Fake Friend

You all know the type!

You call yourselves a friend
Lipstick painted selfies
on your four caustic lips
of your two vitriolic mouths
of your two faceted faces
One eye as vigilant as
a ravenous hawk
Sparkling with the thrill
of intoxicating gossip
The other black
as an executioner’s hood
But faceless
unlike yourself
And I wait for the axe
to fall

I bear witness to your
two faced vitriol
Your Fakebook falsity
Your P’interest pretensions
Your Instagram irony
Your five hundred followers
your two thousand likes
Insert love heart emoji
Vomit

There is no angel
for a back stabbing bitch
As you wield your
Gordon Ramsey knife
and carve a noxious laceration
in my spine
But you are the spineless one
Your bones are brittle
with back fence talk
The fishwives would
make a place for you
at their table
Gutting their fish like
you gut my nonchalance
The ocean is teeming with haddock
Too many for the women
with the clackety clack tongues.
And too many for you
my dear

©2020 Sarah Drury

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

Reality Star

Inspired by watching another reality show wannabe thinking she’s Marilyn Monroe!

Reality Star

Who even are you?
Disgracing my TV screen
Flashing your tits
Infill lips
Botox on the bits
that might betray
an emotion
And we are supposed
to swallow the notion
that
YOU ARE REAL?

What sort of reality
do you live in?
It isn’t the same
as my head fucked game
Your hands as smooth
as the sniff of lazy
My hands scrubbing
the shit off my crazy
kid’s shoes
You snap a nail
Tan goes pale
Have a meltdown
And you say
YOU ARE REAL?

With your gratuitous home
Fucking around
on your iPhone
Tits out for the camera
You self proclaimed stars
are all so similar
Ego bloated
Sugar coated
God devoted
But you worship
at your own altar
and your tits are fake
but you say
YOU ARE REAL?

Have my life
for a day
Wash your own
fucking pots
Ping a microwave dinner
Clean the pissy toilet bowl
Small town, no hope, sinner
Stave off the blows
from your
delinquent kid
who won’t eat
He’s getting thinner
and the Social Services
are knocking on
my fucking door
They think they’re
onto a winner
But they can fuck off
And so can you
cos I’m telling you

I AM FUCKING REAL

©2020 Sarah Drury

Yoga

I have only tried Yoga once, but it went something like this….

I have a golden Buddha
and he spoke to me
He thought it time
I broaden my spirituality
So, I vowed to go to a yoga class

Well I walked into the room
and there were twenty women
with their attitudes crass
and their notions of privilege
and pretentious class
And I knew all along
they were eyeing up
my fat ass
in all its lycra glory

I knew Buddha would’ve been
very disappointed
in these women
Who think they
have been appointed
the right to hold
their prejudice
in their judgmental minds
Where are the
spiritual tenets of
being generous, being kind?
Being human?

Flexibility is not my strong point
I can’t get my leg behind my ear
I daren’t do that for fear
I would fart
or split my pants
If they want me to do
the eight angle Astavakrasana
I haven’t got
a fucking chance
I’m more a reclining
sort of person

I don’t think my can of Pepsi
went down too well
For them it was some sort
of sugary hell
With their bottles
of Aqua Vitae
and their sorry snacks
Ecologically friendly
cardboard packs
Full of calorie hate
Poncey quinoa
Apricots and dates
And I may as well have
pulled a coronary out of
my bag when
I took out my
Mars Bar

I’ve said to Buddha
Yoga’s not for me
I will meditate
I will become a fucking tree
I was getting so bloody
irate
at the pretension
I couldn’t cope with the
amount of negative attention
I was getting as a
‘Fat bitch’
So I left

Maybe I will try quinoa though…

©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

Mother is a Hustler

My mother
Would be Virgin Mary
If she had blue robes
And a school nativity baby Jesus
And a halo
Half price
From the dressing up section
In Tesco
And on her age worn face
Is always worn a smile
As valuable as the Mona Lisa
With NHS teeth

She has no notions of grandeur
And no one is beneath her
Her kindness knows no perimeters
And if Jesus
Had been wandering
Our beaten tracks
He would’ve been
Out of a job
And signing on
At the DWP

She serves burgers
For the big Maccy D’s
Tomato ketchup with a side
Of joy on your cholesterol fries
It gets her knees
But living off her pension
Gets her pocket
And eBay is so addictive

She plays the saints
At their game
She was dealt a shitty hand
But holds those cards
Like a seasoned hustler
And when her time comes
I know she’ll
Be showing God
The true meaning
Of love

©2020 Sarah Drury

Flogging

This was inspired by my old neighbour who used to sell her wares on street corners.

WARNING: EXPLICIT LANGUAGE

Red hair blazing
Like a fuck me beacon
A barber’s pole but throbbing in male pants
Face a dot to dot of drug induced acne
Parading your heroin chic
Decency don’t mean shit

You never keep your legs shut
Self employment makes it rather draughty
And as a small business you should
Protect your assets
But you can’t get insurance
On gynaecology

Hanging around on seedy corners
Perverts cruising, risking a bruising
Chancing chancers
You don’t know, you don’t know
Flogging your fanny today
Digging your grave when the sun
Mourns your demise
And the dealers
Mourn their suicide pockets

A fuck for the addiction of heroin culture
Shame when your fanny is a currency
You pay in dirty needles
And white powder lines of escapism
For a few moments you’re out of here
Shooting up in Nirvana
Profits in your greedy veins
Coke up your wannabe Beyonce nose

I wish I could help
And the churches say that
No one is beyond redemption
But you’re lost to the devil now
You sold your soul for a moment of heaven
And found your sanctity
In the arms of an addictive addiction
Bride of a heroin fix

©2020 Sarah Drury