“so sharp, such fun, so naughty…”

Today was a beautiful day of pink roses and sunshine and small importances. My grandma and I visited Polesden Lacey today, and with the air heavy with bee wings and dusted with pollen- sticky children smiles made of ice cream, we talked about how much she hates Michael Gove and why love does not lead to tragedy. She told me about her gone bunch of 12 red roses; how they grew to 24, replicated on his coffin this month past. She quotes Elizabeth Barrett Browning to me in her familiar brummie accent- “what words can ever speak affection so thrilling and sincere as thine?”; and I can see the streets she played on when her father was in the factories, feel her feet, young again through mine running hard on the pavements.

My grandma teaches me the importance of care- her insistence on my eating lemon cake. I understand the importance of fighting for what we aren’t born with but deserve. We aren’t born knowing how to read, or how to make strawberry jelly or how to grow parsley- but we teach each other, over and over how to spit in the eyes of hate and survive without tearing our hair out. Caring doesn’t have to manifest in big, powerful “STRONG AND STABLE” ways. Caring is talking to strangers about Women’s Institute raffle tickets. It is seeing those around you and wanting to feel with them, regardless of whether they were a Maharajah or not.

Today’s poem is about my granddad, as this poem is my grandma’s favorite that I have written. Long live love xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxo


It was New Year’s Eve- red dragons fringed jade,
gold. The whole Beale clan Dim Sum stuffed
with Ned’s favourite kind of rice. Pandemonium
formed of us scuffedkneed, bath scrubbed Masters and Mistresses:
chasing each other through Pokémon slot machines
and freaky apothecary shops. Mr Po and
old patriarch in cahoots over duck pancakes and wine.
He bade me not taste the pink rice paper petals, for once to be a
good girl. Smirking I gulped lotus shapes whole. One memory
of many relating how grandad tried to be
our kind of king of kings; what men or gods are these?

This must sound barmy from me-
Chumbler, his bolshy arch nemesis Malone.
Grumbling low over his glasses that there’s no need to be obstinate
Those gutwrenching dinnertime fables
of convent girl kisses making me want to puke up grandma’s jelly.
I refuse to recall before or after her, our banana split lady-
us Beale’s are not raised for such lifeless things.

I can conjure a Liverpool street now-
Feeling dandy as you Beatle pleasepleasing your Birmingham Brightstar;
A blonde haired stunner shining strawberriy fields from
your CNA shop window displays. Still steadfast,
still unchangeable after Belgium, now Banstead. Sat
together each morning, night-
spilling cornflakes perusing the Guardian;
competing who can mumblemoan about some sport show the longest,
then snoring asleep
to the Archers.

20 Ashley Drive and its crazy
stoned streetgarden hosted so many childhoods- blue smurf armies and Obelix comics.
Muppets or sooty upstairs and our pillowfight midnight feasts;
those giddykippers, silly boys and girls.
Pog, Ozymandias, Big Al, young Masters Tommy and Ned-
Perhaps it was us who drove you to this-
or our fathers before- butterball, stretch and Nicky-  who knows?

Another New Year’s, another showcase of my stubbornness,
inherited I wonder from where…
Refusing to dance and Old langsyne with you all,
downing champagne with regal indignation,
only 13 year olds and you in your armchair know;
I never understood why you huffed and puffed for my singing,
now, I’ll not have any chance to vex-
or take your hand, the heart that fed or see a face
smiling red- your safe for a while at least. Perhaps
I should have sung that bloody song, held bloomin’ hands;
but all the harm that e’er I’ve done,
Alas, it was to none but me….

Us remaining Beale’s lift up this parting glass-
oh, a beaker full, warm from your wine sauna-cellar;
full of the true, the blushful grapes of claret memory-
your blue bound book of Keats, Peanuts love tokens and your own lost flying father-
Love is letting him win- even though you know you could destroy him;
is having a special song, oh please stay Chrissy’s Teddybear, cause tigers play too rough-
Love is hating to say goodbye.

We lift up the parting glass,
you do not leave this world unseen; we drink with thee, you cannot fade away
into forests dim; Now stretch that low chuckle and kick about where you’re happiest-
the pub, cricket pitch, Sri Lankan trips or your three boy’s company;
Stillness. Pillowed next to grandma each morning…

Grandad, why is your sandwich shaking?



Today wasn’t supposed to be A difficult day, all I had to do was not fuck shit up. OH, BUT FUCK SHIT UP I DID!!!! Picture it: me hot and snotty, hands electrified stones on fire from muscle down to bone. I am crying and shaking and it is so quiet despite central London being packed and this station full of eyes who don’t know what I’m doing.

This posts title is from a song called You by Ta’Shan. It is truly beautiful in my opinion- about not being able to save someone else. I listened to it to calm me down, and I realised no matter what the outcomes of my actions- if I cause pain or happiness regardless of intention, I CAN always help myself. We must help ourselves always.

Panic attacks really suck, but today has not been a failure. I loved myself. I sorted myself out without crying about the fact I was alone. I didn’t feel sorry for myself because, (and listen up loud and clear now) LIFE IS A GIFT SNOTTY NOSES AND ALL!!!!!!!
I can’t share one of my own poems today, (I can tommorow) so I shall share the works of one of my poetry sisters- because loving ourselves and loving each other are all so essentially and intricately linked. Please give hugs more often folks xoxoxoxox

From Eurydice, by H.D


At least I have the flowers of myself, and my thoughts, no god
can take that; I have the fervour of myself for a presence
and my own spirit for light;and my spirit with its loss
knows this; though small against the black,
small against the formless rocks, hell must break before I am lost;
before I am lost, hell must open like a red rose for the dead to pass.


Today I had my first ever aromatherapy massage and it was FUCKING AMAZING!!!! Having my lil worn out bod rubbed down good with almond and lavender seeping into my skin was like growing angel wings… BUT BETTER AS I DIDN’T HAVE TO DIE!!!! Seriously though, the experience and talking with Helen (she was the lovely boss ass witch reconnecting me back to my Chakras and stuff ) really made me understand how important taking care not only of practical shit is, but of your soul which is your body (and not). I find it so hard to relax, but now I have felt (literally) the light.

This lesson reminded me of one of my closest friends, a flower with freckles and an addiction to cheesecake. Daisy AKA TOUGH SIRLOIN. (If you read this- heyyyyy 🙂 ) She is constantly reminding me of the strength that hides in being softer. In not letting ‘haters’ fuck you around- fighting them with scented candles, blankets in the garden and dancing in my bedroom- leanin and boppin out onto the street.

Today’s post is an oldie but a goldie (see what i did there?)- Daisy, we made it through these first two years and I hope we can continue to align our Chakras together


We were earthless, and just
glorious with her sugar hiccups.
Heart pieces laughed and cradled
chocolate mouthfuls of oblivion.
Notice bare shoulders,
two pink gold butterflies. What
could be sweeter?
In absences between fingers
romance keeps its castle, yet
no poems hide with my
cotton thing. Spaceship feet
romp happy as lords,
she knows the hurt in shoe-gazing.
We found what angels see.


Make me a big tall tree

Today has been a day of mixed emotions for sure, like what Anais Nin said about the stars tugging at her hair- my blood has been casting a spell where memories spin with eye of newt and spiced shadows. When my body conjures these mists my mind knows not how to stir in its heavy skull cauldron, there are two decisions to make. Either burn with my lost sisters, those who crumbled and burnt under the bullshit gravity of those around them- toppling like Salem; or I live my life alive. I hop on my broomstick and fucking ride bitches- naked and singing and covered in mud and smiling so big the people below think the ‘O’ of my mouth is the moon.

In other words I go and walk with my blessed best friend Nelson in our heartline fields.


IMG_1119Here is the beautiful boy himself. You can’t see in this sleepy picture, but Nelson is missing one eye. We rescued him a few years a go after he was hit by a car and abandoned- we have both been hurt (though in extremely different ways) by those who were supposed to care.

BUT THERE IS MORE TO LIFE THAN SADNESS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

FOR EXAMPLE- We both love to dance, have bootys that wobble, love long walks and cuddles with each other.

Today I walked with Nelson and we ran together as I was singing so lung-ingly that my mother would make me a big tall tree (I love you Florence)… we are at home where the wild things are, which is where the witches live (my heart is burnt but not buried this time…)

This posts poem is dedicated to my rescuer- Nelson, thank you for keeping my energies pure xoxoxoxoxoxoxox


A chocolate cherry nose;
river wetness shimmering weed-green
catches like apple thuds.
Your chest like the underside of a
small boat in the playing of hugs,
little prayers of my insides.
Your whole weight hurled excited to my feet,
gasping with smiles big as cows
skimming clouds into letters of your
silent words. Yet,
barks don’t translate as desired-
nightmares glean in metal monsters
who just can’t speak dog.
Take my words instead. Chew down to marrow.
A bowl full of mud-kissing boot sounds and purple clover heart beats.
You woof human best- the lifted paw of consolation
in my lap, soft head nudged between knees
shining small spaces alive.
Sunsets call in uncharted fields, throwing
that huge glowing apricot or tennis ball
out amongst sky billows ready to chase after.



When I was younger, I used to get told off constantly for being that eldest bratty child with their finger constantly up their nose, whilst burping some obscenity about my butt at the dinner table and such grotty things. I was a little girl with muddy knees who loved playing in the park after school putting mints into cola bottles just as much as I treasured my pink doll palace and fairy wings.

💖 I am tomboy with fairy wings. 💖

This blog title is close to my heart, as it comes from an anthem written by one of the most powerful fucking queens this world is yet to see. “Tomboy” by Princess Nokia made me see my life as I knew it should be after an ultra long time of really confusing emotions and stress, which not only impacted my mood, but the hearts of my grrrls and boiz too. “My body little, soul heavy…” Listening to this song, suggested by my bestie Brujha has seriously inspired changes:

1.) No more self pity over boys. Love is in the blood. You cannot force it out of you without a knife, and that is no fun.
2.) I am fed up being afraid. Of people/ poetry/ Theresa May/ my mind/ spiders and tight fitting dresses. I am not a burden, and neither are you fellow tomboy- we deserve to shine and express our hopes in this world TOGETHER!!!!!!!

Hence, this blog- a space for me to share my work and connect with others. I want to still submit my poetry/ writing to other places- but here can be my zen. The seed to grow. I want this blog to be a place to explore poetry/feminism/stars/flowers/fruits/sonnets/music ANYTHING that empowers soul to be at that place where you look in the mirror and keep your eyes there without wishing.

I am feeling punk fucking rock today. I feel like I could punch Donald Trump in the face (not that I condone violence) and run around the White house naked (and I would let Trump see me, I wouldn’t punch him in the eye) whilst smoking a big fat doobie with my favourite fake fruit straw hat on.

Therefore, my first post shall not be quiet or meek or have shaved legs. My first post is not afraid of being big. I hope you like this poem- I wrote it combining the lyrics of one of my other favourite songs, “Rebel Girl” by Bikini Kill with an article I read about pro-anorexia chatrooms (https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/i-spent-a-week-in-a-pro-ana-whatsapp-group-talking-to-the-goddess-of-emaciation-876).

Girls should never be afraid of themselves, whatever kind of a girl you are. Because girls can be tomboys and tomboys can be girly and even boys can be girly AND boys can be tomboys WOW- this world is messy but lets try to smile.




Pro-ana revolution: A Cento

That girl thinks she’s the emaciation goddess
of this neighbourhood-    hottest
thigh gap, hip bones
in town or Whatsapp. That girl holds
her head in the toilet bowl, on
Sundays sends full body photographs, pictures
of scales-    I want to be her.

Rebel girl, rebel skeleton

you are the queen, my parents are gone;
(an obsessive and absolute devotion)
I want to look beautiful getting slimmer;
try on your clothes.

When she talks, I hear revolution-
“Refusing to eat and being thin are signs
of true success and strength!”
Her hips.       She walks,
it’s my religion.   The revolution’s coming-
“stomach cramps caused by laxatives are to be
celebrated as death rattle”-
those hated pounds…        In her kiss,
I taste revolution:
I taste dizzy blood.

Rebel skeleton, rebel dream

of driving each other deeper.
(Marie has been fasting for
three days- only water or
cappuccino).   Break
her rules, and you will
be punished.    I know.

That girl, she’s the queen of the neighbourhood-
she is!       I’ve got news for you:
She will force you into the bathroom,
onto your knees. You will stare
into the empty toilet bowl. You will stick
your fingers in your throat and, and and
not without
pain, your food will
come out and she will
hold your hair-
pat your back.
She is my best friend.

over and over-
Tomorrow I’ll try to nothing,
try to compensate the world.
please don’t kick me out
rebel girl,
fat cow.
I deserve all the pain;
not allowed to eat. You are
all so gorgeous! I am just

Rebel girls in love with their illnesses,
the fragility of their minds
and bodies;     the latter
to loathe. Fat pig-
Rebel girl.             just cut.

mortality rates are 4 percent for anorexia nervosa, 3.9 percent for bulimia nervosa, and 5.2 percent for eating disorders according to