Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, politics, Writing

Million Dollar Birthday Fries

You cursed the candles,
their flirty flicker,
like a wicked smile after a lurid laugh at your expense.
The cake was like cardboard,
choked down with a cold glass of sick,
as celebrations go,
that one was… kind of shit,
but you scraped a smile onto your face during the family zoom call,
hoping the walls didn’t echo too much and reveal the big secret.

You made a show of unwrapping gifts,
so your parents wouldn’t know how quickly you were unravelling,
how sick you had become of the same cycle of hours,
how you could barely keep up the charade for the camera,
but you made it,
waving and smiling until everybody had left the call and given you quiet permission to collapse.

It was the unhappiest birthday you had ever had,
so you’ll be glad to know that the government,
who had given you the gift of loneliness and financial insecurity were celebrating themselves in what I can only describe,
dear reader,
as a never ending festival of fuckwittery.

Colin the caterpillar crawled across a desk,
throwing up smarties and sambuca as Dylan the dog sniffed around the sandwiches.
Special advisors had a billboard time, breaking swings and slides,
and atop it all,
the Mad King, unfortunately topless,
swung his tie around his head,
jumping from desk to desk like a poor man’s King Kong,
as his Fay Wray found herself planning their next holiday on the people’s expense.

It all makes sense,
when you think about it,
our sacrifices are just sustenance for the snakes that slither through big houses, admiring the tacky wallpaper.
The police stab their eyes out with their truncheons,
and the Prime Minister wipes his soiled lips on reports into his own conduct,
and you?
You sit alone,
tormented by the turmoil of a day that seemed to last forever,
longer and longer with each second.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Lost Girls In Lorries

Screams are plastered on the walls,

like her blood,

his spit,

his handprints,

on her face,

raging and red.

Nobody hears,

because nobody listens,

and nobody looks for girls like her,

in the dark,

dingy night.

Shut up.

It wasn’t meant to be like this.

Take your clothes off.

Nobody told her it would be like this.

Stop crying.

She thought she’d be working in a factory.

Cry some more, my friend likes it.

She just wanted to make money for her mother’s medication.

I paid for everything.

She knows they’re right, when they say there is no escape.

You have nothing.

She knows there’s no way out, when there are no safe ways in.

You have nothing.

Screams are plastered on the walls,

like her blood,

his spit,

his handprints,

on her face,

raging and red.

One day,

she’ll be dead,

the government will weep,

as if they gave her a choice.

If only she’d come legally!

Crocodile tears,

from ivory towers,

that have a view,

of how lost girls are lead to the jaws of monsters,

by the trail set out,

by ministers and masters.

Ministers and masters are the same,

her fate is the same,

as many others,

sometimes,

ministers visit,

to make sure the masters carry out their corruption,

to very specific orders.

Lonely statistic.

Jane Doe on a home office list,

of girls who only wanted opportunity,

the kind of girls,

that nobody looks for,

in dark nights,

or dark lorries,

or dark rooms,

in dark houses,

with chains on the door,

and chains on the floor,

where her ankle imagines freedom.