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

Queens of Lunacy

Six twenty a.m.
Meds not kicked in
Yet
Another psychosis
Again?
I hear the birds
Free bitches
Tunes as though
Life has no locks
No dirty ditches
To dump
The head fucked
In

Like us
Queens of lunacy
Boasting our
Lithium crowns
Regal but
On a different
Frequency
Time for pill pop
Want the fucking
Crazy shit to stop
The clock
Ticks
Out of time

Psycho mum
Drag my bones
Bust my butt
Necking my meds
Like a Valium slut
Popping the pills
To get free entry
To a sanity club
Crazy has
A price tag
I can’t afford
Ring a roses
We all stay mad

I’m fucked

©2020 Sarah Drury

Halo

Inspired by a trip to the beach:

You wore your halo
Of curls
That day
Sea salt kissing sun slick air
Working the art of
Not giving a fuck
Kiss or tell
Truth or dare
Sugar spun promises
Devil don’t care
Luring tastes of tantalising
Tooth-fuck treats

Kiss me quick
Before the sun pays heed to
Your blindly dazzled senses
Kiss me like
I scry in a mirror
With eyes wide shut
Cos soon I wear defences
It is not for I
My nemesis of beauty

You chose a plastic sword
You had inclinations
To be
Archangel Michael
Porcelain fingers in china hand
Gold spun tresses
Pedalling a lunar cycle
Proud sword raised
To heaven’s gate
They don’t give a shit
The angels
A plastic prayer’s
A curse to keep
Faithless
Masquerading faithful
It will be
Choking up the
English Channel
Tomorrow

©2020 Sarah Drury

I was Alice’s Aunty Once

When I was a teen, I worked in a home for the elderly. One of the old ladies had dementia…

Fourteen years old
And radiating a future
Of fruitful tomorrows
In this graveyard for
The not yet dead
With the old bones
Rattling around in this
Old people’s home
One ear on the
Monotonous drone
Of dead eyed visitors
And one eye on
The steady tock
Of the analogue clock
As death permits
A last cup of tea

They had memories – Once
But these were stolen
And minds were broken
Words come tumbling
Out like retrospective
Dramas spoken
Wartime lovers
Dancing with hope
This hopeless dance
With feet that may not
March next week
As they savour
The last of their rations

I was Alice’s aunty once
As I led her to her
Favourite chair
Skin so parchment thin
Her story was written
In the spiderlike veins
And downy hair
Eyes trusting as a child
That thinks it’s going
To Paris
But is cruelly going
Nowhere decent
Nowhere they could feast
On warm croissants

I wondered
Was this aunt
Loved
And hoped that
I could share a bit
Of my naïve heart
I prayed I could lovingly play
A nurturing movie star
In her world of
Broken dolls and
Tattered teddy bears
Where she was now
The child
And I, the child
Was now
Very grown up
Indeed.

© 2020 Sarah Drury

Bad Bottle Mum

I have only one child, and when he was born, he had breathing difficulties and was in the NICU for a week. I tried desperately for days to breast feed him, and nothing came. My baby was obviously starving and i decided to throw down the gauntlet and ask for a bottle. The nurses basically treated me like shit but my baby was happy, and we never looked back. Yes, breast is probably best, but we shouldn’t be made to feel inadequate it it doesn’t work out for some reason.

Bad Bottle Mum

I’m a bad bottle mum
I tried, my love, I tried
I held you close ‘til you latched on
But you cried for days
Little jewels of hunger
And frustration
You cried
Your rosy lips trying to
Suckle a miracle out of a
Dried up tit
My nipples were sore and cracked
As you latched your little jaw
And sucked
Like you’d never been
Fucking fed
And you hadn’t
My mammary glands were
Dead

I’m a bad bottle mum
The midwives said persevere
The milk would come
But four whole days
Of drought
And I had a newborn babe
With a nipple with nowt
Coming out
Who thought a tit
Meant starvation
And I had another tit that had
Shrivelled up in desperation
Nipples cracked and chewed up
Like an old dog bone and
I don’t like to moan
But I had a fucking starving
Kid here

After four days
I put my tits away
Asked for the bottle
Little old nurse with grey Hair
Gave me the
‘Are you a bloody idiot’ stare

I’m a bad bottle mum
That was when it started
The attitude, the negative cold
And frosty voice
The frozen, hard faced nurses
Thrusting tiny bottles of
Cow and Gate gold
Cos I was a fucking criminal
And no one told
Me it was ok
Cos breast is best and yeah, it is
But when the nurses are an army
And when your tits are traitors
And not
Doing their bit for the allies
When do you surrender?

And my babe did fine
He preferred the steady stream
Of liquid gold
To a titful of promises
Lies we were told
By the media
Progaganda
And he thrived

© 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

CoronaKid

I was thinking how hard it is for our kids at the moment, having to be locked away constantly, hiding from an invisible enemy. Their whole world has been turned upside down! My son has it especially tough as there are only the two of us in the house and i suffer with bipolar disorder and anxiety issues, and he has autism and challenging behaviour so it’s like a pressure cooker at times!

Here’s a poem I’ve written for spoken word, seeing life in Coronavirus times through his eyes.

MILD SWEARING

It’s a bit shit
Couped up
Coronakid
Walled up in a council tomb
Tempers flaring
Like a pressure cooker lid
Wishing there were dos
Which don’t
Which must
Which can’t
Which didn’t
Which did

Walls seem scary
When your life is really
Coronation Street
Without a plot
Hours which seem
Like days
Which seem
Like years
Which seems
Like concepts
That I’ve not yet fully got
Mum’s ready to blow
I’m really so, so worried
That the going’s
Got so hot
Feelings churned
Around like
Psycho soup
In a perpetual
Emotional boiling pot.

No school
No mates
No welcoming
Playground gates
But then I hated school
Mum tries her best
But she’s not
Getting rest
Her moods are
Tending to be
Hot not cool
I give her shit
Because I’d rather sit
And waste
My days away
Fuck this home ed shit
School’s bollocks
All I want to do
Is fucking play
But all my momma
Has to say is
Do your bloody work
Or there’s
No PlayStation
Today

I miss my family
And my friends
It’s like looking in
A claustrophobic mirror
Seeing our two faces
Day after day
Like a glitch in the matrix
Like a horrifying error
And I don’t know
What’s worse
In my life
The insane boredom
Or the
Abominable terror
Cos we’re in
An invisible war
And it feels like
We’re fighting on
Forever
and ever

©2020 Sarah Drury