name suggests

butterflies should fly 

but, distracted by their own 

glossy membranes, get netted 

by keen-eyed men, force spread 

and pinned under glass, 

their trajectories set by another,

like so many birds without wings.

If my dad had known,

he would have broken your neck.

But I didn’t tell…

Broken Trust

I whispered, ‘No’.

That last glass

from the third bottle,

a good vintage

you insisted I’d enjoy,

slurred my words.

Lubricating 

your thrust,

as I did. I died

on the sword.

Yours. Except

I wasn’t dead

and I remember

enough to kill me.

Weak Agenda

You say we are the weaker sex

but it is not us who lust after SEX,

You tell us we are the weaker gender,

But you pay no heed to our Agenda.

If I am weaker the

How come I can bring

a man to his knees,

with a smile,

with a touch,

with a kiss?

A six foot

built like a brick shit house,

skipping while holding hands?

We can make you want to stray,

make you stay,

away from work,

all for one little jerk,

of the wrist,

here's the twist...

one girl,

with the twirl of her hair,

can make a man stare,

and lose his mind,

make him deaf and blind,

to the world,

even if,

only for a moment.

No wonder you tell us we are weak,

when I could bring you down,

with just a simple kiss on the cheek,

Be the answer that we seek.

Nature of rape

And so......

If I offer you my company,

do not betray me,

if you have other thoughts,

Then keep them to yourself!

You can not imagine!

Once rejected and lonely,

It is too easy,

To sell one's soul,

Just for company,

And self punishment.

Here lies the problem...

Was it merely self punishment??

Or was it really rape??

I simply gave it away

Without utterance.

When I asked him to wait,

Then...

I believe,

WAS Rape!

But in continuance with tradition,

A man should have sex with his wife,

On their wedding day,

Even if she pushes him away,

Asks to wait til later that day,

Because of the pain,

In her groin,

Soon the operation...

But...

More soon,

The realisation,

Of what she married.

She lay still,

In the dark,

Tears drying,

On her cheek,

Not crying out...

Trying not,

To be weak,

Under the weight...

Of her new,

Obligation!!!

When did ‘no’ stop meaning no?

When did no stop meaning no? 

Was it when you’d made me yours?

Because if we were in a ‘relationship’

-if you could even call it that-

Then you could say ‘yes’ for me, and 

Dismiss the word ‘no’ spilling out of my mouth.

Or was it when your feelings became

More important than mine?

When you thought you were entitled, you didn’t 

Hear me telling you I didn’t want to, or

When you just chose to misunderstand 

That no still means no here.

Was it when you described me as

Playing hard to get, when the game 

We were playing had rules that you didn’t follow.

Maybe when you just thought

They didn’t apply to you, that your

Status of ‘boyfriend’ meant that you

Had no boundaries on my body.

Maybe it was when I stopped bothering

To try and make you hear it. 

When I just accepted that this,

A soiled embrace with someone 

I thought that I could trust.

No didn’t mean no to you anymore. 

You Never Asked

Hunter sights prey

Boys will be boys.

You take control

And we are your toys.

Hand touches skin

Not given; just taken.

Think I am meat?

Well, you are mistaken.

I came to dance

You came to stare

And now your hands

Are everywhere.

Drink makes you bold;

You smirk and sway

You grasp and drool

And grab and bray.

You want to whistle

I just want to walk.

You want to touch

I’m too drunk to talk.

One time I woke up

With your hand up my skirt

But that’s what I got

Being drunk and a flirt.

You shout, beep your horn

To voice your attraction

Invade my own space

Then police my reaction.

For I “had it coming”,

I’m “that kind of girl”.

Mixed a pill in my drink

With a clandestine swirl.

You were my friend

Until you had a beer.

Your lewd, ugly voice

Whispers filth in my ear.

Inappropriate boss

When I was sixteen;

The limp that I had

And the bruises unseen.

You were very upfront

You embody coercion.

Words spoken aloud

Every touch and insertion.

You lurk in the shadows

You hide in plain sight

Shout at women by day

And then stalk them by night.

You eroded my trust

Felt so damaged inside

As no one believed,

They assume that I lied.

And I won’t forgive it

And I’ve made it though

For I am a person

Far stronger than you.

On Forgetting

Can you chase time? Back into its box to hide there

til you’re ready for the things it has to tell you,

the advice it has to give you and the truth:

that however old you get you’ll have the imprint 

of his mouth like strawberry stains on skin 

that’s aged three decades since the first time 

and the bruises on your arms made by his thumbs

where he held you down to kiss you more,

since Yes meant No and Yes became 

the most foolish thing you’d ever say to anyone.

If you can unpick the past then nothing that you said

will ever be remembered, you’ll always have the chance

to retrieve what you lost- stop it all before it happens

walk away before you meet him, before he pulls you

from the party, from the laughing friends 

you hardly know but recognise as safety.

Then his mouth will never find yours,

his hands will never touch you and he’ll never 

speak one word about it always being this way.

You’ll stop him pushing you to the ground,

into the soil that hasn’t seen the rain since May

and it’s August now with strawberry plants 

to lie down on, sapping the ground, leaving marks

like his kisses that will never disappear.

You’ll never be Barcardi-drunk

or high on heat. Tapestry will have ended

and somebody might change the track

to something that won’t make you cry

every time you hear it.

Or you could step into the shower,

wash away the strawberry stains,

the smell of him, his fingerprints,

and watch them slip, with soap scum,

down the drain.

Fine Line

Speaking is hard. The trip,

the leap into darkness, 

is so daunting that you stop-

waiting in the stillness,

dressed in invisibility.

Silence is best,

words more demanding, threatening

to surge from nowhere to spoil

a lifetime of compromise. 

You choose silence,

because it’s better to be quiet –

although you want to spit back,

voice the words only the night has heard.

So, when you falter, when you fall, 

he lets go of you, and you drop-

only to look at him from a long way down,  

your words hanging in the silence between you, 

his answer to your slip,

rushing at you, surrounding you,

tripping you up.

Reader, I Googled Him 

He is a Head of Risk. So yes, he
knows to time it so there’s nobody about. 

He knows to pick the ones who drink 

so they can’t think. The ones whose 

uncles came to wet their beds. The ones 

who have to work at managing their

heads. Whose child or teenage horror 

smothered in the dark 

has left a mark.

The tough ones? He learnt young

to leave them be. They’ll fight him 

on the spot, and a fighter he is not. 

He likes his power pre-packed: 

the flush of cheeks, the widened eyes, 

the muffled cries, the gape of speechless 

lips. He doesn’t care about their tits or hips

or if they shed a tear. The thing he loves is fear.

One more skin of misery won’t show, 

he knows. Involve HR and every time 

the moaning party goes. And so 

below the ground these onion women 

grow. Watered by the tears of their own cuts. 

Downtrodden in his stagnant bed, they preen

above-ground leaves of green 

to mask their sulphured guts.

He is the Head of Risk. He’s made 

a whole career of this. Believe me

when I say he started young, for I was one: 

at nursery he honed the secret pinch 

and when the girls would flinch

and cry he’d steal a kiss, then grin at miss

(and miss would see me thump).

In Wendy houses, shielded by grown 

women and a stack of wooden bricks, 

he built his armoury of tricks. 

“Show us your knickers”, he smirked, the shit,

that one time when he cornered me at six.

Risk assessment is his kick. 

He’s always been a nasty little prick.

Ripped

A grapefruit knife is only tiny

cuts through citric skin with ease

hand held horror

silver blinks in the dark.

Cuts through citric skin with ease

shadows play tricks on dream-waking eyes

silver blinks in the dark

her scream, muffled.

Shadows play tricks on dream-waking eyes

his body straddles hers

her scream, muffled

trapped between his thighs.

His body straddles hers

hand held horror

trapped between his thighs

a grapefruit knife is only tiny.

Not the Stuff of Fairy Tales 

Once upon a time, 

he peeled me like an apple,

his vulpine teeth

raking my skin.

My ‘No’ counted

for a hill of beans, not magic 

enough, it seems.

The breadcrumb trail

back to my door 

was gobbled by vultures.

I lost my way.

Happy Never After.

No! Not never!

With the one wish granted,

I cast him as frog;

sautéed his plump thighs, with garlic,

savoured them, nibble by nibble,

with a glass of chianti,

its blood red droplets 

like the ooze from a finger.

Happy ever after. The End.

Exposed

Those forests can be walked only naked,

on the soft, at parts bebarked paws

of the once-tamed-but-escaped,

of the fairly-wild-still.

I shush along the trees you sculpted for me,

embarrassed by your shiny touch

on the leaves which unfold

curved trajectories to the deepest.

The Dreamiest Alone has never scared me.

I keep talking to you as if you were 

still whiskassing me until I purred.

Watching me, bastard, huh? Don't you ever stop

feasting your eyes on me? And what's next?

You make me jump through

mirrored sunset-flames on lakes

and when exhausted you stroke me

while I fall asleep?

I square up to you, looking straight back

to your fucking fingers,

I can bite and hiss until you

keep out of my sight.

Pardon my French, I'm supposed to speak like a lady

but it's gone, I've unalterably changed.

Vulnerable at core but keep going.

The more I scream, the more silence I gain.

The more I swear at you, I become the more sacred.

I'm your ex-creature. Goddess of Survival.

Pendulum

There is always friction.

Every time he swings

she has to absorb his energy.

That his heat is transferred

to her cold body

is how she knows the future.

It's not impossible

that his hot body becomes hotter.

There are so many collisions

between them it is improbable

equilibrium won't be reached.

His behaviour can never be explained

Like Adults

Let’s talk about this like adults.

But I don’t feel like an adult - 

I’m still scared of hands under my bed

and the white noise in my head

Listen to me, be gracious.

And I want to be, but I thought

maybe you should be too;

you could have listened

when I said no - 

You’re probably right,

I’m normally wrong,

I’ve missed the point, got lost along the way 

in a mist of words 

I thought were okay - 

Let’s talk about this like adults.

Suited, straight-faced and monochrome:

I meant no when I said it.

The Estate Agent Shows Us Around The New Flat

This is The Corner Where the Frying Pan Landed

This is The Alcove Where The Children Were Silent

This is The Stairwell Where She Had That Tumble

This is The Hallway Where the Knockout Took Place
This is The Rug Where She Lay Playing Dead

This is The Bedroom Where She Always Said No

This is The Bathroom Where She Whispered She’d Leave Him

This is The Window Where Everything Fell Through 

#METOO

Me too.

In the classroom

In the living room

In the locker room

Me too

In the cloakroom

In the bathroom

In the common room

Me too

In the bedroom

In the boardroom

In the courtroom

Me too

In the green room

In the mail room

In the dining room

Me too

In the showroom

In the ballroom

In the storeroom

Me too

In the staffroom

In the newsroom

In the state room

Me too.

Beach Baby

At Ainsdale sand dunes I found a peak

and lay, nose to the sun in marsh grass,

combing out O-levels, Irish Sea slurring

which was when he arrived, the fifth Beatle.

“What would you do if you saw me,” he said,

“sunbathing naked?” He’d played in the Cavern.

Not Stuart or Pete or anyone fancy but 

Adrian, mottled and panting.

I curlied my hair, fondled the spike grass.

“There’s love there that’s sleeping in this guitar,”

he said, gently weeping before me.

Pleasureland lashwinked its fairground lights,

salt meadow rush whispered,                                                                                            

I heard the sea mithering. “Nothing,” I said, 

flicked sand from my school slip, 

left him plucking his string.

Sleeping Beauty 

I hunger for the damp of soil,

the company of bulbs, roots, shoots

the smell of rotting leaves

of apples - fallen, worm tunnelled.

Soil - you blanket, you coat, 

you over-loved dressing gown 

which covers dangerous beauty

with your dirt - uglify me kindly.

Prince and princess

king, queen, stepmother, witch - 

I was once a girl who loved your tales

but now, I am trapped in my body’s story.

Do not wake these lips, 

there is no kiss for you.

My body was torn 

like a spine off a book

pages shredded into a gale

by a man who ignored all my refusals.

So for now, or for years or for always, 

let me lie with silence -

and love only stillness, soil and sleep.

I have a whole piece of sky

which I've torn from a cloud

crumpled in the palm of my hand.

Un-label me victim

If you could read the mounted tapestries

that hang carefully under my skin

Would you thread and stitch the gaps

between them if I let you in?

If you could see the cracks of fragile glass

now repaired behind my eyes

Would you get splintered on their edges,

or bathe in their refracted lights?

If you could hear the words I whisper

to a God I don’t believe exists,

Would you judge me? Get down on your knees,

kiss me and revel in my sins?

‘Not all men’ is still too many

Me too! And you, too? — we’ve all had enough.

Yes, We too, get you — but best keep it shut.

And he too, hears you — but it’s always ‘too much’.

Tears race down a crotch poured from war torn tear ducts

The fear owns you, then moulds you, until assured — you are tough

It roughs you and dulls you and dampens your strut

Won’t even unclothe you. Exposed true: a fully dressed slut

Then buys you and un-shys you — like you owe him this much

Man’s buck sways the world’s judge — and feels entitled as such

Trespassing on just minds, high oh his drug power-lust

Now — Not all men they cry. Well that’s not the point now, is it?

We can’t blame an epidemic, yet farm the weeds that built this.

So, when you say mankind: well, I call bullshit

I say womankind and the strength it took to build it.

The Perfect Family

It’s a Tuesday,

School Day,

Long, cold November day,

Tomorrow – parents' day, 

How do I tell them I’m failing day?

Deep breath,

One step,

Through the door into the warmth, step,

I pause,

Why is my aunt stood at the door?

Why is my mum sat on the floor?

‘Give us a minute darling,

Take the dog out’ Her smile, disarming. 

We wonder around the small town, 

Can we go back yet?

We loop again and end up home,

Teenage angst, feeling alone,

I want to know what’s going on,

Secretly thankful, my secrets hidden,

I hide in my room, parents forbidden. 

Mum approaches me, 

Daddy’s been accused, you see,

A young girl, said she,

Had to fight him off in a bar, 

Then ran to her car,

Tears falling down her face,

But she’s lying, just in case,

You would think your Daddy,

Would do such a thing,

To a stranger, your age. 

Why would she tell such a lie?

Drag it through the courts, 

As if it were nothing, by the by,

The trial – during you’re a level week,

You must still do well, we can’t think you weak,

As to betray your family by this silly rumour,

Oh, you broke down in school and now people know?

How could you, you must put on a show.

Happy 18th birthday, have a drink,

You’ll need one when you stop – and think, 

In two weeks he’s off to prison, 

18 months! Over a ‘silly’ decision, 

Mum, why was he found guilty if he is saying he is innocent?

Quiet, you know nothing of this incident.

Uni halls a drunken blur, 

Mixed with questions I try to ignore, 

“Why do you still receive hand written post?”

My father hanging over me like a ghost.

Years pass by, he is released,

Try to clear my mind, find peace, 

Birthdays, Christmases pass in an instant, 

Try to be the perfect daughter – the memories still persistent,

She finally leaves him, 

Gets rid of the wedding ring,

Marriage in the bin.

I grow up, I mess up

I spend my life making up,

For the time that I spent grieving,

The loss of my fathers image, 

We still talk – but its hard to forget the victim blaming,

The victim shaming, 

A brave girl who said I’m worth saving. 

My future is my future,

My past will stay in the past, 

A strong ass girl from Anglesey,

A life filled with contrast.  

The song of the tiny dragon

You wouldn’t know it was in there

That voice

That huge roar

She’s been sitting quietly for so long

The cave was dark

And shadows moved all around her

It wasn’t safe to breathe

So she kept herself small

And waited

But in her, there’s fire

And things to say and sing

The light burns fierce and terrible

And beautiful

And when the time is right,

Everyone will hear her voice.

What no one tells the Phoenix

The fire comes

When you least expect it.

It will eat you alive

You think you will die

You might, yet.

Being forged in the furnace

Is more painful than you can imagine.

Long after the flames go out,

Your bones will be warm to the touch.

Some of that which melts to ash,

You’ll miss

With a grief both fierce and bright.

Not everyone will love

The new version of you.

You’ll lose friends, as well as feathers,

In the fire.

But know this - 

Once you’re lit up

There’ll be no stopping you

And you’ll burn

You’ll burn

You’ll burn. 

TV Secrets 

I saw them, last night. 

Switched on the telly- there they were.

He made it to the screen after all.

And his mother did too. 

She looked down her spectacles, at a classroom 

of children, contrived to appear less

knowing than they are, clawing for treats and 

off- camera approbation.

And she smiled. Gave out candy and 

sweet deceits about being a 

Good Girl. 

Schooled them gently, beatific smile unwavering, 

engrossed in getting 

her character tonally perfect. 

She schooled a new bride years ago-

gave home truths and handy tips. 

-How to stifle tears in a pillow

and stay away from fried food.

-How madness is inherent in us all

and it’s a special fool naïveté that doesn’t know this 

basic fact. 

Naiveté that she and her offspring

cleared, in wide astringent scrub- swathes

along with the make- up from this

new bride’s face. 

For twelve days, they exulted in her ties 

and exhausted her fears until the doctor

told her she was ‘a scared rabbit’ 

and she ran from the wolf 

finally, away- 

only to find him, a decade gone by,

scars unevenly scabbed, mascara clumps at edges of 

too- bright eyes,

bride- heart still pulsing naive

and knowing in turns

-on her television set again today.

Porcelain

Waif of a girl with a porcelain face, waits

for a boy, almost a man with an easy smile.

He makes her laugh.

Says she's worth knowing.

At fourteen and a half, she's ready for love.

He tells her to fly.

In a car they ride away from city lit streets.

She tries a toke, from a spliff.

He says breathe.

Hold in your throat, feel mellow, act bold.

He tells her to smile.

Gives her a phone, all contacts his own.

She answers day, night whenever he calls.

He makes her play.

Ina line they leave her battered and torn.

He tells her to die.

Best left for dead. Her soul in a mess. 

Months never found. 

One day, warm breath on her lips.

Her rape angel grows. 

Feather down wings pierce, then unfurl.

She takes flight.

A sickle of moon catches her throat.

This grace of a girl screams,

shatters her porcelain face.

Untouchable

Don’t even say it…

it’s your word against his.

Don’t even think it…

you were wearing red shoes.

Don’t even say it…

but you know he did this

saw his eyes darken

heard his growling breath

arm wrenched behind you

hand hard on your throat

his punching, snarling gimme

grunting hogbreath, crusted tongue

and sourstench shirt

that don’t don’t darkness of surrender

left a wankstain on your torn clothing

tears through your life slashes through your future.

Don’t say it…for who would believe?

It’s your stopped mouth

versus his untouchable

oil-powered explanations.

So hard to tell

Oh no, not him.

He’s so pleasant, had a lovely wife.

Not him, he’s far too old.

He may be losing it a bit,

make allowances.

He wouldn’t mean to push his hand hard up between your legs

as he came upstairs behind you panting.

He’s a bit cheeky sometimes,

can’t you take a joke?

No not him. Playful, perhaps.

Lurking outside the Ladies

maybe that’s just what he did for his wife.

Oh no. Not him.

He’s just, friendly.

It must be you imagined his claw on your breast

as he reached for the lift-button.

So you sat on his groping hand

accidentally?

When he waits breathing hard

crouched in the dark shadow

alongside your car

he only wants to make sure you are safe.

When he follows you

night and day dog-close snuffling

treat him like a pet.

Everyone else does.

Just ignore it.

We all do.

It must be you.

Speaking the unspeakable

It is unspeakable

the hoisting onto his shoulders

behind his young man’s head

the navy primary school uniform skirt 

pleated across his neck

thighs exposed to autumn sunshine.

A game.

A reach for bristled green spheres

“Can you get them?”

Then hands reaching up chubby thighs

holding steady, ostensibly

as older cousins’ did

as dad’s hands did 

on her legs, playing in the sea 

laughing, splashing with excitement 

at having him all to herself

readying for the tip backwards into splash.

Ostensibly.

The left hand crept up her tenderness

found the elastic of thick, navy knickers

snaked fingers underneath, 

found their way in to touch

the girl child’s naked labia.

She kicked the brown Clarks shoes

drumming a tattoo on his ribs

leant forwards, leapt and ran

with a sprinted explosion through the grass

made the lane, made home.

Unspeakable.

Released because his right hand 

was engaged elsewhere?

Or was letting the girl child escape

part of the erotic charge, essential

for his later replaying?

Speaking the unspeakable. 

I’ll never leave her

The dream pushed me awake

as I went to attack the man.

He was tall, wide-shouldered

held the girl on the roof of the flats. 

He was licking his lips.

I had to leave her standing there.

I screamed don’t you dare as I climbed

locking eyes as he thrust 

her used body away from his. 

Learing for a fight he reached out 

his spunk smeared hand to grab at my clothes.

I caught it, locked hard with my grip

executed the practiced pivot about our arms

balance left foot, arc right boot, connect with skull.

Surprise etched his face 

as he collapsed.

I woke before he dropped

mortified that I’d left her 

for the fight, not crouched

beside her still trembling legs

knickers gathered about her shoes

wet with her urine too.

Mortified that I’d not soothed with an arm, 

a voice of understanding

not listened to her saying

over and over

“That man is nasty.” 

“Yes he was nasty.”

Tears fall in the crouched writing

of this long ago story that surfaced

in dream, beckoning me to hold the girl 

who got away, but couldn’t tell

who fears what might have been, still.

FAKE

my cheek razor burned by the

office carpet.

it might have been burgundy once,

I think.

we play a symphony of hurt.

the rip of silk

my bruised cunt

he gobs in my face

I conjur hexes

hunted breaths

fast tracking me into

silence

then

I curl, I furl, I freefall

into another tunnel of blackred pain

but

I know this one

from a bedroom stuffed with

sindy dolls

long time

past

i am carbonated

a yield of artificial crops

IamIamIam

you take the first exit off the highway

and seem so smug .

i am compelled to sink my teeth

into your tiny softness

so I do.

First 

Was he your first love

but became your enemy,

abuser, loser, accuser ?

Did you love him so

blindly, unconditionally

forever, never doubting?

Did it come as a surprise

when he turned out to be

full of lies, worms and flies? 

Did you take the force

when his fist became raised

losing tears hid by fear?

Do you look back, recall

how he made you feel small

on your own and prone to abuse

Was you scared to let go

when love had already gone

left too late, turned to hate?

Did you come to realise 

you were in love with the idea,

all was graduation of infatuation

Did you learn to understand  

how you were both too young, 

playing, delaying adulthood?

Can you look back, laugh, forgive

expectations of each other

admitting, quitting the blaming

Do you hold your head high,

see the world through new eyes,

feel a strong part of heart?

Then you have come far

These things made you who you are.

First love gains painful stains,

place them in your basket

with petals of no regret,

plant gold beads with new seeds.

On backs of unicorns

hold the reigns in your own hands,

ride waves of positivity, creativity

will find the right path

to bring what you deserve

in this life, no strife, love yourself first.

Gun Dog

He stopped his battered Land Rover said, hop in, 

bloodshot eyes, big barrelled laughter   

green and gold tobacco tin on the dashboard.

Gun dog barked in a cage behind the back seat,

parked in the lay-by opposite Becks Wood

stuttered her name tripping over the s sounds

sour beer-breath whispered in her lungs. 

Every week he waited outside her house. 

He bought rounds of drinks for her parents 

gin and lemon for the lady 

best bitter for her husband    

offered them jobs digging his garden, a bit of cleaning, 

a helping hand to the new neighbours from the city

just while they found their feet. 

He even paid for a new second-hand washing machine

so the villagers said twitching their curtains 

but they liked him well enough

he’d written a traditional cookbook

been interviewed on telly their own local celebrity.  

Sunblind

As children we’re told:

Never look directly at the sun,

shown warnings in books.

So I sneaked glances when backs were turned,

in awe of the fiery shadows which burned behind closed lids,

fearing that the following morning I would wake up 

sunblind.

The morning after you did what you did

I woke to a different kind of darkness,

certain I would never again look directly at the sun,

turning away from the pain of flame on retina.

Yet it was impossible to avoid the sun’s heat,

detested flesh stinging in all those marked places

where fingerprints scorched through skin.

Twenty years later, 

I have only just learned how to lift my head,

blink, 

and once again dare to look:

Directly. 

Torrent

Listen:

Do you hear the silent voice?

It sounds not unlike my voice, 

which is secretive, and shares nothing.

The silence inside is invisible,

it has to be plucked out, 

like feathers.

Listen;

do you hear the echoes in the night?

Rivers bursting their banks,

while waves boom to the beat of the thudding unsaid.

Then comes Courage,

a great undamming.

Listen -

can you hear it, beating its wings?

Taking us to the place 

where a clamour of unheard voices ring

like bells, tolling. 

Fun Turned Sour

An uncle who

should have been 

Safe

Me in high school

My hands on piano keys

His happy voice in song

Laughter, music, singing

Fun, innocent

Until

He stopped singing

Began kissing my arms

Up and down

I stopped playing

He said,

What, you don't like it?

I shuddered

As I answered

No

I stood up

Left the room

Never told anyone

Blues

You 

asked for it

had it coming to you

need to show respect

know your place

You

spoke out of turn

torn nightdress

blood smear 

on a pillowcase

in the morning light

dark times never 

happened

You 

fantasised the bruise

the blue flowering

tiny bleeds under the skin

manufactured 

the split lip

no fooling

don’t know my own strength

I never meant 

to hurt

I love you

Tomorrow is another day.

Privilege 

They walk among us

All the time 

White

Male

Middle-class

Oozing privilege 

Along with other sleazy emissions 

And omissions from reports

Or safeguarding searches 

Only petty criminals after all

Didn’t hurt anyone 

Did they?

Just a bit of kiddy porn 

Just initials on an organ 

Good men after all

Pillars of the community

Saving lives 

Leading choirs 

Victimless crimes 

Slap wrists, a fine, community ‘time’

Get over it you say

They didn’t actually hurt anyone 

Did they

With their white male middle class ways ? 

Survive

He waits till I’m loving him, living

with him – before

he slaps me. Once he cuts my lip.  

His sister says

he only hits me because he loves me.

That’s wrong, but confusing. Has a certain 

logic – I was rarely slapped as a child, mostly 

loved. The time he slaps me in the street 

I feel as powerless as a child.

I become adept at reading him, 

avoiding situations.

It’s hard work – doesn’t

always work.

When I walk down the street with 

a male colleague

I’m nervous – scan

the crowd for people who might

know me, might report back.

I tell him I’m leaving –

he forces me onto the bed. I’m aware

it’s rape – if I fight he could throw me 

from the balcony of our fifth floor flat.  

I wouldn’t survive that but I will 

survive this. I put it in 

a compartment 

that is not me

and shut the door.

For two weeks, he locks me in the flat 

when he goes out.

I pretend I’ve decided to stay –

he believes it, stops locking 

the door. I make my plans. The last time 

I see him, I’m standing at the basin, washing

my pink, white and yellow striped T-shirt.  

He comes up behind, puts his arms around me,

says, You’re angry with me.

I look into his eyes – the reflection of his eyes

in the bathroom mirror – say

Yes.  

I pack my bags and run. Never look back.

Later I Wished That I Had Hurt Him

He tackled me on a lonely road a few miles out of Listowel

He came up softly behind me as I reached the top of the hill

I was out of breath

I turned expecting him to speak

When he grabbed my arms I couldn’t believe it

‘Wait a minute’ I said, ‘let me get my breath’

My natural response was to talk to him, it was automatic for me to speak

I hadn’t realised: his motive didn’t allow for any connection

‘I’m going to teach you a lesson’ he said

That’s when it registered and I knew

I fought hard and it seemed to last forever and eventually he got up off me and melted back into the dark

It was later that I wished that I had hurt him. 

Cashing Up

Just keep counting, your hands apprenticed,

do not think about his hands resting on your knee.

Beneath the fluorescent light at the shift’s end, 

in October, fling a fine grey fog across the month, 

mottled window, raindrops travelling south, in time, 

while his fingers march north along roads of your thigh.

It’s late, hormones are running high, evening’s end, 

darkening sky, just keep counting, hands apprenticed, 

do not think about the fingers contemplating prey.

A pile of silver coins, spring-loaded, partitioned drawer.

Your trainers are gun coloured, watch what you do,

through compound eyes, forget that you have a heart.

Outside, you will name your friends, speak your price, 

Newcastle Brown and Benson and Hedges, a pretence

in the wilderness of perennial cover bands, moving on.

Who will you inform of this exchange, before you reach 

entreaty? Wait, stop, you have to concentrate on counting.

Don’t think about the fingers, the lines they cross, 

keep your hands apprenticed, raindrops moving down. 

‘Who will believe thee, Isabel?’

Who indeed? The words of an eminent Lord,

the Duke’s deputy, to a young nun.

Her body is the price of her brother’s life.

‘To whom should I complain?’ she asks.

‘Did I tell this who would believe me?’

An old story given new resonance.

Perhaps she would have joined #MeToo

Perhaps she would have signed #MeToo

o earthly mean to save him, but that either

You must lay down the treasures of your body

To this supposed, or else to let him suffer;

What would you do?

ISABELLA

Ha! little honour to be much believed,

And most pernicious purpose! Seeming, seeming!

I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for’t:

Sign me a present pardon for my brother,

Or with an outstretch’d throat I’ll tell the world aloud

What man thou art.

Who will believe thee, Isabel?

My unsoil’d name, the austereness of my life,

My vouch against you, and my place i’ the state,

Will so your accusation overweigh,

That you shall stifle in your own report

And smell of calumny. I have begun,

And now I give my sensual race the rein:

Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite;

Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes,

That banish what they sue for; redeem thy brother

By yielding up thy body to my will;

Or else he must not only die the death,

But they unkindness shall his death draw out

To lingering sufferance. Answer me tomorrow,

Or, by the affection that now guides me most,

I’ll prove a tyrant to him. As for you,

Say what you can, my false o’erweighs your true.

ExitISABELLA

To whom should I complain? Did I tell this,

Who would believe me? O perilous mouths,

That bear in the one and the self-same tongue,

Either of condemnation or approof;

Bidding the law make courts’y to their will:

Hooking both right and wrong to the appetite,

To follow as it draws! I’ll to my brother:

(from Shakespeare’s Measure by Measure)

Pandora’s Box

Don’t tell anyone, said Zeus.

It’s just between us, and anyway 

no one would believe you - I’m King of the Gods. 

And remember, don’t open the box.

But she did.

And out flew all the lies and deceits,

 dirty secrets and gagging orders,

complicity and cover ups. 

Until all that was left was Hope.

And it was gathered up by women, 

 cherished and passed from hand to hand 

until they gained the strength to speak out

Together. 

The Apple

Eve ate hers 

and got The Knowledge

(and the blame.)

Snow White spat hers out

and got the prince.

Paris gave his to Aphrodite

and started the Trojan Wars.

Mine sits in the fruit bowl,

biding its time.