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May 28, 2014 / Sarah Thomasin


I can’t stop thinking
about Amanda

I haven’t seen her since 1995

She might not even be alive but

I can’t stop thinking about her

Sun streaked blonde hair and

Cold pale blue eyes

School uniform that looked like

A school uniform you’d wear

To a school disco themed club night.

Not an actual school disco.

Or an actual school.

Unless it was North Yorkshire in 1993 and you were the nearest thing for miles to cool

And I see the scorn in her cold pale blue perfectly made up eyes

The up-and-down appraisal

Of my wrong length skirt and my wrong length hair and my wrong height shoes and my wrong size boobs and the wrong, wrong, wrong expression on my face

And I brace

For the judgement

As she says

You’re gormy

And immediately my brain says

Yes well actually she’s right even though SHE probably means gormless because gormless means there’s nothing going on behind the eyes and with me it’s that there’s too much going on behind my eyes and none of it can come out and none of it can be said because even if even if even if it didn’t come out all wrong and even if it didn’t trip up over my tongue on the way out if I talked back to Amanda or Joanne or Lisa or Chantelle or any of them I’d be dead.

And I realise my face is doing it again.

Deer in headlights.

Dazed and confused.

Any potential comeback drowned in verbal vomit that I’m somehow managing to choke back.

And I look gormy.

And so when you see me and you say something nice or something funny or something clever or something mean and I just stand and stare,

And you start to wonder whether

I like you

Or know you

Or have even realised that you’re there

It’s because potential replies that might sound stupid are being filtered out and a tangent has to be followed up, and I’m managing my self-doubt and then I’m realising I left the silence too long and then I’m taking stock of my life and realising how much I’ve got wrong and then I’m not here at all;

I’m in a technology lesson in North Yorkshire in 1993

Just Amanda and me

And she’s looking me up and down

With her perfect pale cold blue eyes

As she says

You’re Gormy.

May 8, 2014 / Sarah Thomasin

Yes I’m aware of the irony of putting this poem on a blog.

Look. I don’t want to rant any more.

My fists have unclenched

All my placards have dropped to the floor.

Because it doesn’t matter how many times I say it

I’ll be a broken record no matter how you play it.

Cause it’s me:

Good old feminist rant poet.

Always good for some fire in the belly

What will it be today,

Lack of representation on telly?

Got any good rhymes for sexual harassment Sarah?

No? Well then , maybe assault?

Come on, tell us all about who is at fault.

So you can all sit and applaud it

When I call for diversity audit

When I point out again and again that the bill is all straight cis white men.

If I’m cross enough next time I might get a 10!

But I’m so sick of slamming

Of ramming my point down your throat

Putting my ideology up to the vote

If you need me to tell you that sexism’s real

And you’d really prefer me to do it in rhyme

Then quite frankly

I know that I’m wasting my time.

Because fuck this culture of righteous complaining

And uploading my rage just to be entertaining

I won’t be your inspirational

Instant gratificational

Video shared on a wall.

I don’t want to be liked, shared, reblogged or reposted at all.

If you need to be told that oppression is bad

That it’s everyone’s duty to fight.

Then another damn poem from me won’t put anything right.

February 10, 2014 / Sarah Thomasin

Accumulation: #LGBT #Poem

The little pricks keep pricking

And it always seems to hurt

Every time you’re not acknowledged

Or you’re looked at like you’re dirt

And each one is very tiny:

Really nothing on its own

But the little pricks keep pricking

Till they pierce you to the bone.

Every kid who calls you names

And every teacher who ignores it

Every time that you complain

And they inform you that you cause it

Every boss who says they’d rather

That you kept it very quiet

Every mother, every father

Who implores you to deny it.

And the little pricks keep pricking

And it’s harder every day

And that voice inside keeps wishing

That it all would go away

And the little pricks keep pricking

At the core of what you are

And some little pricks have gone

And smashed the windows of your car.

Every time that what you do

Is labelled sordid on TV

And your neighbours look at you

And then you wonder what they see.

Every time the name they’ve given you

Is splashed across the news

As the victim or the villain:

They’re the roles you’ve got to choose

And the little pricks keep pricking

And you cannot stand the pain

And last week you got a kicking

Walking home at night – again.

When you look at your reflection

And you think you look ‘too queer’

And you wish you had protection

From the hatred and the fear.

And you call to log the hate crime

And you ask them what to do

Once again you get the answer

That the problem here is you

And you sign another letter

And another damn petition

And you hope it’s getting better

For the folks in your position

Then you hear they’re being shot at

And they’re losing all their rights

You feel bad for feeling got at

But you’ve lost the will to fight

Then your allies see you falling

And they want to help you out

But they cannot hear you calling

And they shudder when you shout

For they do not see damage

Of a thousand tiny nicks

And the best that they can manage

Is “Ignore the little pricks”.

January 27, 2014 / Sarah Thomasin

Black Triangle – Holocaust Memorial Day poem

You hated us too much to even name us:
Those cogs who would not fit in your machine.
We were not worth the time it took to shame us
Far better we should live and die unseen.

The women who would rather love each other
Than stay home breeding soldiers for the state.
Who saw themselves as something more than “mother”
The ones with minds unmouldable by hate.

The ones you couldn’t use for manual labour
The ones who didn’t – couldn’t – follow rules
The village drunk, the mad, reclusive neighbour.
The children whom you labeled dolts and fools.

Defining us would be like recognition
A name would mean allowing us to speak
You never dared to give us that permission:
You knew that we were anything but weak.

January 14, 2014 / Sarah Thomasin

Compliments – poem

You give me burning coal,
Press embers to my face
Smiling, you’re sure I will be comforted.

I grit my teeth and try
To match you smile for smile
Skin searing, I return your gifts with force.

And then you think, how rude
We only thought we’d warm her
With something she could hold chapped hands out to

When doubt bites coldly;
But how ungraciously
She throws our kindness back into our faces!

You all misunderstand:
I have no hearth to place your presents in
I try to wear the coals like gems
Lips stretched, eyes tight, I grin my painful thanks.

October 16, 2013 / Sarah Thomasin

A Universal Conspiracy

How can you tell me you tell me the truth about space?
It’s a disgrace how
You lie to my face
I really don’t know how much more I can take
I know that your figures and facts are all fake
So just make no mistake
That I’m on to you
I know what you want to do
You want to distract
From the facts
Keep illusions intact
Think you can satisfy our curiosity
With some blurry desert snaps and call them mars and not expect some animosity?
No we’ve all known the truth
Since our earliest youth
This pretense that you’re all keeping up is uncouth
There’s footage if you look for it that can prove
That the moon landings never happened
Back in 1969
And this may come as a shock –it
Wasnt til 1980
That mister spoon flew in his rocket
To button moon
Across blanket sky
Now he’s been erased from the textbooks, forgotten, that cool little pioneer guy
It’s wrong corrupt and it’s rotten the whole bloody system’s a lie.
Is there liquid on mars?
Well yeah there’s caramel in the chocolate bars
But we’re being kept out of the loop
about the hollow planet full of green soup
the government want to hang us
Out to dry
Tell my why
They must lie
About our secret alien rulers: the clangers?
Who look down on us from on high?
All this stuff about little greem men? You must think we’re all dotty, you must!
The only alien life form that’s contacted earth was a spotty man with a bag of magic dust
I mean, bubbling blancmange! this ridiculous melange of half truths about UFOs
The flying object has been identified as superted’s spaceship
And everyone knows
That the truth will come out in the end
So check wikileaks soon
because I’ve got some emails to send
About what really happened
Between an ordinary teddybear
and his extraordinary friend.

October 11, 2013 / Sarah Thomasin

Who, Me?

When they had the special program on the telly just to tell us
Who’d be next to ride the Tardis I admit it: I was jealous
I wasn’t really bothered who the Doctor was, you see
I had inside information: yes, I knew it wasn’t me.

There’s been ten regenerations
And they’ve all of them been male.
Each new actor brining something quite unique into the tale
But while time travel seems plausible
Just hear the fanboys whinge
When you ask them what’d happen if their hero had a minge.

Now I don’t begrudge Capaldi, (he’s a lucky little fucker,)
But to me he’s still Caecilius mixed up with Malcolm Tucker.
And a higher profile actor in the role would seem to be
Quite a risky proposition. They’d be better off with me.

Would a genderflipping Timelord really stretch the realms of reason?
After all those strange adventures would this plot twist be such treason?
If the critics call it silly, say it’s gimmickry, well fine
Why should that upset the writing team who brought the world K-9?

I can be unhinged and manic, I can rock a pinstripe suit
I can turn all introverted and quite sinister to boot.
With a sonic in my pocket all my enemies would flee
It’s my turn to take the Tardis… maybe next time they’ll pick me!


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