Tattoo

WARNING: SWEARING

A tragic love story from round our way. Can I state this a character study, a piece of social commentary. I DO NOT condone domestic violence in ANY WAY!

They’d hit six months
Fuck knows how
He raised his fist
With each and every
surly, burly
Tempestuous row
Didn’t she deserve it
Off her tits
The nagging
Interfering cow
But they were
Sort of happy

Her hair was greasy
Bleached
Candy floss damaged
With liquorice roots
She saw no evil
Heard no evil
Spoke primeval
And he didn’t give
Two pissed up hoots
Any woman who’s
Game for a dirty shag
He woos
He screws
He shoots

He’d bought her
A tattoo
To celebrate
He’d brought her
To a tacky parlour
Where the going rate
Was cheap
And his bird
Was cheaper
He thought his love
Could go no deeper
Than the needle
Of his other love
Smack
Get his benefits
Splash out on
A bag
Shoot up for dinner
Sex for a snack
No desserts
Diabetic

They nearly had a kid
Once
She was fat and round
Full of child
He hit her around
Thought it was just mild
Purple bruises styled
But he was sorry
And the law didn’t
Give a fuck
Raging, wild
And the kid
Didn’t stand a chance
He bought
Purple tulips
Two lips
Bruised lips
He loves me
He loves me not

Now
She’s got a tattoo
All badly drawn
Talentless
Bragging
Over her left breast
Sworn
That
Love is forever
Til she dares
To disagree
Junked up lover
Show him your tits
Cos his love
Like his smack
Don’t come for
Fucking
Free

© 2020 Sarah Drury

Safety Sold Her Soul to the Devil

WARNING: SWEARING
WARNING: POTENTIAL TRIGGER (DOMESTIC ABUSE)

I know we are supposed to be staying at home safe, but for many families this must be hell. With calls to the domestic violence charities increasing by 125 percent this is a frightening statistic. Covid-19 has created more than one monster!

Sylvia was sick of this
Covid shit
Feeding hungry kids
Nourishing a wanker
And she went without
She was the bottom
Of this bullshit
Heirarchy
Her stomach had shrunk
Though not with starvation
But blows of fists
And punchbag jabs
Venom exhaling from
His every bullying breath
She was sick of fighting
Invisible defeats
She feared for her kids
She was shit scared
Underneath
The battered bravado

Sylvia wasn’t a looker
She’d easily pass
For a cut price hooker
Greasy blonde locks
Roots as imposing
As a Jehovah’s Witness
When you’re trying
To have a fuck
With the devil
The odd tooth graced her
Docker’s gob
Through which the
Profanities whistled
And the fuck you’s
Fucked you

The odd tooth departed
When the abusive
Loser let his flimsy
Free reign fists
Caress her feisty mouth
And her smudgy
Panda eyed styling
Wasn’t L’Oreal
Or Maybelline
It may have been
When
She was
Five minutes late
Fixing his bastard tea

Smack!
The kids are driving me
Fucking insane
Smash!
When are you going
To Fuck me again?
Smack!
You’ve been fucking
That other bloke again!
Smash!
You want to know why
I fucking hate you?
Don’t give me
Another reason to
Blame you
Cos let’s not admit
I’m an arsehole

She was supposed to be home
Keeping safe
But the government
Don’t live with monsters
They don’t have vaccines
For dickhead abusers
Only coffins
For the beaten
and
Abused

©2020 Sarah Drury

From Your Lips Young Mum

New poem…’From Your Lips Young Mum’

WARNING: explicit language

From your lips young mum

My universal credit comes today
A takeaway from the Chinese
Fake Adidas trainers
Blow some money on Primark tat
A bit of this, a bit of that
A bit of baccy, a bit of blow
Nappies for the wee ‘un
The tenner I owe Pat
Fill the cupboards
tins and convenience food
Money’s gone
That will be that
And can you see this bruise on my arm
My bloke went ballistic
Battered me black and blue
But I love him
and know deep down he meant me no harm
We had a good shag to make up
Hide the bruises
There’s no need for alarm
And did you see that slag Becky
Love bites on her neck
Think she’s shagging that drug dealer
The one with the Merc who owns that discotheque
Susie Walker
Five kids with five different dads
Flogging her fanny
Flaunting her tits round the back of the pub
for a bit of a grope with the lads.
Missed my soaps last night
Hey, what happened in Corrie?
Was there any scandal
Me and Tyson were having a fight
He smashed the TV then smashed my jaw
The kids came down
Screaming Mummy Mummy
So he kicked the kitchen door
Then fucked off
And I cried some more
And I feel broken
But I know he loves me really
And I’ll hold on to him dearly
And he’ll bring me chocolates and flowers in the morning.
Managed to nick some make up from Boots today
Will flog it round the estate
Should buy some blow
Should keep us ay okay
Barry brought some dodgy chicken
Off the back of a lorry
But three for a fiver
Dinner for three days
And the kids won’t be sorry
Did you see that Jason
From the flats?
Dating that fifteen year old
What a pervy twat
Should be locked up
What are her parents thinking?
They don’t really give a shit
They’re too busy out drinking
Tyson’ll be home in a few minutes
Better go back home
He’ll be on the phone
Checking I’m not tongue wagging
Telling sorry tales about his anger issues
Or I’ll take a beating
And no amount of Kleenex tissues
Will soothe my broken nose.
Better go back home.

©2020 Sarah Drury

Mocking Bird

Based on a real life case. Child cruelty breaks my heart. Poor innocents.

Poem is written for spoken word, so the rhyming and meter are pretty loose.

Mocking Bird

Hush little baby don’t say a word
Mamma’s gonna buy you a mocking bird
And crazy mamma’s off her head, fucking sky high
And if you scream blue murder and if you dare to cry
Why do people shy away, why do they turn a blind eye
To your misery and suffering
For we know only angels sing
And your little face will really feel the sting
Of that slap, that clap of anger, that frustration
Love’s a lie and pain’s part of a ring
Why do babies cry, why do fists fly, why does love die?

Hush little baby, don’t say a word
Mamma’s shooting up heroin, her hazy conscience is blurred
Her speech is slurred, her morals are absurd, not a peep out of you
Don’t whisper a fuckin breath, because if she heard
If she heard
If she heard

Hush little baby don’t say a word
You were never born to fly, never born to be a songbird
Your wings were clipped when you were born into your lowly council flat
In your second hand tat, to have or to have not, and your needs were last, you wore the charity hat
Your mother in public places smiling like a Cheshire cat
Then behind closed doors using fists and tongues like a baseball bat.

Why didn’t we know, why didn’t we see, why didn’t we hear?
Why didn’t we feel what you feel, with your heart like a plea and your soul like a tear
When a child was suffering, cowering, pleading for an end to the fear
In the show of things she cooed and smiled and held her baby near
Yet who knows what went on in her screwed up head, it’s never really clear
But flesh and blood is sacred, you cherish it, you nurture it, you worship it
You don’t live a lie, you don’t live a lie

Hush little baby, don’t say a word
Mummy’s going to prison and it’s an end to your bruised, scarred world
And the social worker’s finding you a caring, loving home
And your daddy’s lost his custody and he’s alone and it’s done
And
Now you can sing your own song
Now you can sing your own pretty song

©2020 Sarah Drury

It was nice, the Saturday Tea

It was nice
The Saturday tea.
Family sitting around the living room
Scraps of greasy newspaper balanced on our knee
Last week’s news saturated in chip fat
This week’s wellbeing, the cholesterol it’s enemy.
Scraps of batter, vinegar, swimming in a sea of mushy pea
A battered sausage promising dancing tastebuds
A haddock resplendent in its crispy, greasy coat
Chips golden like they’d been deep fried by the sun
Cuisine like nirvana, sliding deliciously down my nostalgic throat.

And it was nice
Nice, the Saturday tea
When the adults spoke in voices joyous and
Pretended they were ok with the world
And acted like the miseries of life didn’t start with me
That I wasn’t a pain, a burden, an inconvenience
That if it wasn’t for my being alive they would be free.
The day when people smiled and a glimpse of civility I could see.

As my fingers squelched through greasy pickings
A sensory challenge, but I could bear the feeling
Of the slimy, oily potato, hot and dripping with lard
I basked in the feeling of peace that the rustling newspapers
Might bring messages about my emotional healing.
For Sunday to Monday the grown-ups my sanity were stealing
My little sanguine heart and my quaking mind were reeling
With fear.

But it was nice,
The Saturday tea
When the air was pink with harmony
And the words were smooth with happy vibes
Pulsing through the atmosphere, the chips and fish the smooth over bribes
And the smiles were painted and the laughs were dubbed
And the falsity washed over the truth like the shifting tides.
And the walls were witness to the violence
That on the days when the chips didn’t bear witness to the cruel divides
Of a child distraught.

But it was nice
The Saturday tea
When the fish didn’t swim in the Atlantic Ocean
But sacrificed their lives to decorate our plate
When the sausage paid homage to the pig it once was
When the food on our platter was bloody first rate
When the child and the adult spoke in civilized phrases
When the child wasn’t bullied by an adult irate.
And the child pretended happy because she couldn’t create
Her safe place

But it was nice
The Saturday tea
The smiles, the laughs, the faux safety
The grease, the Tizer, the chips on your knee
The magic of illusion, the wish to be free
Yes it was nice.
It was a haven
The Saturday tea.

© Sarah Drury 2019