This Line.

This Line.

See this line here?

Well, that’s your daughter there.

A mark on my neat, tidy little chart.

See this line here?

That’s proof of all of the things school’s taught her.

See this line here?

That’s your daughter there – on the wrong side of it.

See this line?

That’s where she waits to be fed when it’s time.

This line is where she waits with the rest to be told that it’s cold and it’s time to come in.

And that line there – that’s where she’ll queue with all her knowledge from school

to wait for food stamps to exchange at food banks.

This line – dole queue.

That line – packing boxes of tissues.

This line – for drugs misuse

That line – to collect her uniform, prison issue.

 

See this line here?

The hazy, pink, urine soaked line?

That’s my daughter – there.

The only time I want her life reduced to a little line.

 

 

I’ve got this friend who’s a clown….Hey who hasn’t?

To achieve a handstand, one must engage all, and I mean all of the muscles at once from top to bottom; toes pointed, calves stretched, knees together, thighs tensed, bumcheeks clenched, pelvis tiled in, abs tucked behind belly button, ribs drawn together, shoulders pushing away from the ears whilst the neck keeps them tucked inside […]

via Handstands — Seeking Circus

The Debate.

The Debate.

Do I have to wear a coat today?

The battle line is drawn.

We as parents are about to fall

Into the universal, never-ending, deal-making, mood-breaking, before we can take a day-out we must participate in

The Debate.

The ‘do I have to wear a coat?’ debate.

But it doesn’t look like it’s gonna rain today

But remember – I was too hot yesterday.

OK, if I wear my coat can I take my jumper off?

What about if I just put the hood on and keep my arms out?

If I do wear my coat do I have to zip it up?

You know -The Debate.

I’ve had this debate forever.

I don’t know when It started but it’s time that it depar – fucked off.

It’s not appreciated – just another one of those things that makes you feel exasperated, you’re about to leave the house and you get frustrated in anticipation of it –

The Debate.

The “but it’s not really raining anyway” debate. The “but I get really sweaty on my bike” debate. The “but it’s too heavy to wear in the wind”debate. The “PUT YOUR BLOODY COAT ON WE’RE ALREADY LATE!” debate.

The stiff-arm, dead-weight, toddler-stuff and zip debate.

Why didn’t anybody tell me about this bit?

Debate?

Get Over It. 

Get Over It. 

I took your hand and told you

Through the medium of telepathy

that it’s OK – what you said yesterday.

You don’t even know you’ve said anything

You might have sensed something

A-miss in our usual bliss

But you’ve matched my silence

On the subject.

You said one word -Saggy.

I’ve said a thousand since

Just none of ’em to you.

You’ve had

A letter AND a poem

You just don’t know they exist.

I’m a writer,

That’s how I deal with shit.

I’ve decided that

It’s time to get over it.

So I take your hand as

We walk and I

Give it a squeeze and it fits

In mine like it’s the last one

I’ll ever hold.

So, there it is

I forgive.

I’ve Heard it all Before.

I’ve Heard it all Before.

I’ve heard it all before –

How I’m too tall
For a woman

How my jaw’s too pronounced

My feet are too large

To be feminine

-My haircut makes me look

‘like a Lesbian’.

My tits are small AND saggy

– A double whammy –

My vagina is baggy

Since the kids made their

Appearance, like miracles.

Breast isn’t best

When it comes to aesthetics

They swing low now

No substance since they provided endless sustenance

To two kids

Like two miracles

With darker nipples

Than before, worn-in comforters

Your favourite leather armchair

Soft and supple and loving

A hug in the dark.

I’ve heard it all before

How they fall short

Now they don’t stand up proud and perky,

Now they nuzzle in my armpits involuntarily

Now they look as firm as two souffles left out

On a cold day.

I’ve heard it all before

What they say

But it hurt to hear it

From you.

Screen Addiction.

Screen Addiction.

 

Screen addiction

It’s a young affliction

A life in fiction

Restriction.

Masquerading as freedom

Photoshopped

Into a perfect Instagram shot.

Sold as real life

No strife

Just yachts and what not

The illusion of a level playing field

Privilege filter enabled

Money everywhere but never mentioned

Its crude to brag – plus

It’s not how you sell the bag

To some intoxicated teen wanting to

Live the dream

That you sell

From your cell, phone

By Instagramming your peach

Of an ass covered in sand

From some tropical island

In a yoga stance

Hanging from the arm of an unbelievably

Hairless man.

Straight into my home

You go

Upstairs to my ten year old

Who sits alone

On her phone

With a screen addiction

And lives

A life in fiction.

YouTube tutorials

Take her on a tour how to contour

So she can be like you-

And while she’s there she learns some auto-play lessons

For free too.

No search required its surplus to requirements

Although she didn’t ask you might like to her know –

If you film abuse then it’s just a prank if you have no clothes on then you’re just a skank, If you want to be a pop star then you better get skanky…

Free flesh flaunted for feminism – apparently.

Yeah if you earn £100k a click

I can see how it might be empowering

But not if you’re just some impressionable div.

Then you’re just a vulnerable kid with no clothes on posting pictures on the internet

For every Tom Dick and Dicky to lech on without consent.

Screen shot, on the spot, frozen in time, immortalised, forever mortified.

If you don’t listen to me then you’re open

To scrutiny from

Behind the key

Bored – a warrior

Your body -their property

They become

An authority on how it

Is supposed to look

On how well your eyebrows are plucked

Declare that you’re just asking to get fucked

Some even wish you were dead.

But don’t worry it’s not bullying it’s just trolling

I’m just lolling you up

The internet omits intent

Chill out yolo

Wow your such a blow

Delete

Unfollow

Write a tweet

Straight into my home you creep

Upstairs to my ten year old

Who sits alone

With a screen addiction

And lives a life in fiction.

And I can’t protect her

I’ve let her feast

I’ve forced a famine

I’ve made her earn it

told her she doesn’t deserve it

I’ve used parental filters

But still it infiltrates

I’ve changed passwords

Banned buzz words from searches

I’ve tried abstinence

But you know what their say about fond hearts.

Tried to fill the void with board games

Even dusted the books off

Started drawing cartoons of an afternoon

Took her to a Loch

A real Scottish one

So we could just sit and stop the clocks

For a bit.

Turn the pressure valve off

Release the steam

Forget the unattainable dreams

Shoved down her gullet at every click.

I checked her Google history once

Do you know what she’d asked?

‘What is the meaning of life?’

A real existential dilemma

She’d stared at the void that Google provided

And she filled it

With a real question

asked it for comfort,

For a purpose

For a reason.

Google replied with

Myriad links to things

That make life worth living

Like the latest ‘must have bag’

Fresh off Instagram.