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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!

October 7, 2013 / Sarah Thomasin

Ideation: a poem for sheffield mental health week (@sheffieldmhw)

CONTENT NOTE: This is a poem about suicide ideation. Take care of yourself.

Ideation
People who talk about
Their months of torpid darkness
Unable
To move,
To speak,
To bear their skin,
Blanked out by life,
Are “properly depressed”.

And here I am
I’m fine.
I’m functioning.
I laugh, the laughter’s real
I can feel joy
Almost all the time,

Except that now and then
I look at buildings
Think about the fall
I look at pills
How many would it take?
In my hands
Fabric twists itself
Into a noose.

And it passes.
And I smile.
And carry on.

September 6, 2013 / Sarah Thomasin

Abigail (poem)

This one is about my favourite colleague from my care assistant days. Don’t know where it surfaced from.

She grins at me with pride
As we turn Mr Noakes in his bed. And indicates his pale and bony hips,
His pallid thighs.
No resident gets bedsores on her shift
If she can help it.
She imitates the nurse who trained her: spits the words
“PRESSURE SORE?! Just know you are not fit
To wear this uniform
If any of your patients suffer that!”
Donald, coming back from far away
Smiles, calls her a good lass, then drifts again.
I smooth the covers, put the pillow straight.
Abigail looks at me. I feel the question rising
Before it breaks the surface:
Why don’t I want a husband?
I should come to church with her.
The men she knows are nice, so handsome!
Perhaps I have not been treated right, before.
But in the end, she’s sure I won’t be happy in the life I’ve chosen.
It’s up to her to save me from myself.
I know that she’s repeating what she learned,
She wants so much to help me
Ease the pain she thinks I must be in.
I say that I will come to church next week.
If she will let me find a wife for her.
She chokes with laughter, shakes her head in wonder.
I’m coming to her from so far away.
But she’s a good lass.

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