Slut walks

Performing my new poem, Slut walks, written in anger at the continuing, outrageous, unjust responses to rape around the world.

Don't Leave Me This Way

First performance of my new poem last night at the fab 3MT, Afflecks Palace. Confidence is not a constant state, this poem looks at losing confidence and is written through the seven stages of grief.

Don't Tell Me

Living in fear

The glorious sun the other day sparked a conversation about S.A.D, do you remember that, people being prescribed a sun lamp, 30 minutes 3 times a day.  What happened to S.A.D, what happened to all those sun lamps? This poem is about other diseases that have disappeared.




What happened to SARS, Bird flu, Mad Cow, Swine Flu?
The apocalypse we never knew.
Like fraught parents using distraction to avert a tantrum and ensure their child is 'good',
the government uses fear to make sure we all do as we should.


Fear of death stops questions about education, health and foreign policy,
blind mad cow, headless chicken bird flu panic, our democracy.


I remember the news showing the awful effects of mad cow, CJD,
I was terrified at the time and I was a veggie.
Epidemic, pandemic end to humanity.


Hysteria mysteriously blows over, what next.....
and on that farm he had a sheep.
The sheep shits, you will die a painful death its evil its vile,
literally baa-ring like a shit filled sheep dying in a sci fi B movie style.
Shit seeping out of every orifice, your breath will stink
seeping out of your eyes so you perpetually blink
A condition known as the blinkity shits


Fear is limiting, don't believe the hype, psych.




I will be performing this poem and others at the fantastic 3 Minute Theater, Afflecks Palace, Oldham Street on 20th June at 8pm.

Pasty Tax

Inspired by recent political events!

He'd sell his granny down the river he's that nasty,

How can we trust a man that's never eaten a pasty?

The ancient staple of the working class with connections to the divine,

in the 18th century they used to leave pasties to appease the souls of the dead in Devon tin mines

The doppelganger evil twin of Robin Hood,

doing more for the few and less for the greater good.

Wouldn't catch him queuing round the block for petrol, fuming in a fume filled car,

its just a game for them watching the chaos ensue from afar.

He has all the boyish charms of the terrible two's,

doing his best to amuse....his mates.

They get mates rates on tax,

so his non pasty eating, chauffeur driven millionaire friends can relax.

For them life's one big money making party,

normal rules don't apply for the new world disorder illuminati.

The cut in the 50p tax rate is no comfort to those at the bottom of the chain,

the trickle down effect as illusive as rain... in the desert.

A minuscule drop from a bountiful river in a stagnant ocean,

no equity for the millions of cogs keeping the capitalist wheels in motion.

With the pasty he's not au fait,

bet he's never eaten at an all you can eat buffet.

Thinks BOGOF is a portable loo,

and Primark is an EU conglomerate manufacturer of glue.

So far removed from the state of the nation,

he may as well live in space on a satellite station.

It works both ways, I thought a kitchen supper was eating a pasty over the sink so you don't need to wash up

Not a phrase to down play secret dinners in No 10 for donors of the party, totally corrupt. 

  

Matryoshka

A few years ago a friend told me that baby girls are born with all their eggs .  This means that when your nana was pregnant with your mum she also carried you as a little egg. My nana was pregnant with my mum in 1949 and I like the idea that the eggs that went on to be me and my four sisters were in there too. It inspired me to write this poem.

Matryoshka
I used to be a Russian doll and live inside another,
echos of my fetal self growing in my mother.

When pregnant with me at 20 weeks a set of three we were,
my eggs were formed so my future children also lived in her.

Three generations stacked together Russian dolls of flesh,
it can only happen though the female line making women truly blessed.

One Over the Eight - Alex Keelan

This was the first performance of my new poem last night at M19 bar Levenshulme, if you have ever had too much to drink or been in the company of someone who has, you may relate to this poem.