Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Comic Sans

I saw that the tories had done an ad,

in comic sans,

and honestly,

I fucking lost it.

We are truly in the comic sans timeline.

I guess everything is funny,

classic Dom,

classic Boris,

classic cunts,

not giving a fuck,

that while they play games,

the pawns and pieces are begging for just one day,

just one day,

when the alleged grown ups,

outgrow their dungarees and dumb games,

and get to business.

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It behoves me to tell poor Brenda,

that an election is apparently imminent,

because our politically impotent prime minister

has thrown his toys,

his majority,

and his brexit deal out of the pram.

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Trump has finally learned to shut up,

silenced by the testimony,

at his impeachment enquiry,

but alas,

he’ll probably find his voice,

and his twitter password shortly.

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Millions marched,

of all races and classes,

for the planet,

and a people’s vote.

Trains and veins were bursting,

with excitement and frustration,

as for a few seconds,

each person thought,

for their own reasons,

that maybe their voice was visible after all.

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Some stuff probably happened in sport,

but I mean…

unless it comes from……….Rebekah Vardy’s account,

it’s irrelevant.

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Director after director droned on and on,

about how Marvel films are shit,

screensplaining to the plebs

about what they should be swallowing at the cinema.

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Franco is finally fucking off from The Valley Of The Fallen,

and hopefully what’s left of his corpse

will end up in a bin,

in an independent Catalonia.

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Life is truly written in comic sans,

and we are bobbing along the banter timeline,

but every now and then,

more and more these days,

something happens,

that is scarier than anything Halloween could hand us.

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Such as,

39 people,

seeking a better life,

saying goodbye,

and getting a cold reply,

from a nation that dares to call itself great.

“Where were their visas?”


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

In Which Jennifer Asserts Herself, For The Very First Time

If you ever get the urge to look me up,

to hook up,

to check up,

on what I’m up to,

don’t.

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I’ve spent so long,

trying to stand up,

to grow up to be the person I knew I had the power to be,

before I met you.

You’re not the worst person I’ve ever met,

sometimes,

I don’t even regret not telling you to fuck off,

when you asked me for my number.

Sometimes,

I look fondly,

on my time as your sexy midnight stranger,

but those times are small and insignificant,

and I avoid them,

so I don’t emulate them,

in my usual impressionable way.

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I’m trying,

through tired eyes,

to see myself as someone who was never cursed,

or corrupted by you,

because I’m tired of feeling like a fool,

for falling into the exact traps,

I was so sure I was too smart for,

and it’s easier to wear the image of a survivor,

if you aren’t lurking in the lobby of my heartbreak hotel,

waiting to check me out,

and fuck me up all over again.

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So,

don’t.

We know,

both you and I,

that you won’t listen,

but,

if you ever loved me,

or even liked me just a little,

don’t.

Don’t.

Don’t.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Release Your Feminism As A Single

Art is ludicrous.

Art is loud.

Art is your heart,

finding flight,

glowing and gliding,

colliding with the limits you live by,

growing and shining,

until your heart casts a shadow,

that leaves you so sure,

that the whole world could be yours,

if you wanted it.

Yes,

Art is loud,

ludicrous,

life changing,

heartbreaking,

passionate,

limitless,

life affirming!

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Until…

Until Art is silent.

Until Art is complicit.

Until Art looks the other way,

and she always does,

because while Art declares herself loud,

ludicrous,

life changing and limitless,

Art is selfish,

Art is egocentric,

Art is a social climber,

Art is a networker.

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Art would like her fans to know,

that she wouldn’t work with somebody

that she BELIEVES to be an abuser of women.

Art says that she still doesn’t understand the whole story.

Art says that it’s not really her business.

Art says that he is an incredibly sweet and gentle man.

Art says he was never inappropriate with her.

Art says she believes women,

just not THAT woman.

Art keeps her feminism as a deep cut,

she only plays it at concerts,

where the audience is already booing,

because Art does not realise,

that slick production is not enough,

to cover up the crime of complicity.

Art does not see itself from the outside.

Art does not realise that every line,

lyric and rhyme from her mouth,

is replaced with a simple but sad phrase.

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“I want to be famous,

and I’m willing to sell out other women

to get what I want.”


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Lifestyles Of The Loved And Blameless

I’m mad about your mania,

making plans that always revolve around your ruling passion,

your crazed addiction,

for the way I simply exist.

I am forever hanging out in your hang ups,

the prettiest of your preoccupations,

possessing your every thought,

your darling demon,

corrupting your conscious,

until it breathes,

lives,

pleads for me.

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I am the fight that leaves you faltering,

the spoiled spectre that will always haunt you.

I am your Kootie Pie Koopa,

and I want your whole heart for my birthday,

I spend my summers,

sitting on the tip of your tongue,

spoken into your serene dreamscape,

keeping your gaze as a gift for myself.

I am going to be the empress of everywhere,

knocking down the real world,

to build a dream for us to live in,

where I will rule supreme,

sometimes letting it seem like we could be close,

before I break old boundaries out of prison,

and let them terrorise our newfound happiness.

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These are the lifestyles of the loved and blameless.

I confess,

I cannot explain,

why you seem to look at me,

and see the answer to every prayer and birthday wish.

I think I play up,

being a spoiled bitch,

just to see how long it takes,

for you to decide that I’m just not pretty enough for that kind of behaviour,

I count down the days,

wondering how long it takes,

for the magic to wear off,

wondering when you will see what everyone before you saw,

even before I decided I deserved the world,

wondering when I will no longer be someone you love,

simply becoming someone you fuck and lie to.

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And maybe in the end,

I will regrettably remain a stuck up kitten,

who won’t sign autographs,

for the sake of my sanity,

and self preservation,

and you,

merely a meek mouse,

will always be my biggest fan.

Maybe,

in the end,

I’ll realise that you never say no,

because you know that nobody else said yes.


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