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

Suckle

I was thinking about how wonderful breasts are. They nurture babies, look great on our chests, are soft and yielding to touch, take us back to our childhoods. They are a symbol of power, a symbol of comfort, a symbol of motherhood. They are fantastic!

Suckle

Come suckle
At my breasts
Feast upon
Tender nipples
That once beguiled
My hungry baby’s
Rosebud lips
My breasts
That once
Had aspirations
To feed
One of a nation
But my barren breasts
No milk would yield

Come suckle
At my breasts
Behold the
Soft, sweet flesh
That kneads like
Sweet, warm playdough
In a toddler’s palm
Tell me that
They possess
enchantment
Devour me slowly
Ease me, tease me
Free me
From my
Mortal shackles
Dulcify the stress
Release
Angelic devilry

Come suckle
At my breasts
Behold how fucking
Great that women
Have these awesome
Symbols of matriarchy
Women envied by
The ravages
Of patriarchy
Sexualised and
Victims of misogyny
Now standing proud
And rising up
The hierarchy

But what straight guy
Doesn’t want
To nestle in
A bosom tender
Inhaling sweet beJesus
Virgin Mary
Tends his
Comfort moments
Render
Memories
Wishing perchance
To slumber
Cossetted
Like babes
Nostalgic
Suckling at
Their mother’s breast
In blissful
Reverie

© 2020 Sarah Drury

Exhausted

Just a bit of a poem i wrote about the current situation…

Exhausted

I am exhausted
Dragging these weary bones through invisible wars
TV blaring its cacophony in the corner
Corvid-19 holding me prisoner within these self isolated doors
My child climbing the walls and pleading for some freedom
I feel like getting down on the floor and praying on all fours

Boris
Spouting his rhetoric from the media, the BBC
Trying to be a strong leader, trying not to let the public see
He’s a scared little boy
Why the fuck do I pay my tv license fee
To watch this repetitive shit
Running from the screen like a stream of neurotic pee
You will die if you go outside
Stay the hell two metres away from me.

The pandemic, the pandemic
I cry as I watch the brave face of the medic
Who died
And my son is oblivious when I shit myself
And he asked me why I was crying
And I lied
Because I am a mum
And mums can’t be scared
I have no support, I’m alone
Like every fucker’s alone
In our antibacterial bubbles
Picking over the psychological rubble
Of the mental health fallout
Of the emotional war that this battle’s really about

Give us three months and the country will be fucked
Government will be bankrupt
And I will be tearing down the walls of this home
With my tooth bitten nails
Teaching my son, but the schools are shut
And the system always fails
To see that we are mums and dads and grans and grandads
And some of has haven’t got a fucking clue
What this education role entails
And we’re tearing our hair
And beating our supressed, fearful hearts
And swimming in seas of uncertainty
That are tearing us all apart

But we will win this war
That goes much deeper than a rampant virus
And our heads will be neurotic sheds
As the futility of this pandemic destroys us and toys with us
But I am a mum
And I cannot be scared
I have an autistic son
I cannot be scared
I cannot be scared.

©2020 Sarah Drury

Bake Off

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