The Birds and the Bees

How do you have sex mum?
How are babies made?

Then I glance at my phone
And see my son has been asking our friend Google Home
And our Google friend is no holds barred
He says the penis goes inside the vagina
And I gaze at these robotic, grown up words
And wonder if it isn’t a little bit absurd
That when I was twelve I was getting my sex education
From wanton fumblings in the toilets
At the local park
Stinky fingers behind the bikesheds
And ‘you look at mine, I’ll look at yours’ beneath the blankets on my bed
From the slutty porno Playboy centre spread
from the hormonal, spotty schoolboys I’d mislead
from the x-rated porno prose that I’d misread
from the 18 rated movies which I’d be dead
if me mam found me putting such filth in my innocent young head

And Google Home hasn’t done a bad job
If you’re thirty with a mortgage
And missed your sex education classes at your grammar school
Although google seems to think that it’s only same sex relationships that are cool
And lesbians, gays, and every queer in the nation
Are taking a sexual copulation vacation
And who knows, one day there will be negative ramifications
if Google stays straight

I pride myself on being a progressive mum
I have been letting my son be himself since the very first days I wiped the poop from his bum.
And I’m eager to see him become a young man
There’s been no puritan technology ban
No degrading Wonder Woman in favour of a testosterone fueled Batman
No forcing him to be less Autistic yet no forcing him to be in the disabled clan
I’ve always taught to hold up his little Autistic head and scream ‘I can’.

So I ask him
Son, how are babies made?
“The penis goes into the vagina and the man ejects sperm”
And I have to smile at the ejects bit
As though the word ejaculation isn’t a big hit
And I wonder if the sperm would miss their target
If they would be all redundant in the baby making market
And maybe this way it could be a new contraceptive
Maybe the men could be a little bit deceptive
And maybe the women could remind them
About condoms and STD’s
Hey Google, maybe you could just
Add a little bit about popping a little condom cap
On artful todger’s tinkling tete
To prevent the global baby threat
And keep the nasty diseases
To be the property of the dirtbag whose teaser pleases.

My son got the nuts and bolts main bits right
And I praised him for his knowledgeable prowess
At twelve he would have wiped the sex ed floor with this progressive lioness
He can bandy around the word penis like a consultant gynaecologist
But still pisses all over the toilet floor
and I wonder if that’s a kid thing
or will I still be mopping up the pee when he’s twenty-six or more?

I know what comes next
And I hear him talking in whispers to his friends in the next room
Oh son, you’re only 12 but you’re growing up way too bloody soon
I don’t mind you asking Google as long as you always ask me
I will tell you the important little things that Google doesn’t choose to see
Like how girls might fancy girls and boys might fancy boys
And some might fancy both and some might just want relationships with sex toys
And the world is a spectrum and we don’t fit in relationship shaped boxes
And diversity is the wonderful thing that makes the sexual world spin on its unpredictable axis.

So, son
Come to me
I will tell you the story of the birds and the bees
I will tell you what you should know, what is real, not nonsense whispers polluting the summer breeze
I’m not embarrassed
Don’t you bleedin’ well be.

©2019 Sarah Drury



Let’s hear it for Primark!
That cut price clothing behemoth
Where people flock and shop with shock
At ridiculous bargains, eyes agog.
Fill yer baskets, fill yer baskets,
Baskets like plus sized body bags
Shove it in, yer jeans, yer shoes,
Yer jim jams, yer panties, yer bags of rags.
Come along to the glittering golden
Universal Credit shopping paradise
Clothe your family of ten and your neighbour’s kids
For less than a McDonald’s, a bargain price!

The tired mums, red blood eyes,
suffocating their pushchair kids.
With three sleepsuits, a batman suit
and a bra with cups like jam jar lids.
The well toned teens, with their Adidas shoes
Strutting their stuff like like a pack of hyenas
Preening and posing and prancing and dancing
Like a bunch of pricks at Manchester arena.
Lairy with the arrogance that they will not
Have to take back panties that are not looking hot
For they are parachutes at a plus size twenty
Yet still don’t cover your whole lady spot.
Thinking they are James Dean or Marilyn Monroe
Hanging round the fire doors, smoking dodgy fags
Thinking they own that gangsta shit
With their £5 jeans in their cheap paper bags.

Bags, bags, let’s hear it for the paper bags!

Be careful when you step outside
With your Primani bags in the pissing down rain
A satin camisole and six pairs of silk stockings
Will go stumbling and a-tumbling down the stinking council drain.
At least you have the satisfaction of knowing that
You have a paper bag as big as a tent
Which will come in handy when you’re made homeless
From the ludicrous amount you’ve overspent!

Shoplifters looking innocent while they secretly gloat
As they stuff cans of Lynx down their rip of Nike pants
Until 20 tubes of mascara fall from their coat.
And the guards they come a running, the fucking pedants
And they leg it out the doorways like Sonic on speed
They won’t even make enough to score a joint.
And the police are coming quickly to arrest the dodgy fuckers
No bang for their buck, that’s not the point!

Security guards too busy singing poor renditions
While the dodgy folk make off with pickings of all kinds.
As another karaoke king ignores the exhibition
Of the policemen nicking wankers and slapping on big fines.
And the guards turn a blind eye and drink their pissy cuppa
Cos they’re busy watching YouTube on CCTV
Ordering Chinese takeouts on their work walkie talkies
Slavering at the thought of their Friday night tea.

While the queues are ten times bigger than the crowd for Take That
Kids screaming, posers preening, lads in gangs of rip off Nike
Folk stampeding wildly and they’re squashing shoppers flat,
Posting shit on facebook and then checking for the likes.
Photos of them shopping and their eyebrows are on fleek
Lynching other women if you see things in your size
Premeditating prospects of a cheap lacy thong
And keeping out your eye on the government funded prize!
Anaesthetized men being dragged on leashes
Following their primani-drugged women like dogs
With ferocious spending habits like blood-letting leeches.
Buying lacy bra sets and kitting out their sprogs.

And the posing, pimping Primani Queens
Resplendent with their golden hair extensions
Pride in their appearance, nails on fleek
High maintenance women with film star pretensions.
Hitting the shop for their Friday night cash splash
£20 budget just to buy their shoddy rags
For their boozy, shmoozy weekend Bacardi bash
Buying wisely, cheap, hoping for a Friday shag.
For when they’re pissed up in the street and a fit young lad they meet
Then throw it all away when the fallout’s underway
From your binge-pissed, gin kissed, night on the tiles
And your greasy chicken kebab is coming right back up to play.

Label’s with names like ‘Rebel’ for kids
Should really say ‘designed for little naughty shits’.
Fashion straight off the streets of a gangland paradise
Complete with Gangsta attitude and parental advice
Though I don’t think the imitation knuckledusters
Are particularly nice.
‘Atmosphere’ for our princess eligibility
The oppressive atmosphere at your local boozer
After ten pints of Stella and the drama of infidelity
And coming worse for wear with the mountainous bruiser,

Clothes that last as long as a box of chocolates
At a Weight Watchers’ failures’ anonymous meeting
Where the pounds have piled on and the poor duration of
the chocolates in the box is momentary, fleeting.

And I hear that Birmingham they have built a Primark paradise
With cafes and Disney, spread over 5 floors
I see spending sprees, I see solicitors’ fees. I see financial wars on couples
I see women kicking husbands out the council house doors
A beauty salon with the logo – ‘Duck and Dry’,
Should really be renamed to ‘fuck it up and cry’
Buy yourself a painted face for under a measly fiver
Look like a slap faced whore, gang banged by Crayola
Eyebrows painted like two copulating slugs
Foundation thick and moist like sticky marzipan
Lashes like you’re trapped in a spider’s web
Is it worth it just to look like a drag queen man.
Glam in a can, beauty down the pan.

So goodbye to Versace
Ditch Dolce and Gabanna
Shove it, Chanel, in a rough and ready manner
Get down to Primark
Be the next Primani Queen
Bollocks to Vivienne Westwood
Her prices are obscene!
Primark! Primark! Retailer of our hearts
Its only cash
But its cash we splash
With our hard earned pounds we part.
Let’s hear it for

© Sarah Drury 2019

The girl in the Black Fur Coat

Smile as wide as a sunset in the Grand Canyon,
Split from side to side like a sacrificial lamb.
Lips as red as two blood soaked rosebuds,
Smiling like a maniac and she doesn’t give a damn.
For she’s riding the wave of a high, goddam.

Eyes as bright as diamonds freshly mined and polished,
Sparkling like crystals reflecting sparks of purity.
Pupils wide, lashes like spiders in bitumen jackets,
Windows to the soul, to the heart of this lunacy,
Wearing the label of madness so well, so beautifully.

Black fur coat glistening in the light of the morning,
Though not real fur as that would be a subject taboo.
Sheen, shining, inky black softness adorning,
Someone else’s second hand castoff, can’t afford new,
Oxfam bargain, Help the Aged? She hasn’t got a clue.

Beneath the fur the flesh of nubile youth invites
The promise of sensuous moments, fleeting thrills.
Young flesh tainted by the smite of madness,
You take your chance, you screw the girl, fuck to her ills.
She parades her vulnerability like a murderer kills.

Her words, her smile, her ringing laughter, painting over
Sea worn driftwood sanity, eroded by waves of quick mind tricks.
Seeking out the thrills for the hell of it,
Drawing in the exploitative wankers and insensitive pricks.
Drawing in those who should have known better than to get their kicks.

And her fine black coat, with the beautiful sensation
Of soft, warm kisses upon her un-worshipped skin,
Like a kitten wearing the magnificent coat of a lion,
The only protection her vulnerability knows,
The only protection from the users and the abusers forcing their way in.
Like the pelt of a blood hungry trophy hunter, his senseless kill a win.

She is a giver, and she gives too much too often,
she sells her soul for a few moments of false affection.
She gives and she gives, and she gives and she gives,
And she casts aside her lying, crying coat of protection.
Her mind and heart are dying from another cruel dejection.

The doors are locked again, another grey, banal day
And the nurses and doctors are characters in a hospital drama.
The psychiatrist has sentenced her to another cocktail of drugs,
And the screaming all around her and the pain and the trauma.
She’s yelling for her daddy and crying for her mamma.

And the coat of many men is abandoned on the floor,
The cherry lips are wiped away like blood pouring down a drain,
The spark of a girl in the throes of joy has been smashed into a memory,
The heart of an innocent is protected once again.
And the girl is taking another fucking trip on the lithium train.

An end to the mental anguish and pain.
And end to the pleasures of a screwed up brain.

© Sarah Drury 2019

Hello! There’s a poet in the house!

Hi, My names is Sarah and I am a poet based in Lincolnshire, UK. I love to write. I spend half my life thinking about what I’m going to write and half my life writing it. I also love to write and perform poetry for spoken word and perform regularly at open mic nights, in Hull and in my hometown. See the ‘Speak Out Scunny’ page for more details.

I have bipolar disorder and I’m pretty sure this fires a lot of my creativity and drive. Especially in the manic phases! I’ve written a book about my experiences with mental illness called the Same Game, Link is in the menu. I spent years in psychiatric hospitals during my late twenties and early thirties. The last seven years have been a lot more settled although I do suffer from anxiety and panic attacks.

I have two other books which are devoted to poetry. One is called Is Anybody Normal and is about the gritty realities of life and of being a woman. The other is called Smile and is a collection of bipolar poetry.

The link to my author page is There, you can buy my books from Amazon.