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, politics, Writing

Women Who Work (Really Hard At Pretending To Be Allies)

She tapped on a screen,
as if it meant the same,
as standing with the brave,
and using her freedom,
to free them.

I am proud
I will say I am proud
to support my LGBTQ friends and the LGBTQ Americans
of the LGBTQ Americans my Dad targets
who have made immense contributions to our society and economy.
so they can’t point out my cowardice,
in the face of their bravery.

I will say I am proud,
of the LBGTQ Americans my Dad targets,
so they can’t point out my cowardice,
in the face of their bravery.

She tapped on a screen,
and typed everything,
a publicist told her,
and it meant nothing.


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Drink It Down

I’m powered by pain,

that’s sponsored by Pepsi.

I’ll throw a brick,

with a brick blood manicure,

and my sensible shoes,

will suffocate my suffering.

 

I’ll hold your crimes above my head,

as I steal your streets,

until my arms break,

and your tangerine toddler tweets.

 

Lock me up,

hose me down,

I’m waterproof,

and I’ve drowned too many times,

to let you hold my head

at the bottom of the bath.

 

I am the dream he had,

we are your nightmare,

and your flag isn’t big enough,

to cover all our corpses.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Enemy Of The State

You’re right, it isn’t my country,
despite swapping states,
like I used to swap Pokémon cards,
and completing the assimilation game,
without cheat codes.

“Uncertainty is excellent,
all is well.”
Says ageing, expat, pop star scum.

I’ve never stolen anything,
but the hearts of a few,
and even then,
I returned them, with interest.
I still can’t shop without being watched,
I’m hoping my private reality show is cancelled, soon.

He’s right, this isn’t my country ,
despite all I’ve given.
I wanted to be just like you, once,
or at least the you on sale in gift shops.

Tea, Oxbridge pleasantries,
it isn’t real,
and now, neither am I,
despite the very real passport in my possession,
that is happy to claim me as one of your own.

I only want to own myself,
and walk the streets,
hopeful, as you do.

I do not go where I am not allowed,
I’ve never taken life,
but I hope to give it.
All I take is what I earn,
and I’m open to sharing.

“Imaginary independence is excellent,
all is well.”
Says banker of the people, yet peoplesceptic scum.

They’re right, this was never my country.
I am too changed for my old home,
and never enough for my new home.

This is not what I hoped to leave,
for the next me,
who is refusing to enter,
for fear she will be forced to leave,
or worse, forced to stay, unwanted.

Go home?
I will, if you’ll just let me pass.
It’s just up the street,
I’ve got a garden, with poppies,
not even just to assimilate,
and my Abuela will wonder where I’ve got to,
whether I address her in English or not.

I know, this isn’t my country.
Although, I have to ask,
why is my word only as good as the language it comes in?

“I don’t know what I ever did wrong,
nothing is well.”
Says the one the rags and rabble call scum,
but she is something to somebody,
I am something to somebody,
my only crime was being brown.


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