Lover

Here is another new poem, inspired by a recent visit to the psychiatric unit at Llandough Hospital, Cardiff.

Lover

Your mind, like blown glass,
Has cracked.

They have taped up
What they can. Only a few
Fragments are missing.

In the tea room,
An older woman in tight jeans brags about how
You give her bear hugs.

In the hallway, a girl

Is pulling herself toward the door,
On the floor. Ragdoll thin,
Her hair streams behind her
Like a wedding veil.

You are bearded. A young prince.
Dandruff confettis your shoulders
As you hold court.

You are popular here.
It is Sunday, and I am your fifth visitor.

You tell me you love me.
You want to show me your poems but
They are in the older woman’s room.

I see two people I know:
A sex offender I taught to write haiku.
A well-to-do woman
I need to invoice for work.

You put sugar in my coffee,
Forgetting that I do not
Take it.

You kiss me. I kiss back.
I am let out and walk past traffic,
Keep walking until
I don’t know where I am.

You drink tea. Set up pieces
On a board game
You do not know how to play.

Bedroom Tax protest/poem

Today I took part in a protest outside the office of LibDem's Jenny Willott, after the MP decided to continue supporting the bedroom tax in the face of opposition from the people she is supposed to represent. I had been asked to write a poem about the fact that Jenny had ignored requests from concerned citizens to talk about this, instead choosing to spend time on the much-more important issue of - rubbish. Yes, that's right - apparently the black bags outside our homes, and their collection, is far more important to Jenny than the people currently losing their homes, and being dumped outside like rubbish themselves!

In the end, Jenny did not turn up to her own office, and cancelled her usual Friday surgery. With families being forced to sell furniture to pay the tax, many falling into debt, and still others facing threats of eviction (if they haven't been evicted already), it seemed both cold and cowardly for the MP not to turn up to meet us today. The police were there, as usual, and were very polite and helpful indeed - they are constituents too, after all. This bedroom tax is hitting many of us, and it's hitting hard. And how is Jenny sleeping at night? Well, apparently, very well, as it is a well-known fact that the MP bought an extremely expensive four-poster bed on her expense account - almost £1,800 of taxpayers' money in total, on the bed, mattress, matching curtains, and home delivery.

So... Keep fighting the fight, good people! Picture and full poem below x

Bedroom tax, here’s the facts

People made homeless

Bedroom tax, just like trash

You can’t ignore us

Bedroom tax, don’t have stacks,

We can’t afford it

Our hearts and homes broken

But you just ignored it

Here is the full poem, it should be read in order of columns (1,2,3...). Making columns on Blogger is an absolute pain, so please forgive the fact the type isn't quite straight here... Enjoy!

Mab v Scrunchies

Look. I've got nothing against Scrunchies, okay. For those of you who have seen my Facebook posts... All I am saying is that a cheapo bit of string with some tatty material wrapped round it should NOT be more popular than me. I have performed over 650 times in the past 6 years! I bring smiles and delight (and slight drunken flirtiness) wherever I go! I do charity events, I do workshops in the local community, I've worked in various schools and prisons. My whole life is dedicated to sharing and inspiring a love of the spoken and written word. What the hell did Scrunchies ever do???

As far as I can see, all they do do is wrap their smug, crap-patterned selves around people's already-dead hair strands. BIG DEAL!!! I could do that, y'know. you don't need an MA (what like I've got) for that!! Scrunchies seem a bit smug about it all, to be honest. Are their hearts really in the right place? Do they care about their local communities? Or are they just about showing off, with all their tartan and furry bits and sequins and that? All their 'look what I can do' attichood, like fat little crowns on the top of young girls' (and sometimes old ladies') heads???

I mean, even if Scrunchies ARE 'the real deal', and feel they are doing some good in the world, why should they be more popular than my good self, and have more FB likes on their fan page than moi? Is it really anything to do with their usefulness? Or is it more to do with THIS:

Yeah, that's right. A young, half-naked girl showing off her 'bits and bobs' while wearing Scrunchies. Like a sexed-up version of the Victorian Little Match Girl, innit? What is she REALLY selling here? Eh? EH????

(Wish I had legs like that, mind.... *Sigh*!)

Anyway, I think this slightly disturbing, overly-young-girl imagery just proves what Scrunchies are really all about. So - liking their page MAKES YOU A DISGUSTING PERVERT!! Please unlike it now. Liking MY page - HERE - makes you a GOOD AND HONEST (and therefore sexually attractive) PERSON! Please like it now.

Down with Scrunchies! Up with moral integrity!!!

YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO !!!!!!!

https://www.facebook.com/mabjones
https://twitter.com/mabjones

NaPoWriMo - Poem 1 - Under Wraps

Under Wraps

From a young age, my tits gave me trouble.
Got me pinned by girls in the shitter as they
Inspected those things they hadnt yet got.

Made that man on the French tube slide
His hand onto mine, escargot eyes sliming
A trail over my pink sweater, me just eleven.

Impinged into the rear view mirror of a chap
Who happened by the motorway, that time;
Who licked his lips when I asked why and what

He wanted. Opened his car flaps and came
Towards me. And I ran away,
Into a teenagehood of hiding, myself and

These things: bubs, boobs, baps.
Twin bumps I only saw through the target eyes
Of others. And which from that last day

I kept, like the rest of me, hidden; under wraps.

First Flag

that first dragon was
a ribbon of blood;

that first grass was
a river of mud;

that first sky
was a streak of spit;

that first flag
was a wound just split;

the first men who hauled it
tore it out their gaping hearts;

the first wives who wore it
bore it from their just-raped parts;

the bastard child
of love and hate

that first flag
was hard as slate

a kite's sharp beak

a harp's wild shriek

a brittle tongue

a battle won -

like coal it burned
it had no choice

that flag was birthed
because no voice

was ours

those powers

we had, forgotten

that first flag
took what was rotten

and burned it
spurned it
spun it into this:

first flag
our flag

wrongs righted by its fist.

Cardiff Song

He was from Ely and ‘er from Pontcanna
She lived wiv ‘er mum, and him wiv his nanna
Nowhere tuh go so they went to the park
The grass was so green and he had a full bag
Skin up, block up, feel up, knock up
But she was firteen so he went to the lock up

I likes you like
I dunno why
Yuh face aint tha’ good
Bu’ the rest is urrigh’

She wore ‘er skirts right up tuh yur
Real leather boots and white fake fur
Clothes from Primark, gold from Argos
Orange foundation and too much lipgloss
Little white thong and black push-up bra
And she found love each night standing outside the Spar

I likes you like
You knows I do
Last week I loved ‘er
But now I loves you

She liked a Chinese, bur he liked a curry
She said less get married, he said woss the ‘urry
She patted ‘er guts, I’m expectin’ she said
He fought of ‘er dad, next week they was wed
Seven munfs later he gorruh surprise
The baby was fine, but ir ‘ad Chinese eyes


I likes you like
I don’ like yuh sister
You’re my true love
I swear I ain’t kissed ‘er

Their eyes met ‘cross a crowded chippy
He played wiv his phone, she pur on some lippy
She ordered a sausage, he asked fur two cones
They knew they was cousins, their last names was Jones
They started tuh date, they was mad fur each uvvuh
And found out too late that they ‘ad the same muvvuh

I likes you like
I don’ do lying
I didn’t go wiv ‘er
So bloody stop cryin’

Bonfire Night Poem

Remember remember the 5th of November
Gunpowder treason and plot
Remember remember each parliament member
And all of the money he's got
Remember the commons so plush that they sit in
More comfy than our common homes
Remember the shiny white toilets they shit in
Remember who cleans out the bowls
Remember their parties, remember their do’s
Remember who waits at their table
See their posh clothing and expensive shoes
Who pays for that designer label?
Remember the exotic trips that they take
And how you stay home cos youre poor
Remember remember the laws that they make
And who those twats make the laws for
Remember the taxes you pay like a fool
Remember the wages they get
Who put their children in posh public school?
And who made ours illiterate
Remember remember their butlers and maids
Remember their nannys and cooks
Remember remember how much you are paid
And how much we give to these crooks
Remember their limo remember their yacht
Remember how you take the bus
Remember that nice country home that they’ve got
Where are the villas for us?
Remember the homeless folk out on the streets
Remember their Westminster flats
See them in the commons sat fat in their seats
And us lot all out here like rats
Remember your bills, remember your debt
Youll be paying it off til you die
You slave away but they never sweat
Except when theyre telling a lie
Remember those fuckers who pay to get sucked
By working class women and men
Remember us suckers who keep getting fucked
Over and over by them
I swear on the bonfire we shouldn’t be burning
Guy Fawkes but these parliament pricks
It’s the government these days that needs overturning
Who’s tired of their sly little tricks?
In that case Im starting a brand new tradition
It’s Gordon on Wednesday we’ll burn!
“Penny for the Brown”’ll be our new rendition
And every penny I earn
Will go into planning the next revolution
Gunpowder treason and plot
These parliaiment fuckers are human pollution
I hope to blow up the whole lot

PC World

It isn’t her hormones that made her like that
It was Kipling, Kentucky, McVitie and Greggs
But we’re not sposed to say that the woman is fat
Tho there’s less on my body than one of her legs
We have to say curvy or fuller in figure
We can’t say humungous we have to say bigger

Cos this is – PC World

It isn’t her thyroid or one of her cells
It’s simply the fact that she eats like a pig
12 curries a day is the reason she smells
8 burgers at once explains why she’s so big
But the way things are now we can’t just tell her straight
That her 5 chins are thanks to the 5 cows she ate

Cos this is – PC World

Her arms are like jellied hams, legs are like porks
Her breasts are so huge that they rest on her knees
Her facial fat shakes like a quake when she talks
Her arse sucks your hand like frogspawn if you squeeze
She needs the damn truth but we tell polite lies
She’s too bloody fat but we say she’s outsize
And so she’ll keep eating like that, ‘til she dies

Thanks to – PC World

The Ballad of Angharad

Once upon a time there lived a young girl
A princess although she was raised as a pauper
Born into dirt but really a pearl
A diamond, a gem, a blue-blooded daughter
Descended from princes whose reign is now dead
But of course no-one knew that this girl was a treasure
As a baby the princess was dropped on her head
As she grew men who knew her IQ was low measure
Used the young girl for their own secret pleasure

She put the cum into Cymru all right
A few blokes each day and a few more each night
A Welsh Cinderella who’d let any fella
Try her for size if the payment was right

Carbuncled uncles and toad-featured teachers
Misused Angharad, this young girl so precious
Because she was simple these perverted creatures
Bribed her with Mars Bars and packs of Refreshers
And tho it was seedy, the young girl was greedy
She liked getting sweets in return for her use
Sweets turned to cash as the blokes got more needy
They felt if they paid then it wasn’t abuse
Not much, being tight, but it kept the girl loose

She put the cum into Cymru okay
A few blokes each night and a few more each day
A Cardiff born beauty who’d give all her booty
To any old beast who both asked and could pay

She should have grown up into a princess
Instead she was selling herself on the streets
She would undress for a tenner or less
Sixteen but she’d been on a million back seats
Her low IQ gave her a baby-like smile
Which most of her clients found very disarming
The most popular girl on the Riverside mile
She made every customer feel like Prince Charming
Except that she screwed at a rate quite alarming

She put the cum into Cymru its true
There wasn’t much else that the poor girl could do
A celtic snow white who wasn’t quite right
In the head though in bed she still knew what to do

In stories a princess will often get wed
And live happily ever after
But this one was dropped on her head as I said
Her tale ends in tears not laughter
Pure-bred Angharad, unread, underfed
Caught a disease in some sick fucker’s bed
It spread, now she’s dead
And she has gone to the hereafter
So, unhappily, you’ll never shaft ‘er.

Beautiful Girl

People supposes that under her clotheses
This beautiful girl has a body like Venus

What no-one knows is that under her clotheses
This beautiful girl has a very large penis

They look at her from top of head down to toeses
They see this great swell of two bosoms like roses
They note her fine boneses and feminine poses
And think: ‘what a beautiful girl’

But if she don’t shave for a month then her nose is
Choked up with hairs, she is bearded like Moses
And if she uncloses her legs then her hose is
Proof, she’s no beautiful girl

But people supposes on clotheses and poses
Their ideas are based on our outer regalia

What the girl knows but will never expose is
The fact that down there she has male genitalia

On external looks people make diagnosis
Their eyes see some things and their mind then imposes
An idea on which it then somehow closes
And which it will never unfurl

And if this is true, men, then what I propose is
Don’t feel obliged to wear doublets and hoses
If you want to oppose this, wear the right clotheses
You can be a beautiful girl

Oh, I Wish I'd Looked After Me Tits!

Maybe not by Pam Ayres…

Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits,
Those two great front wobbly bits,
All the bad bras I chose,
And the ill-fitting clothes,
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits.

I wish I’d been that much more able,
When me front bits was firm, like, and stable,
To choose a twin cuppin’,
To hold me boobs up in,
That were wired up with big bits o’ cable.

When I think of the brassieres I wore,
That made both me bosoms feel sore,
They was either too tight,
Or too loose, like, and slight,
But I didn’t care – I could score!

Me mother she told me no end,
“Don’t you follow that lacy bra trend!”
I was young then and gormless,
Me bras was all formless,
I never had much time to spend.

Oh I slung cloth around em alright,
But I chose things that didn’t fit right,
The lace scraps I bought,
Didn’t give much support,
But I didn’t mind, in the night.

Me mother’s advice did I spurn;
Too late, oh, too late did I learn,
If I’d chosen a brassiere
That looked much less jazzier,
Me boobs now would be much more firm,

Now I lays in me bed and each breast
Do slope down each side of me chest;
They wobbles and jiggles,
Like fat worms they wiggles,
And sits on me knees when I rest.

How I laughed at me mother’s front bits!
Now it’s mine that flop down when I sits.
Me proud, pointed shooters
Now two flabby hooters -
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me tits!

Things Not To Do If You Have A Tendency Towards Depression

(1) DON'T stay at home, on your own, on xmas day, watching 'The Pianist' and reading 'The Big Book of Holocaust Poetry' *holds up 'Big Book of Holocaust Poetry'*

(2) DON'T eat so many Freddo bars that you start referring to him as if he is an actual person and people think you finally have a new boyfriend and haven't turned lesbo like they thought.

(3) DON'T visit your mother too often, especially if she is a fake-blonde, foul-mouthed, tough-titted, rollie-smokin', my-head-master-at-school-fucking, milkman-flashing, weetabix-and-kipper-smelling, can't-even-read, skanky gyppo Cardiffite slut.

(4) DO stop taking that box of Ritz crackers to bed with you. Some women wake up lying next to attractive men. Some women wake up lying next to crumbs. Try to be the former, rather than the latter.

(5) DON'T try and figure out which of your "uncles" is your real dad. Chances are it's also the one who felt you up when you were 12.

(6) DO eat enough leafy green vegetables, such as kale, broccoli, and spinach. Lack of essential B vitamins can make you feel ever so blue!

(7) DON'T go in front of a microphone and tell people about your life cos 5 hours later you will feel sick and embarassed and disgusted and end up punching your own arms in hopeless despair and give yourself a huge bruise *holds out arm to reveal huge bruise*. And if you show that bruise to the audience, you'll feel even fucking worse.

(8) DO go to comedy clubs. Laughter is good for the soul!

(9) DON'T go to comedy clubs if you are a fat, jew-looking woman with nothing to talk about except your bad eating habits, lack of success with men, and fact that your mum is a nasty chav cunt who won't tell you who your real dad is.

(10) Smile! Smile, when your heart is breaking... Smile, even though it's aching... Even if you're a secret alcoholic self-harmer currently taking anti-depressants, when you meet other people, just - smile.

Blog The First

First blog demands: extraordinary! Momentous!! Fantabulous!!!

First blog is precursor of all blogs to come, it is the mother and the father, the Adam and the Eve, the Alpha, the Originator, in the beginning were these Words... All future blogs are progeny of this first and, therefore, the first has got to be something - amazing. Like - really super-dooper....

Unfortunately, I live in Wails, armpit of the earth: and today is a day as grey and glamour-less as an old man's scants... This in turn affects the affectation I call "personality", and makes me feel all drab, and droopy, and durrrrr...

I am a performance poet, living in the capital shitty of Cardiff, and "on stage" I seem to breathe fire, of a sort (or I try to)... Away from my friend Mic I am as colourless as a drool of spit. I sit in the office, now, writing this away from the terse glare of boss-woman's eyes, computer thankfully at "an angle"... At 11pm I will drink a coffee with "the girls" and we will ogle Sandwich Man's slightly flabby rear end... At 1pm, I will enter the Break-Out Room, therein to eat and sip at another machine-spewed caffeinated drink... At 5pm, Fred Flintstone-style, I will yabba-dabba do outta the office and away, home, to my little flat-packed-furniture-filled flat, flat-screen TV, flat little existence, in fact...

Yes, I hate working in an office!! I want to be a free bohemian spirit, writing in woods and wandering lonely as a raincloud...

The only plus, is, I get to use office time/facilities to write things, including this all-important Blog The First. Hopefully future blogs, like future generations, will be more upbeat and age-of-aquarius-ish....

Nice to (not) meet you, anyways.

Mab x x x