Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, politics, Writing

Naughty Tory

He said he was a bad husband,

but not a bad man,

not a criminal.

He says the case has been dropped.

He is a disgusting, slobbery mess.

He says it’s a misunderstanding.

He is chanting like a school yard maniac.

He says he’s a good man.

He had his face on her face.

He says he’s a victim.

He is a liar.

He sits in a palace,

full of bad husbands,

delusional dinner partners,

good men,

who’ve just had bad luck.

Broken girls,

who are all allegedly scheming,

to say those same bad words,

those shameful verses.

I said no.

I tried to run.

He chased me.

He hurt me.

He said he was a bad husband.

He was telling the truth.

He said he wasn’t a bad man.

He lied.

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.


I live in a prosperous place.




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.


I live in a wealthy realm.

Errol Graham starved to death.

The safety net slips away,


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.


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,


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,


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


J x

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