Anxiety

My heart deafens me thunderously, 

My stomach twists and churns typhoon like.

A change in the atmosphere, thick and clinging to me like a damp rag.

A storm's brewing, cumulonimbus pushing my brow down, I can't breathe.

Has someone turned the gravity up, it presses on my weak and weary muscles, not again, not now, not here, please.

The storm continues to rage inside me,

Low level electricity up and down my arms.

I'm frightened, I know I'm not going to die, am I? 

I plant my feet, to ground me and stop the movement.

There is no safe place, no where to shelter.

My body knows something I don't,

one day I hope to hear it, to understand.

ATOS

Atos don't give a toss,
Even when their decisions cause the loss, of life.
You can, if you like, read about the hundreds that have taken their life,
After an Atos assessment found them fit for work,
but not fit for compassion.

Letters declaring 'fit for work' to souls on their death beds,
It doesn't get colder than that.
What rat sat in an office and sanctioned that?
Benefits stopped, life line, support.
Who ever thought, this was progress.
One man starved to death at home alone, after they cut him off.
Unplugged him from the main supply,
his measly £57 a week back in the pot, for what?

Not a medical qualification in sight
Yet they think they have the right to decide your fate based on their 'clinical knowledge'.
Clinical as an adjective means unemotional and scientifically detached,
How apt!

In a war with the poor, ill and disabled.
There are only casualties on one side.
The pen is mightier than the sword.
No need for gas chambers here,
progress is slow but steady
And the Tories are always ready
with new buzz words to justify their acts.

I bet the job description for an Atos worker reads,
We're looking for a cold hearted judgemental bastard with a strong lack of compassion.
Must have delusions of grandeur and a slight God complex but still be a stickler for government rules and regulations.
The successful candidate mustn't hold humanity in high regard
If my only option was a job like that, I'd rather starve.

I've not updated my blog for quite a while, I have been busy with my lovely nocturnal baby boy.  This poem woke me up in the middle of the night a few months ago.

Show me the God.

Show me the racist God
with his twisted smile,
That rubs his hands with glee
When you judge your fellow man as inferior.
For something as natural as skin colour,
Yet give thanks for ALL that he created in you.

Show me the sexist God,
That struts around with pride,
Every time you put that bitch in her place
Exclude her from your practices
And tell her how she must live her life in his name.

Show me the homophobic God,
That prances round with gay abandon
Every time you outcast someone for who they love.
Force them to live a lie,
Or worse, not live at all.

Show me, and I will look this phantom in your face
And say, you do not exist.
Then they won't, at least not to me.

Shirkers and Strivers

My new poem about the punishment and demonisation of the poor and the protection of the super rich

Alex Keelan performing at Unconvention 46 Pussy riot

I loved performing at the amazing Unconvention event at Manchester Art Gallery, celebrating radical women as part of the Wonder Women Festival. The other women performing were fantastic, Steph Pike, She Makes War and Liz Green.

My international Women's Day Poem 2111 was posted on the Hellogiggles website

My Hopes For Women In The Next 100 Years

From Our Readers

The cabinet will be awash with women representing the masses,
with women from all races, abilities, sexualities and classes.
They will run the country with emotion and passion,
and maybe, if they want, a great sense of fashion.
Communication will aid democracy,
compassion will be law and listening the key.
These traits will be valued and not seen as weak,
attributes to strive for characteristics to seek.

The media will present a greater representation of beautiful,
no longer will we be bombarded with airbrushed, unrealistic, plastic and dull.
Young women would have more to aspire to than being a celebrity’s wife,
spending hours tanning, plucking, shaving and dieting would be seen as a waste of a life.

MTV would play videos of the female equivalents of The Rolling Stones,
haggard rocked out grannies all wrinkled skin and bones.
Talent would not have to be tested or proved,
because barriers to opportunities would all have been removed.
Women could be themselves without having to conform,
and a woman in any job would be seen as the norm.

Women wouldn't feel judged for doing what is their right,
like wearing what they want and walking alone at night.
We wouldn't be bound by concepts of what women should be,
our choices in life would be valued, respected, expected and free,
Being called a “girl” won’t be an insult to men,
but a compliment they would hope to be called again.

Sisters around the world won’t be raped, beaten and vilified,
abused, humiliated, oppressed and petrified.
The current abuse of women would be unheard,
and the concept of violence against women would seem absurd.
Our bodies would be our own, no one could tell us.
No one could own us or rule us or buy us or sell us.
This is my dream for women in the next hundred years.
A life of endless possibilities and a life without fear.

By Alex Keelan 

A cautionary Christmas tale - from 1982

Sneaking around in the dark as quite as a mouse,
the only hours of the year we silently ruled the house.
It was 1982 and me and my sister had had a few..... to many chocolates!
Brimming with excitement as the fairy lights bathed our bounty in all its Christmas glory.
Santa came good for the good girls that never unpicked the wrapping on their main present... sacrilegious.

We squealed with delight when we correctly identified our wrapped up video tapes, blank cassettes, nighties, socks.
Always wrapped individually, never in blocks.
We needed quantity not quality, substance over style.
A bin bag full of knick knacks made us smile, till our cheeks ached.

Once I went to unpick the corner of the wrapping on my main present, my sister silently wrestled me to the ground, careful not to make a sound and break our Christmas universe.
She was too late, I could tell it was the Mr Frosty I had dreamed of for what felt like years.
Oh to be able to make your own your own slush puppy, the height of luxury, the stuff of dreams.

By 10am red eyed and delirious I sobbed as I crushed the ice my Mr Frosty was unable to crush and poured it into the cups.
Karma, never try to unwrap your main present before its time, no good can come of it.

Merry Christmas xxxx