Message To My Teenage Self - exclusive video poem

and One Lockdown Afternoon, a poem on making the video-poem

We are here to avoid the march

Rinse our eyes 

Stained from the Scroll 

Herded Thameside south, the city compass speeds in the midsummer sun

One lockdown afternoon 

Far from low-res, jackpot-ego, high rent livestream hagiographies, stonemason chinking, chipping, carving digital epitaphs,

Battered avocados in a boxing match with a Nutribullet

I throw peachstones into the Tate and Lyle tide 

When pushed

Forced from golden sandbank to the gloop of the riverbed, 

From the landslide of fresh pheromone 2m 2pm hook-up chat

That’s fine - there’s enough space

Beneath Modern Wharf

We are Easy Riders in a Hyperloop running on UBI

The juice drips

On the print-out of my nouvelle manuscript

Canary Wharf glimmers as unworld class as the health minister’s iridescent street-art

Of money

The kettling of peaceful protesters

Flutters my pages to the shore of hand-sanitiser

Crying vulpes

Suck in the virus

Drowning in Their horsepower, 

Bloodied carcrash fur

Roadkill pesto 

squished seeds under the Epstein Woodworm Windrush Me Too mortar. 

Littering My solar system.

I shout through my mask

And pull it off to film

Message To My Teenage Self.  

The poem commissioned for the wonderful contemporary collection 

Smear, edited by Greta Bellamacina* - a beautiful soul, actress, writer, director who also manages to have two children

First collated via New River Press, now published by Andrews McMeel, this new edition also features my Response to Gil De Ray's Perfume.

(I wish it had been available when I was growing up)

Poems for Girls

Aside other women armed with words

Striking against the hegemony’s hammer

Punching through my beloved walls, leaving me tumbling under the truth of the strip of sky

I have bought.

Never stood still for so long

Tomatoes and spinach and good garlic are essentials

The sage smokes

Swivelling under the axis

Of Orion’s shopping cart

Undiluted by Outside, until I pick up Their tools.

Waves furl IRL

Earth breathed for the first time in many springs

The Quiet

The fantasy of leaving Their freedom

My phone a portal

Memory full, overloaded

The peace I wanted is here

Sprayed rainbows in every window,

Black Lives Matter signs now in every hundredth

It is not enough.

Steroids. The best They, the scavengers of “low-hanging fruit”, can do.

In Their chaos matrix

Illiterate, illogical, unethical as planes costing less than trains

If you would like to read Smear, please support your local independent bookshop.

In the UK - there’s a postcode checker here, many are doing deliveries still. It also helps small presses to buy direct from them.

FYI: I am posting all contents of Cold Lips 05 for free on currently. 

Sign up there for messages, or find us on social: Facebook, Instagram, Twitter