Muriel

A character based on many women i have met during my stays in psychiatric hospitals…

Muriel

Beyond her twenty years
She looked
With her duvet of fiery red curls
Coiling like delinquent serpents
On a Medusa inspired scalp
An artist could not etch so finely
The lines which lay as an insult
Upon a face which had weathered Hell
Eyes dancing like a ballerina
In a shit-filled pigsty
And she’s clutching a map full of no destinations
But she knows where she’s going
And there ain’t no angels
Strumming wistful tunes on golden harps

Big bones brawled beneath
Criss cross flesh
With the sorry scars of harming self
The sorry scars of hating self
The sorry scars of berating self
Pain fuelled tram lines
Hurtling to Hell
And she’s clutching a fist full of Disneyland dreams
But she knows where she’s going
And there ain’t no wise St Peter
Heralding her arrival at the pearly gates

A blank canvas once
Though now an impressionist’s masterpiece
With the purple hues
And the green and blue clues
And the red in slews of how’s yer father
Punctured pathology
Peddling pinpricks
Parading pangs of predilection
And she’s clutching a dream full of fairytale fantasies
But she knows where she’s going
And a utopian Jesus ain’t there
With his meek open arms and his forgiveness smiles

Eyes flecked with flashing blue
Sparkling in dreams
But in waking, like warm, flat champagne
Her mind mocking
At every heart-choked twist of fate
Nothing that
A puff of weed
A snort of coke
Best friend, the needle
Wouldn’t pleasantly anaesthetise
And she’s clutching a dream of a kilo of weed
But she knows where she’s going
And it ain’t no fluffy clouded heaven

And she’s clutching a dream of a better life
But she knows where she’s going
And it ain’t home

©2020 Sarah Drury

Downtrodden

I write for the downtrodden
For those who haven’t found their place in this eat you up and spit you out cut throat world
I write for those who need a helping hand to crawl out of their pit of ‘you are shit’
Where misfortune throws the meek, the weak, the ‘I can’t cope’
The afflicted, the convicted, the souls who pray without a hope.
The metaphorical cup of tea with those judged dregs by our heartless society
The folk who wear their labels ‘pray for me, pray for me’.

I write for the homeless
For those who brave the streets of danger, invisible to every stranger
Who passes in their swathes of indifference and cloaks of ignorance
Homeless, human, sentient, despondent, waiting for a caring soul to be respondent
Even an ‘are you hungry, love’ can humanise
Not every person walking along side will pass by and despise, dehumanise.
When will society prioritise these needy?
Why is it ok for people to sleep on the streets, or is it the rich are too greedy?
They sleep in their goose feather duvets of opulence whilst the homeless slumber in piss stinking doorways of petulance.
How many geese have died for your decadent dreams and how many homeless have died in their demonic, hellish nightmares?

I write for the poor
For those who haven’t a pot to piss in
For those who can’t decide between beans for tea or £5 in the leccy
For those who live in mouldy homes, their children chesty
Who stretch their universal credit but they still can’t feed the kids
Who go to foodbanks to fill their bellies till they can win on the lottery and make a few quid
Who apply for jobs but there are so many people fighting for employment and they don’t have any GCSE’s
And they’ve wasted £10 for an outfit in Primani and even begged the job centre, on their knees.
But they’re despondent
Always waiting, always waiting, for the bad news, for that rejection letter.

I write for the downtrodden youth
Hanging in packs like lost souls
Futile at a future that holds no future,
Like characters lost in a video game, battling almost impossible challenges
Obstacles looming, crime rates booming, defiance fuelling dissonance and hatred
Parental roles imbalanced, authority losing their controlling stance
No youth clubs, no activities, no respect, no inspiration, no inclination
To succeed
No hopeful dreams to be freed
From this

I write for the mentally afflicted
My brothers, my sisters in psychiatric hell, conflicted
By ruthless cuts in provisions
No psychiatrists, no nurses, unless you’re ‘severely’ ill
Gp’s telling the depressed ‘try these’ they will soothe your sadness,
It’s only a bloody pill
But pills are not the only answer, pills are like a bandage
They soak up all the tears but you’re still left with the fear, the pain, the psychological damage.
Where are all the psychologists? Where are all the counsellors and where are all the hospital beds?!

I write for the downtrodden
And I know I am not far from the bottom of the heap
I know I am one pill shot of the psych ward
But I have my dreams
I have my dreams.

©2020 Sarah Drury

Shit Mum

WARNING: SWEARING ALERT!

Yesterday was a tough day where I felt like a totally bad parent. I felt like rocking with a teddybear, sucking a dummy and banging my head on a wall!

I must defiantly admit it
I didn’t think as a mother I would be so shit
A northerner, a salt of the earth working class brit
But I’m about as patient as a toddler who’s been asked to sit
Through twenty episodes of Coronation Street with a lip that’s bruised and slit
But I’m building him up for a spell at her Majesty’s in the nick
When he’s fifteen years and a bit.

I think I’ve just had enough
I didn’t think as a mother it would be so tough
I didn’t think the days would be so dreary, nights so rough
I never knew CBeebies was such torture til I’d had enough
Of Mr fucking Tumble and his Makaton special stuff
I want to get the fucker into everlasting handcuffs
Let’s see him last five minutes in this ruff and tumble neighbourhood.

I think I need a fag
I didn’t think as a mother I would lose my rag
I didn’t think I’d turn into a bloody vicious nag
Thirty years ago I was a stunner, a looker, a stellar shag
And now I’m looking rougher, like a no fag, no shag, hag
And I slob around in PJ’s like a degenerate, depressed bag
With my Primark/Lidl/Aldi/Iceland cheap ass price tag.

I know I’m no Barbie doll
I didn’t think a mother’s life would seem so bland and droll
I didn’t think I’d end up with the amusement shortfall
Playing games of banging heads against a council concrete wall
Wishing I could stab a knife into my bleedin kid’s football
My kid acting like a gangsta when he’s only 5 foot tall.
Saying no she don’t live here when the hard debt collectors call.

I didn’t think that as a mother I would be so shit
I didn’t think that as a teacher I would be so bad at it
I always thought that I would be a Supernanny big hit
But now I’m slumming, tunes a hummin, leggings that my arse don’t fit
My kid’s a screaming, social worker’s looking at my home pit
And making snotty comments about the mess and bloody state of it.

But I try my best, each shitty day to be a better mum
But it’s hard when you’re bipolar and the moodswings always come.

©2019 Sarah Drury

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas 2019

‘Twas the night before Christmas
And all round the house
The children were freezing
The gas had run out
They’re huddled in blankets
And second hand coats
With bad chest infections
And painful, sore throats.
There is no electric
They’ve run out of money
They’re scared and they’re frightened
They’re crying for mummy.
But mummy is down
to her last tearful nerve
Universal credit’s been
A steep learning curve.
And the children are hungry
And the cupboards are bare
They’re living off foodbanks
A bloody nightmare.
And it’s Christmas tomorrow
And what will they do?
They’re living off tatties
And vegetable stew.
No turkey bedecking
their rickety table
a fine Christmas dinner’s
a middle class fable.
No fat Christmas pudding
To feast, feast, feast, feast
For that sort of thing
Is a wealthy assed beast.
Santa is taking
a break for the night
for they can’t afford presents
their purse is too tight,
and the children will cry
and their hearts will be broken
they’ll think they’ve been bad
and no words that are spoken
will sooth their sad hearts
will bring back the magic
for poverty is sin
and their little lives tragic.
And benefits are sanctioned
And the poor they go hungry
And the wealthy don’t care
And the tories are angry
And people get poorer
And children get sadder
And the system gets fucked up
The money gets tighter.
The homeless get shit on
The sick are a burden
The mothers are chastised
Their futures uncertain.
How did our poor country
Get in this crap mess?
How did our ‘fine’ leaders
Be heartless, care less?
How did our poor children
Become casualties?
Hungry, tired, sorrowful
Tory fatalities.
‘Twas the night before Christmas
And some lives were shit
We need things to change
Put an end to it.

©2019 Sarah Drury

The Flock

The Flock

It is winter
On the estate
Behold the flock of fledgling souls
Bedecked in Nike, Fila, Adidas
Or maybe Puma
If they’re strapped for cash.
They gather blindly
Like human sheep
Around their phones, their chilly bones
Whilst attitudes of futility around them creep.
In other prosperous boroughs the children sleep
But this is my estate
Where the road that’s paved in gold is just too steep.

Huddled, puddled, muddled youths
Lost already to the culture
Where knives are toys
And guns an aspiration.
And profanity is a cocky demonstration
Of rebellion.
With a gangsta culture a big inspiration
With the rap, the culture map, the deadly crap
That they live up to.
Crime a game of fuck the police
Cos life is not a cashpoint machine
And money does not come free
And neither does liberty
If the cops have their way.

And this is my estate
They flock in parks where drink
And oblivion
Ease the weight of being shit in the world
And ease the pain of a future where
The doors are already shut in their faces
And they already know they’re not going places
One road journey
And this street is a dead end.
And they are children
But they lost their childhood already.
And this is their piss poor legacy
And this is my estate.

© Sarah Drury 2019