Sunday, February 24, 2019


“Swimming at Christmas”
other people cry
with leaves torn from trees
and ice chunks floating by?
But the splat patter
of my over exposed feet
willingly toe the frigid shallows
before I plunge legs, liver and face
below jade pale waves,
heading for shore
absolutely nothing left
except the only gift worth having
beating gloriously in my chest.

Wednesday, February 20, 2019

Chore Wars

Whose chore
who wants more
who ate
who cooked
who sat and looked
who will not do it no matter what
who likes to martyr most
who can’t ask for help
who hates saying please
who cheats
who breezes
who snakes and teases
who wins
who passenger cruises
who ultimately loses?

Tuesday, November 06, 2018

another publication for this poem x

Squared for Ellyott
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.

Wednesday, October 31, 2018

We be Witch

We be Witch
We be old
We be strong, clever, hearty, lusty, bold
Rich and poor
We be many more than before
We be here
We be there now
We be risen from the flame
We be cunt punk
We be women

Saturday, August 18, 2018

dyke shoes

Maj Ikle
Dyke Shoes
Two women: both dykes.One primped up pretty / giving it the bleached blonde / lipsticked, feather bowered girlie.The other is a manshe / a himher / the butch.Nobody stares at us / because there is nothing to see / we are looking like them / camouflagedMe and Bee / my Bee / broad in the coat / gorgeous tall / working class enough / to be proper tough and we need to be/it is 1987 when every single day / one of us dies from AIDS. We will die but the government will do nothing / because we die from ignorance / literally.Anarchy in the UK is getting soft / it’s going off the boiling stage / leaving us at the mercy of tepid ballads / that focus our eyes on the guise of / ‘I just wanna to dance with somebody’ or fill our pockets with ‘loads a money.’
Except we are three million unemployed / nothing to do but watch Jim’ll Fix It on telly / to learn about / love.
Or Blankety Blank to hear jokes about / the blacks and the poofters / lesbians though they say we are alone when we are together / just we two making do / waiting for a real man to give us a proper seeing to.
Seriously.If we had collected a ‘naff tax’ on just that / we could have bought us an island by now / to escape to.
Bee and I are glad we don’t look gay / we are homophobia- free happy this way / passing for strait we become more and more / blatantly sexual so, strange as it sounds Debenhams becomes the site of our  DIY porno
Leaving our clothes in the changing rooms / like Mr. Benn we wander about for hours / dressed like old ladies in corsets, hats, or wigs. Or we don dog collars and drop to all fours / playing puppy who’ll fetch / along shop corridors. Nobody bothers usNobody is paid enough to care / if we go Rocky III in sportswear / or if Bee orders a milky coffee in a silk suit / from menswear first floor / and I lay across her lap /the best example of St. Trinian’s flirtery / until the women’s toilets call.
Or  we lock ourselves into British library reading rooms / refusing when asked to come out quietly / until they fetch the key and we storm out imperious / shouting “where’s the loo?” But the truth is every gap between parked cars / is our personal pissoir. The scrawls on the dyke toilet walls tell us / ‘Lesbians are fucking everywhere,’ / so Bee and I try to go there / no graveyard or alley escapes our lewdliness / and we are not just fingers wet / we throat clenching some / whole hand fisting / pushing heads between legs / learning how only women come.
Suddenly we capture the camera’s stare / Love Bites, by Della Grace / is our pretend family album / we become a gang in there / sexing each other up / at fake weddings with whips / rattling our big fat bike chains and sticking out mucky rubber dicks. Then we were on TV / penetrating the nations living rooms where the country eat their tea / so now even Margaret Thatcher can see us / frigging in the rigging / there was fuck all else to do.
Pop stars like Madonna and Sinead O’Connor / want people to think they might be dykey / we have made the zeitgeist / they look more like us than we do / as lesbian chic floods the mainstream. Cheek more than chic though / prostituting us worse than pimps do / never giving us a single penny / of the money / do you?
I lie / they do pay in a way / you could say I lived off / the wages I was due / three pounds a day / all I had to do was queue / but you better not be late / because they could make you worse than wait. So unlike my foreign girl sisters / I didn’t have to do hand jobs / in the peep shows of Soho / still it was not enough to keep me out / of toe curling second hand shoes / and that shit don’t go.
At 21 / shoes don’t really bother anyone / we live in skin / ours and other animals’ / searched and found our sister kin / gathered together all other ones / that didn’t fit in. Together we made place into space / gave ourselves permission to play / any game any way / because finally we were in / Bee and me belonging / to a dyke sex family / we started spreading the love we felt / financially / socially / sexually / by showing each other our cunts / lips / clits / skin colour / we were pleasing ourselves and one another / by spreading our legs widely.
And / finding that we were
All of us the same
All of us different
All of us ‘proud of it’ Dyke Queens / resisting the shame regime
By coming fucking together.

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.