Saturday, August 18, 2018

Aberration performance of Dyke Shoes 17th August 2018


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.


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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

Roots




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

REWILD


Reignite regeneration
Repopulate resistance
Restoring resilience
Replete real recovery

Reduce
Reuse
Recycle
Reinvigorate
Reintegrate
Repair
                        Repeat

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
Shell?



Saturday, February 25, 2017

Fool


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.