Month: January 2020

Downtrodden

Published on by Sarah DruryLeave a comment

I write for the downtrodden
For those who haven’t found their place in this eat you up and spit you out cut throat world
I write for those who need a helping hand to crawl out of their pit of ‘you are shit’
Where misfortune throws the meek, the weak, the ‘I can’t cope’
The afflicted, the convicted, the souls who pray without a hope.
The metaphorical cup of tea with those judged dregs by our heartless society
The folk who wear their labels ‘pray for me, pray for me’.

I write for the homeless
For those who brave the streets of danger, invisible to every stranger
Who passes in their swathes of indifference and cloaks of ignorance
Homeless, human, sentient, despondent, waiting for a caring soul to be respondent
Even an ‘are you hungry, love’ can humanise
Not every person walking along side will pass by and despise, dehumanise.
When will society prioritise these needy?
Why is it ok for people to sleep on the streets, or is it the rich are too greedy?
They sleep in their goose feather duvets of opulence whilst the homeless slumber in piss stinking doorways of petulance.
How many geese have died for your decadent dreams and how many homeless have died in their demonic, hellish nightmares?

I write for the poor
For those who haven’t a pot to piss in
For those who can’t decide between beans for tea or £5 in the leccy
For those who live in mouldy homes, their children chesty
Who stretch their universal credit but they still can’t feed the kids
Who go to foodbanks to fill their bellies till they can win on the lottery and make a few quid
Who apply for jobs but there are so many people fighting for employment and they don’t have any GCSE’s
And they’ve wasted £10 for an outfit in Primani and even begged the job centre, on their knees.
But they’re despondent
Always waiting, always waiting, for the bad news, for that rejection letter.

I write for the downtrodden youth
Hanging in packs like lost souls
Futile at a future that holds no future,
Like characters lost in a video game, battling almost impossible challenges
Obstacles looming, crime rates booming, defiance fuelling dissonance and hatred
Parental roles imbalanced, authority losing their controlling stance
No youth clubs, no activities, no respect, no inspiration, no inclination
To succeed
No hopeful dreams to be freed
From this

I write for the mentally afflicted
My brothers, my sisters in psychiatric hell, conflicted
By ruthless cuts in provisions
No psychiatrists, no nurses, unless you’re ‘severely’ ill
Gp’s telling the depressed ‘try these’ they will soothe your sadness,
It’s only a bloody pill
But pills are not the only answer, pills are like a bandage
They soak up all the tears but you’re still left with the fear, the pain, the psychological damage.
Where are all the psychologists? Where are all the counsellors and where are all the hospital beds?!

I write for the downtrodden
And I know I am not far from the bottom of the heap
I know I am one pill shot of the psych ward
But I have my dreams
I have my dreams.

©2020 Sarah Drury

Cyberbully

Published on by Sarah DruryLeave a comment

Last week my son was accused of cyberbullying because he fought back against a boy who had been mean to him for a few weeks, calling him a dumbass and stupid. My son retaliated for a change and it got him into trouble! It prompted me to write this little poem…

Cyberbully

I see you, schoolboy
Hiding behind your fancy computer
Loitering behind your flashy keyboard
Waiting for your victim to come online again
Waiting for that kill, to inflict your vicious pain
I see you, schoolboy
I see your game.

I see you, schoolboy
Hiding behind that tough façade
Fists raised like a literary sword
Gathering up your bully boy herds
And your nasty flock of bully birds
Bruises, punches but in menacing words
I see you, schoolboy
I see your ways, the wicked, the absurd.

I see you, schoolboy
You go for the jugular, you go for the kill
With your don’t give a shit attitude
With your superior airs, with your steel nerved will
Putting your victim through a suicide mill
Sending them crazy, throwing them downhill
I see you, schoolboy
I see how you feel the thrill.

I see you, schoolboy
Why are you so intimidating all the time?
Why do you get your cheap thrills online?
Don’t you care about the person
at the other end of your heartless line?
Don’t you even give a shit, are your emotions benign?
I see you, schoolboy, your victim’s hopeless, but you’re doing just fine.

©2020 Sarah Drury

Bake Off

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well I know it’s half a year away, but I was inspired to write a send up of the Great British Bake Off

WARNING: the odd swear word

Bake Off

It’s getting to that time of year again
When our screens are invaded by a farm load of corn fed, field raised, free range eggs
A flamboyant flurry of organic, gluten free flour
A gaggle of garish, gluten intolerant gastronomes
A marquee of muddling men and worrisome women, coyly craving culinary competitiveness
And an alert audience of deluded Mary Berry wannabees
Planning their abysmal attempts at:
Pavlova perfection when they hate the sight of strawberries
New York Cheesecake when they haven’t even been to Cleethorpes, let alone the USA
And those delicate little macaroons when they’re 6ft tall and built like a brick sh*thouse!

I’m not by far the world’s best cook
I can’t even follow the recipes in a pre school child’s cook book
Without burning the brulee beyond acceptable boundaries
(I got offered a job at the crematorium with that one)
Massacring the merengue and associating salmonera with scone

I can’t whisk an egg white till its stiff and peaky
I can’t nurture rice pudding until it’s thick and creamy
I can’t cook suet pudding whilst its hot and steamy
I’m about as much use as a chocolate fireguard and if there was such a thing I’d probably eat it.

The cooks on the TV mesmerise me
How can they be so creative?
How can they bake a cake the size of an Oompah Loompah native?
They sweat under pressure, with falling Tiramisu tears and tempestuous tantrums.
My three year old could whip up a trifle with more emotional stability
But these prodigies onscreen are making me doubt my ability
With their creative prowess and supernatural culinary agility.

They never cook chocolate sponge and pink custard, like at school, do they?
Or cornflake tart with custard as lumpy as a teenager with raging acne?
They never cook rice pudding with skin so thick you could wear it as a raincoat when you were a kid cos it’s all you could afford
Or Hot Cross Buns you scoffed at Easter and offered up to the good Lord.

I want to switch off the telly in abject disgust
I want to knock off the smarmy presenter’s crown and his teeth with my fist to adjust
I want to throw away my cookbooks or burn them on an enormous fire
I want my cakes to caress hearts, I want my scones to inspire
But they’re dire, my toffee like a tyre, my meringues like barbed wire
All they are good for is a funeral pyre

So I’ll stick with my cake mix and add my eggs and flour
And leave the creative, innovative, stimulative contestants
To their magnificent, macaroon, f*cking towers.

©2020 Sarah Drury

Hello

Published on by Sarah DruryLeave a comment

Bit of fun about being plus sized:

Hello

Hello
It’s me in my plus size knickers
Nothing to do with my obsession with Mars Bars, Twix, Dairy Milk or Snickers

My plus size knickers
Black satin, double gusset, masquerading as sexy, toyboy pickers
Tailored for the Chinese takeaway, fish and chips, pepperoni lickers

Hello
It’s me in my plus size bra
Looks like two sturdy zeppelins, fighting for justice in the second world war
Nothing to do with my glasses of chardonnay, bottles of prosecco, Bacardi and more

My plus size bra
Come people, my milkshakes bring all the boys to the bar
With cups like these my rebellious bosoms will never spill out, will never go far

Hello
It’s me in my plus size dress
Nothing to do with my strawberry trifle, extravagant cheesecake, chocolate roulade or Eton mess

My plus size dress
Emulating a number made for the slick and svelt and thin
Makes me look like I’m fighting in Syria to confine my flesh and squash it all in

Hello
It’s me in my plus size body
Nothing to do with the fact that I am happy and don’t care what you think
That I’m not stick thin, that I love to eat, that I love to be free, that I love to drink

My plus size body
Big and beautiful and blossoming and resplendent and worthy
And I don’t need your pity and I don’t need your criticism and I don’t need a trophy

My plus size body
For me means love
I don’t need no judgement
From below or above.

©2020 Sarah Drury

Skinny Culture

Published on by Sarah DruryLeave a comment

WARNING: mild swearing

I would love to be slim, but how much of this desire is influenced by the media ‘Skinny Culture’. I accept my curves but when i was trying to think of curvy icons they were few and far between. What is this obsession with being thin?

What is this skinny culture?
What is this ‘big is beautiful’ but not in my magazine?
What is this ‘big is benevolent’ but not on my TV?
What is this ‘big is brilliant’ but not plastered all over my advertising campaign?
What is this ‘big is bountiful’ but not in my blockbuster movie?

Why are the glossy pages always draped with bronzed, emaciated size 4 bikini bods
Hanging off the arms of equally tanned, gorilla like, mankini gods
Do they think us plus sized women should be kept in a dank, dark kennel like shameful dogs
Or forced into fat loss boot camps with the reality TV obesity quads
Why don’t they just lock us into rejection, objection, dejection pods
And feed us scraps of bacon and lard like a bunch of hungry, fat shamed hogs.

And why, when I think of inspirational, plus sized icons on TV
Can I only think of one or two that truly fire me up and inspire me
Jo brand, plus sized, proud and hilariously funny
Doesn’t give a toss about chocolate, pork pies, cream cakes or obesity
And good old Kathy Burke with her I don’t give a shit ideology
And Victoria Wood, queen of chubby send ups and plus sized parody
And I wish they were me
I wish they were me

I love the cinema
But if I have to sit through one more skinny heroine film at my leisure
I can’t say it’s for my joyful viewing pleasure
For the film industry know what kind of ‘perfect’ women they treasure
And it aint people like me with a blossoming size 24 body
If I were draped over Johnny Depp he would have a major coronary
Imagine me in Marilyn Monroe’s infamous white dress
Billowing up, my wobbly curves trying to impress
I’d need a marquee of white fabric and a holy priest to bless
The people who’d had an eyeful, who I’d managed to emotionally distress
With my big knickers and my no entry psychological sticker
My pulse getting quicker, needing some heavy liquor
Bravado getting slicker, my f*ck you attitude kicker

I will wear a short skirt if I f*cking want to
My legs are as viable as your skinny pins
I know we’ll never be twins. I know I would love to be svelte and stick thin
But it’s not really necessary.
Big women are yielding and sexy; big women are people with hearts like oceans
So, let’s start making a massive commotion
Let’s begin this ‘we are here, and we are real’ promotion
Let’s set in motion our love for self, the notion
That chub is the new size 4, that cream cakes are the new Weight Watchers
That we rule, we got this thing
For fat is fabulous
Big is beautiful
And odes of admiration for all you bigger women out there
We resplendently sing!

©2020 Sarah Drury