Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Getting All Mixed Up While Filling In The Census Form

It’s that time again.

Time to break my arms and legs,

let myself fit neatly and uncomfortably into the ethnicity box on a form.

For many years,

I’ve ummed and ahhed about how all the stars in the sky that fell down and created my human form can be categorised.

Brown eyes that have been to many continents,

rambunctious round strands of her that won’t sit down, because these curls have tales,

things to tell you, that you wouldn’t believe.

A skilled tongue, that pleases everyone she meets, in many languages (okay, three and a half), so what do I call her?

Which box do I tick?

My nose is thick and prominent,

once marked for surgery but now begrudgingly accepted,

but I don’t know how to tell the census that I’m not sure if she came from my Mum or my Dad.

My pen is staring up at me,

not knowing what to make of me,

and I am staring back,

with a varied background,

not knowing what to make of me either.

Once again, I am not English, apparently,

because the form says that is only for whites,

and I’m only half right for the red and white flag,

so down the form I go,

to the land of minority ethnics and mullatos.

What the fuck will my kids tick?

I suppose it depends on who I fuck,

and how many drops of their grandfather find their way into their blood from mine.

Shall I curse them to endless umming and ahhing at presumptuous and preclusive boxes,

or will their road be easier, brighter and white passing?

It’s just a form, I suppose.

Just a box ticking exercise,

so I shouldn’t think about it too much,

because I don’t have time for an identity crisis today,

but I am a map, with many pins,

and this is a small box, with a small mind,

that isn’t ready for someone like me.

I don’t think it will ever be ready for someone like me.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Here Lies That Sad Girl From The Internet

Where will the statue of me reside?

When I am a pile of bones in the ground,

rarely recalled by my son,

who has his own life to lead,

and manages to make it back on February 1st,

with roses and poppies to place on a headstone,

where I am identified as a wife and a mother who tried her best,

and a sad girl who fell apart on stage every night for the little time she graced the planet with her presence.

I like to think there will be a statue,

in some town centre,

where I meant a lot to people,

because I wasn’t a slave trader,

or a coloniser,

just a poet and a pop singer,

who liked to pretend she was special,

so labelled herself as “Alternative”.

I can see her,

sometimes,

but I can never picture where she ends up,

because in the flesh,

I don’t know where I belong,

so I don’t know where to set myself in stone.

I will be buried in Barcelona,

but she and I have not shared sunsets and moonlit moments for quite some time,

so I often wonder if she has forgotten me,

grown less fond of me,

can’t consider herself a home to me,

and so I consider if I will be Dartford’s favourite daughter instead,

claiming Kent,

not by birth,

but by sticking around,

drawing out my residence like Charles Dickens,

growing wild and memorable around the ankles of the county,

becoming beloved by the garden of England.

There’s always London,

of course.

Everyone can go home to London.

That’s the beauty of it,

because London doesn’t care how you got there,

it just cares that you stay,

and that you buy your lunch at Pret,

so maybe I’ll buy my lunch at Pret,

long enough for them to tear down some crumbling, unappealing old man,

and remember me instead.