Second Wave

So, we’ve been
in Lockdown
since March 23rd
Stay Home, Stay Safe
Government preaching
the word
Following ‘The Science’
Controlling the R
Social Distancing
Facetiming our parents
from afar
People in isolation
Looking out
at the world
from a pandemic
glass jar
Can’t see our parents
Can’t see our friends
Can’t see our kids
Can’t see our
way out
of this shit

Boris spouting his
propaganda
How we’ve kept
the death rate down
How we’ve reduced
the strain
on the NHS
Fucking hell
I know 32,000 dead
who wouldn’t agree
It’s the Science
It’s the Science
And what about
herd immunity
And you weren’t
one of the immune
Boris

Now restrictions are
being lifted
We can’t go out
but we can
We shouldn’t wear
masks but
we should
We can stand
in a park
with one friend
two metres apart
Jesus, the outdoors
Who’s going to
implement that then?
The police trading in
their truncheons
for tape measures?
What the fuck is
going on
at number 10?

Work at home
but go to work
Walk, walk, walk
I can’t get my
fat arse on a bike
Two cheeks fighting
It would be like
a punch up
in M & S pants
Does he think
that England
will know the steps
to his exit dance
Kids back at school
How the fuck
they gonna implement
the social distancing
rule
Pick their noses
Scratch their arses
Bite their Nailsies
Coronaviruses
The Critical Care beds
may be empty
But that sea’s
a coming
and it’s an enormous
Second
Fucking
Wave

Hairless

These lockdown times! I bet by the end of it, half of us will look like we never set foot in a hairdressers or beauty salon in our lives. My razor sits untouched on the sink, it’s been there for weeks. But you know, I just don’t care. Being stuck within four walls, with limited social contact, I haven’t felt the need to be primping and preening every day. It makes me think, jus who are we doing it for? Us? Are we shamed into believing that we are not ‘normal’ if we don’t render ourselves hairless? Or not beautiful? Do we live our lives constantly feeding into media hype on the standards of beauty? Are we afraid of ridicule and rejection?

A poem:

Hairless

The razor sits there
On the sink
Looking forlorn
Day after day
Like a predator
of feminine power
reborn

Lockdown lethargy
Won’t be seeing a lover
Can always cover
my stubble
But why the fuck
should I?
I don’t need self isolation
to prove myself
to another

Smooth armpits
Smooth legs
Smooth fannies
Smooth chins
Smooth moustaches
Red lips
Killer false eyelashes
Supermarket dashes
for razors
and baby lotion

That razor’s been
sitting there a
very long time
Since I was a girl
and the magazines
said I would be pretty
if I was hairless
Look at me now
My fanny’s a big hairy mess
my cheese grater legs
don’t give a fuck
I don’t care
I don’t want to caress
anyone who cares less
of me
because I won’t dress
my body
in false aspirations

Who feels the need
for pretty?
Is it me?
Do I look in that mirror
and see
a monster
created by the media
fuelled by misogyny
I’m not a fucking fairy
on a Christmas tree

So, fuck you, razor
Fuck you!

©2020 Sarah Drury

Between the Wars

Indigo blue
Inky canvas
One eye open
The other protesting
The estate slumbers
Another day of lockdown
A neighbourhood painted
In shades of apathy
As the world mourns
Its sorry dead

Beryl wakes at the crow
Of the cockerel
Says hello to her husband
Enjoying a pint in Heaven
For the last twenty years
Says a prayer to the virgin Mary
And asks Jesus to save her soul
From the coronavirus
God is her insurance policy
As she ain’t finished yet
In this heathen world

It reminds her of the war
But the bombs don’t fall
And the men aren’t swallowed
Into certain suicide
She would cower inside the
Air raid shelter
As the Luftwaffe played
Russian roulette
Missiles raining down
Picking off saints and sinners alike
And she prayed to Jesus
And he did good

Now the bombs are silent
Yet the killer is stealth-like
Stealing souls
Like a pandemic shoplifter
Light fingered Kelly
Is in good company
Though I’m sure the virus
Ain’t interested in Maybelline
Or L’oreal

Churchill led the nation
Now we have the Tories
No let up from fear mongering
As the media perform
In their catastrophic circus
And the BBC peddle tragedy
Like Boris Johnson is MacBeth
Whilst the government deny
Their role
In digging mass graves
To herd the old
And vulnerable in

She tucks into her egg
And Tetley’s
Another day of inane daytime TV
She heard that people Facetime
But she has no tribe
Jesus is her saviour
And God is her father
And the Virgin Mary
Sheds a tear
For the children
She lost

©2020 Sarah Drury

Childline Lockdown

With the Coronavirus lockdown, children are at even greater risk of abuse. This could be emotional, mental, sexual or physical, but a lot of the reports the NSPCC are getting are related to emotional abuse. It is proving harder for social workers to gain access to homes due to lack of personal protective equipment, social distancing and lack of staffing.

NSPCC can be contacted here:0808 800 5000 or via help@nspcc.org.uk

Here’s a poem I wrote through the eyes of a victim.

Childline Lockdown

I don’t know what
I did wrong
Cooped up
24 hours a day
Radio blaring
Incessantly
Happy people singing
Bullshit songs
To people in
Their bullshit lives
Abusive husbands
Battered wives
Shit scared kids
As tempers fry
And swift fists fly
And I swallow all
My tears
Cos if I cry
He will get angry
Again I’m
In enough
Fucking pain

I have a friend
I call him Ted
He’s been with me
Since I was two
Keeps the monsters
Out from under
The bed
Soaks up the blood
When my dad
Sees red
But it’s the monsters
In the daytime
I’m really scared of
I call them dad
And mum

Social workers
Knocking on the door
But mum knows how
To play it
Long sleeves
Hide the bruises
Walked into the door
Hit my head
On the table
So careless
One day I’d probably
End up dead
Social worker suspicious
But dad always says
I was clumsy

Ted understands me
I can tell him
Anything
When dad is
Screaming
Temper raging
Ted helps me to sing
Over the Rainbow
If I had a phone
Then I would ring
Childline
But it’s the fists
I fear

And it’s a long time
Till I am sixteen
Then I will tell
Them all
To fuck themselves
That day I’ll
Be queen
In my own kingdom
And there’ll be no
Fists for bombs
No ‘what did I do
So fucking wrong?’
And I will shine
That day
Like a
Rainbow

©2020 Sarah Drury

I wish I were Piers Morgan

I was trolled on Twitter yesterday and although I know I should take it with a pinch of salt and not really care what others think, just be true to myself, it really unsettled me.

I thought about a journalist cum presenter we have called Piers Morgan, who is fearless, and wished i could be like that too. Not give a shit about the naysayers. It inspired me to write this poem.

I try to be hard
But my marshmallow heart
Feels roasted
My integrity burnt
My tough façade
Graffiti bleeding through
A silk sheet
Peddling grime with the
Street crew
But missing the
Ferociousness of
The beat

And I wish I were
Piers Morgan
Bullshit detector
Extraordinaire
Pheromone eyes
Glinting with
The sting of satire
Tempestuous tweets
Cascading from a
An impetuous beak
With anarchic hair

I wish I had his
villainous, acid tongue
That seared scars
Into fuckwits and enemies
I wish my tongue
Dripped impertinence
A cutlass assassin
Slitting verbal throats
For an
Extortionate
BBC fee

I wish I were
Piers Morgan
I wish I could
Just say
Fuck you
And not
whimper like
Mary Poppins
Failing to have
A satisfactory cum
When she has
A polite and
Impeccable
Screw
And my dreams
Are filled with
The trolls
Painful, excruciating
Screams
As I curse
All their nightmares
With a twist
Of sacrificial voodoo

I wish I were
Piers Morgan
I wish

©2020 Sarah Drury
Image Source: Getty Images