Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The United Kingdom Of Great Struggle and Northern Suffering

I live in a rich nation.

Four glittering goldmines,

held together by the honey,

of busy, obedient bees,

who are fed by applause,

and emoji filled tweets,

that work to the soundtrack,

of a suited somebody,

in a chaotic chamber,

who reminds them that they are rich.

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I live in a prosperous place.

Proud.

Great.

United.

I do not remember a time,

when I could walk down the street,

without seeing struggling shops,

hungry, homeless souls,

among the busy, blind bees,

who snitch on their neighbours,

for not clapping,

for taking too many walks,

for spending what little they have

on the wrong type of comfort.

img_9213

I live in a wealthy realm.

Errol Graham starved to death.

The safety net slips away,

again,

and the people are strangled with it,

by a tsunami of suited somebodies,

who repeat,

as we recoil,

that we are rich.

We are rich.

We are rich.

A death rattle of a starving, screaming kingdom,

that will never see the safety of palace walls,

and Downing Street apartments.

img_9214

I live in a rich nation,

where people die for being poor.

 

 

 

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Blinded By The Light

I used to dream about the sea,

waiting for the waves to wash my days away,

but I’m too tired to dream,

I close my eyes,

and there is nothing.

They say I’m bleak,

as if the world hasn’t grown slower,

and lost its colour,

as I grew taller.

Maybe I’ve been bleak,

for so long,

that it has grown on me,

like moss and weeds,

a terror attack here,

an anxiety attack there,

the economy and I,

are apathetic,

crumbling,

climbing from the depths,

then crumbling back down again.

I can’t even picture a house anymore,

there used to be babies,

but now they are cats,

in a house,

that shrunk down to a flat,

and I’m still not sure,

if my hopes are low enough,

to avoid being decapitated,

by the rages of reality.

Tonty Blair,

put a dream in my head,

with his vaccines,

and funded schools,

but sometimes,

dreams get delayed,

and sometimes,

they get murdered.

I used to dream about the sea,

waiting to wake up without wanting to run away,

but I never quite got there,

pacing empty, echoing pavements.

I want to be one of those kids,

who found their way out of Thatcher’s Britain,

with a playlist,

that brought the streets back to life.

I want to hear a way out,

a way to escape,

but it always evades me,

because life isn’t a movie,

(I know, I know),

and it just goes on,

unsatisfying and terrifying as it always was.

Thatcher’s dead,

still haunting the country she said she loved,

my bootstraps have told me to fuck off,

and let them sleep,

but all we have is each other,

and life isn’t a movie,

or a Springsteen song,

it’s just a thing that happens,

when two people meet,

lose control,

and then expect the result to survive.

I’m not trying to sound ungrateful,

sometimes,

I enjoy being alive,

but sometimes,

it feels like a burden I don’t deserve,

and it’s hard to articulate that,

without being sectioned.

I suppose I survived,

so far,

so what?

It’s just dumb luck,

and I’m a dumb girl,

who’s been on an endless ghost train.

Life isn’t a movie,

it’s not a Springsteen song,

it’s a haunted house,

full of a hunted generation,

that knows nothing but being overwhelmed,

on a constant basis,

as wars break out,

as often as our skin used to,

and our future funds tanks and missiles.

I miss when I didn’t know about the news.

I miss when life did feel like a movie,

or a song,

by anyone.

I miss when my only worry,

was if I’d ever kiss a boy,

and why I wanted to kiss girls too.

I miss when I could say tomorrow would be better,

without the sound of bitter,

jaded laughter,

in the back of my mind,

that refuses to believe.

I can’t press pause,

and take a breath,

I can only take it as it comes,

and try not to romanticise death,

because I have to be here for a reason,

I just don’t know what it is.

Nothing happens, just because.

I didn’t happen, just because.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Sincerely, Jennifer x – Season Four Premiere

Hola amigos,

There is a new podcast episode available, featuring some new poems, as well as discussions about why racism is apparently now sexy, the bravery of activist Sammy Woodhouse, and why ageing isn’t as bad as we all think. I also discuss the latest dramas in the upcoming general election, in the new segment, What The F**k Is Going On With This Whole Election Business?

You can find the new episode on your favourite podcast provider here, and you can find the episode guide for Sincerely, Jennifer x here.

Season 4

Besos,

J x



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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, politics, Writing

Abuela’s Ashes

They sense you,

you know,

your songs spill to the streets.

They hear you,

in the line outside,

discussing a new centrist party,

that will definitely work out,

and an article you read,

in Lenny,

about why ironic, hipster racism,

is actually the best weapon against the far right,

or something.

party jennifer juan.jpeg

They are hunting you,

as you enter the club,

but you are safe.

They watch you,

you know,

as the long suffering bar staff,

patiently wait for you to finish talking,

about this totally amazing girl you saw,

singing new wave acoustic death metal,

at the local fair trade coffee shop.

They can see that the bar staff want you to shut up,

order a drink,

and go away.

party jennifer juan 2

They see you,

dancing with your friends,

but,

as always,

you are safe.

They approach you.

They smile at you,

and from the pockets of their pressed suits,

they produce,

a bag of my abuela’s ashes.

You smile too,

and you are suddenly dancing in a new way,

that only you and they understand,

and into your hand,

goes my abuela’s ashes,

maybe some other people too,

but don’t worry,

just as it always is,

you are safe.

party mask jennifer juan

You escape,

once again to the bathroom.

They are no longer hunting you.

You inhale and return to the party,

clothes,

red,

blood on your hands,

up your nose,

but you,

you already know what I’ll say,

you are safe,

just like always,

you are safe,

and so are they,

buying and selling abuelas and tias,

hermanos and hermanas,

from Colombia,

Peru,

Mexico,

Bolivia,

and now,

on your own streets,

your city’s blood,

is all across your face,

grinded down to pleasant powder,

the human cost,

in a format you don’t have to think about,

so you are safe.


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