Monday, April 02, 2018

Adverse Childhood Experiences are called ACE's

YOU have the ability
to see and care fully about me
spend time to understand
this complex A.B.C
Adversity molding
Belief into Consequence
the build up to
an ace high hand.

It starts with crumbs
jumbled rushing nonsenses of
being unable to breathe
like bees stuck in a bottle
we can hurt anyone.

Some issues are obvious
no-food poverty
lack of personnel put into
the field of our mental healthiness but
others are sticky batons handed down
past pain emerging into view.

Red is our colour to warn you
aggressive people can seem handy
when horror has already hung out here
we know what we need but
your help could be easier to get
where is our transport or
people freed
to drive us to safety
I stay covered till I’m ready
hoods offer protection
keeping cwl.

Show us what good people do
when they uncover difficulty
form a circle smiling around me
listen as a super skill
ask our advice make us feel tall
If you care to proper help
until you understand
how I'm hungry and
whose job it is to feed me.

Wonder what stirs us up
take a breath from talking down
try trusting me to be responsible
ask 'whats wrong?"
if you open me up to see what’s inside
don’t then walk away
with your insight prize
to let me down again
or start some project kids actually like
then watch the funding leak away
because we can't mix with babies
we need decent mirrors to look in
we are elegant creatures
with a dark side
forget it at your perygl
we are you too.

You want me to socialise
but how can that go well
when I’m bullied and unsupported
lonely drinkin n smoking
sexing to get hugs
going down far too low
don’t you dare patronise me
I’ve been a carer since I was tiny
speak a real language
or listen harder if you want
to hear how to be worthy.

Resilience is
being able to bounce up
from the basement floor
means enough people
around the trampoline
a catch me community
who don’t let me fall
those I can depend on
show up when I call
cheer when I score
my overarching goal.

I need enough of you to
see down the barrel of my gun
and still call me son
care about the real me socially
when I tell you that I hate widely
all authority and bloody revision
but what I really mean is
I need to see my dad when he's away
because of me in prison
can you honestly listen
really hear
I’m silent retreating
not even sure
whose feeding hand I've bitten.

No body left behind
Our kids, our future, every, One.

Saturday, February 03, 2018


Do we belong to our birthdays / planets grooving to choreograph fate

To the women who baked us / diligently discriminating between amino codes

Were we born in a big bang accident / free to jostle and yearn towards superhuman form

Or did we just land lucky/ first on a spot to draw swords to defend our home?

Sunday, January 07, 2018

You Can't Kill The Spirit. by Majikle

From under muddy plastic sheeting
tenting over a sapling tree
Jo Freemantle can see
anxious bailiffs and
their nuclear stiff ballistics’
cynical stare

Like a mountain
she will lay limp to stop them
still they will drag her bodily
shred the women’s peace camp
every single rain or shine day
for the twelve years she is there

‘Greenham common women’ cursed on telly
for leaving their babies at home
disgracing themselves tied to fences
fingers entwined being crazy
choiring antidotes to war
like vital thrushes

With silty firepit sisterkin
even now at 73
Jo changes everything
Indigo-Line Mudgoddess
a rainbow name to refuse
to be her father’s daughter

She says that houses don’t need wives
but the world needs women
to reveal Emperor nudity
old and strong like a mountain
she goes on and on
and on

Sunday, June 25, 2017


Reignite regeneration
Repopulate resistance
Restoring resilience
Replete real recovery


Saturday, April 01, 2017

We Gave Birth to a Minotaur

So who will be our judge in hell?
When the wealth of Syrian women are
Over millennia, brutally forced into the sea
By insignificant men who pray for balls as big as bulls
And sell Europa’s cunt fruit for freedoms
They never could learn how to enjoy.

Even the honeyed growth that comes from rape
Can never still my rage
How can it be enough to carry a thread?
Through this labyrinthine
Descending slippery

Saturday, February 25, 2017


I was bullied as a child
Taunted with names as so many are
But I learned to bully back
Learned the sweet thrill
Of pinching soft nipples too hard

I grew with the power to wound
Attractive to the weak and the teary
I loved myself powerful and
It seemed I was loved in return
But some people still spurned me

Why those others attracted me
More than those who liked me
I could not fathom
A perverse wanting of what you’ve not got
Or perhaps in your heart you just know

The self-assured ran from my company
They could see how I always talked about me
How I never admitted to any flaw
How I could never let my hair down
And just naked be me.

Finally I was forced to explore
That the discerning knew more than I did
Knew what I was up to, the tricks
Saw through the gifts and cajolery
Were too wise for spider lies

So I let it go and with it went
All the glorious swag my blag had bought
I had to learn to simply be nice
To be fussy in choosing friends
To be only easily hurt

Now when people try to bully me
I bare my teeth, but I understand
Why they chose this niche
That the journey home is hard and long and often cold
But every fighting dog, one day gets old.

Tuesday, February 21, 2017


Things have changed since
Van Limburgstirumplein last saw us
Cycling around her
I sit to sip overpriced coffee
Hoping I can still see
Your cheeks puff
Up front on a giant homemade bike
Me with my
Over stuffed rucksack
Dangling from the back
Two foreign girls
Escaping our governments
Looking for life lasting love
And finding it
In each other’s
Secret world faces
Ellyott, my lover is
Several inches shorter than even me
But three times as strong
Astute jockey always pushing through
What else can a dyke woman do?
Over tram tracks
Careful never to get stuck
The number ten
To Javaplein
Which too has been
Reclaimed from the squatters
Renovated and rebranded
Reblended into Amsterdam green
These days’ dykes are not so strange
Everybody is somewhere
On the queer spectrum range
Integration is the new normal
As everyone assimilates our fists
And to be fair our old enemy capitalism
Never needed homophobia as an excuse
To kick anyone where it hurts most
We, like the Moroccans have been priced out
Way beyond the railway tracks
Unless we have money
When we are welcome
To spend in the sunset lit square
Nice bikes sitting upright tidy in their racks
Adorn the advertising pumping station
As if it has always been
Like this there
Not filled with junkies their gums burned bare
The Kemperstraat stands far too quiet
Without her graffiti minded sluts
Near the Avondwinkel in
Need of more than
A lick of paint
The number of bridges getting smaller
As the city council carts
All homeless looking damaged bikes away
The cries of freedom from restraint
Have all grown faint
But the pigeons circle
The square indifferently
Just the same