WASHPOPPINNN!!!!

HELLO INTERNET, LONG TIME NO SEE!!!!!

I have returned after a long hiatus finishing my undergraduate degree to now pursue the infinite love of poetry to it’s lair… and the road I’m using through today’s brambles and briars was weaved with a fake pair of tits and voice screaming out for the schmoneys; cause’ I’m the bitch they love to hate, the bitch they hate to love.

Yes- Cardi B is poetry. She may seem a somewhat rough-edged muse, but what else is poetry written for if not rude survival; good poetry is not for the faint of heart, and neither is Cardi B’s rapping. She inspires the fuck out of me. As, despite all the inevitable horrid comments made about her body and person – whether as stripper, or now-  despite the potential for silence and conformity and blind-eyed chasing for money, Cardi decided to try for something better. Horniness for money isn’t her greatest charm; though I do love the idea of her shaking her beautiful ass in front of boring men and taking all their dollar, but the sustained capacity she displays for kindness.

YES I KNOW SHE BECAME FAMOUS FOR BEING LOUD AND VOILENT AND PETTY ON REALITY TV AND VINES- but don’t we all have to be petty to get along? And every one can grow and change. Plus, to be fair- her wild eyed flaring up is pretty cathartic to watch for me; if only I could cuss all the people in life who deserve it like she can. I thank you Cardi: for being funny with no make-up on and signing about love with her rapper zaddy. For getting pregnant and still playing the Coachella stage. I fucking dig how she believes in love, how she’s a trap-romantic. I love how she puts love and money back in the strip club (I bet she pays the girls well) and how proud she is of the Bronx when many people would just call her ratchet. Well, perhaps ratchet is code for alarmingly brave and threatening to patriarchal capitalist hegemony. lol.

I’m not saying that Cardi is perfect, or that she is some kind of socialist activist hiding her sickle under all those diamonds: promoting gang culture isn’t cool, nor can Transphobia be tolerated, but who can say they are perfect? and I hope as she matures and grows with her child, some of the less than radical views will change.

When the world starts to make me want to lay down and die: Theresa May (her lizard bowl cut repulses me- not that physical appearnce is at all the most alarming element of her demonhood) and Amber Rudd’s disgusting immigration policies, the bombing of Syria, Donald fucking Trump and his spray tanned fascism… I imagine Cardi and think, LITTLE BITCH YOU CAN’T FUCK WITH ME IF YOU WANTED TO.

I am returning to this blog with the intention to try and be a little more like Cardi B. To write and write and write like she laughs and raps and is generally very resilient. I want to share poems on here, reviews of books, general thoughts AND…. to promote my first book!!!!!!

So, I thank you for reading this post, and I hope you return here again in the future!!! For now, the poem I want to share is by Eboni Hogan, giving us some black girl magic with her poem ‘Cardi B Tells Me about Myself’.

Cardi B Tells Me about Myself

Dear Frustrated in Flatbush,
Gurl, just go on ahead then.
You waiting for your Daddy
to give you the thumbs up?
Do what you like.
Do what makes your ass happy.
They gon’ call you all makes
and sizes of hoe anyway.
That’s how this thing been set up.
But just cuz they name a thing a thing,
don’t mean it ain’t still named God
in some other language.

Your fortune cookie say you poppin’.
You a full spread of good shit.
Your rotten wisdom tooth.
Your pockmarked shoulders.
Those eyelashes ain’t come here
to talk about the weather.
You the hottest day in July
and every fire hydrant in this city
is written out to your name.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOOXOXOXOXOXOXOXXOOXOXXOXO

Women fly when men aren’t looking

I still feel a bit tired and for no fathomable reason unnervingly wierded out since coming back from my birthday weekend: this makes me feel guilty, seeing as I have nothing to complain about yet still want to stab my self with a million forks (wierd image, I know- but it’s what hit my mind first)

I saw some artworks at the Tate Modern; Carrie Mae Weem’s red sadness and protest of the enslavement of black African people into black slaves of America- ‘I saw and I wept…”; Red photographs cased by poetries etched onto glass frames. After the Tate Modern, I met up with Daisy and we went to Oxford Street to look at pink feathered jackets and blue sequined denim jeans that looked like they belonged to a mermaid with legs. We met up with Flo and walked down to Foyles, scanning shelves of books, but of course focusing on the beloved aisles of poetry- I was so flamboyant. I brought books brand new.

In the evening Zab came- we got ready in make-up and fancy clothes; I feel in all my pettiness, this is where some seed of current confusion of stabbing forks was sown. In the weeks leading up to this celebration, I had been so excited to make myself look and FEEL hot/sexy/ powerful bla bla bla in this little red dress. The reality is I felt bloated and ugly and pure second rate compared to my HEAVEN SENT GORGEOUS friends, and got changed immediatley into a less than glamourous outfitt (think Paris Hilton’s ugly sister who was locked up in the highest hotel room, forced to live only on Twinkies). I am not saying this in order to try and obtain any sympathies, on the contrary I am saying it because it is the truth of incomphrensible emotion. It is white first world problems, and it makes me feel even sillier for knowing what I should finally (at nearly 21) know is bullshit, my brain still pushes onto the child within me and makes the child inside cry and want to hide.

This small, miniscule discomfort of not wearing the dress I’d imagined us partying in should (and truly, thank god, DOES NOT) overshadow all the fun we had travelling round London; talking of poetry in Foyles and the feminist library, being intellectual and going to see the beautiful Queer exhibition at the Tate gallery; laughing in parks so hard I could pee and dancing to trap music on the stairs of St. Pauls, then collapsing into our hotel room with plush double beds and a boquet of flowers (we’d eaten all the cupcakes by this point).

I hate this ungratitude of the disobedient side of my brain focusing more on how my stomach and hips looked in a dress rather than on the smile of our faces in the strobe flash of photos we took. I may not be, nor ever shall attain supermodel status or looks- but that in no way inhibits capacities for love, for loving my friends and the time we had- all the times more awaiting.

I realise now how easy it is to focus on one tiny negative thought instead of cherishing the memories of how lucky I am on this planet- a father who organised it all, the train drivers who got me there, and my friends who took the time out their jobs to come see me.

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SHOUT OUT TO MY FRIENDS FOR PUTTING UP WITH MY EXTRA BULLSHIT AND SELF-LOATHING ALL THE TIME!!!!! XOXOX

Today’s post is already verging on being lenghty, but thats okay because it’s for a special lesson and occassion. Without further adiue, here is today’s post- it is from a book I bought in Foyles by Jeanette Winterson, one of my favourite authors. The small book is simply called ‘Love’ (the quote I use is orginally from “Why be Happy when you could be Normal?“). xooxooxoxoxx

“Love is vivid. I never wanted the pale version. Love is full strength. I never wanted the diluted version. I never shied away from love’s  hugeness but I had no idea that love could be as reliable as the sun. The daily rising of love.”