Multiplastic

When I was busking, some years ago, I came to a point when I had to stop playing Jerusalem .  The reason for this was that white, middle-aged people would look at the colour of my face and assume it was okay to come up and say things like “Britain for the British” and “Kick out all the immigrants”. Fast forward to summer 2025. According to police and government statistics: 81% of convicted child grooming gang members in the UK are straight, white, British men; 78% of sexual assaults are committed by straight, white, British men; 68% of homicides are committed by straight, white, British men.   In a recent study it was found that 48% of the rioters who were arrested protesting the presence of migrants in a hotel in Belfast had previous convictions for domestic assault.   They were straight, white, British men.   Don’t call me white, I don’t want to be white If it means I’ll seem anything like them The lager-soaked thugs, spoiling for a fight Throwing nazi s...

Gina Gregarious hits the dance floor the moment she steps through the door. Her heels spark like her eyes when she sees a friend. And she bloody loves this song. Gina Gregarious loves the loner, the drunk, the joker, the serious and sober, the intense and the insane. She spreads her sky-coloured cloak over every head, to protect them from the rain and see them home safe. Gina Gregarious sees a friend everywhere, in every pub, at every table, on every dance floor. Especially if they haven’t met yet. And she bloody loves this song. Gina Gregarious lets out a six-foot-four laugh from a five-foot-three body. She communicates joy in crowded places through skin-to-skin elbow-bumping osmosis and mingled sweat hugs. In noisy clubs she hears through the magnets in her smile. Gina Gregarious drags you up to dance, and you can’t refuse because you simply don’t want to. Her bouncing curls wave like flags on a lighthouse: “There’s danger here, but you’re safe with me.” And she bl...

T omorrow I will clear away the apples that have fallen from my tree And dig the weeds up from the path while I’m there Tomorrow I will change the bedding, scrub the bathroom and hoover the stairs I will stalk the house with a feather duster and show those spiders who’s boss Tomorrow I will order that prescription, ring that bloke to pick up the scrap metal and answer that blasted email. I will fill in that timesheet and apply for that job Tomorrow I will start a new story, write a new poem, do a preliminary sketch, finish a painting But, today . . . Today I will do sudoku puzzles and read bits of books without absorbing any words Today I will pace like a cat in a cage.   Today I will watch time painfully crawling past like a mendicant monk I will take my intentions, my ideas, my things-that-need-doing And crush and twist them into a mass, A   tangled pile bigger than novelty, heavier than necessity, more revolting than self-discipline And carry them ...

The kid in seat B-1 Puts up her hand to ask for time-out A rest break from the maths exam A rest break she believes she’s entitled to A rest break she cannot have The kid in seat B-1 Is made of acne and attitude Of defiance, peer pressure and Tik Tok trends Craves attention but is afraid of being singled out Spends hours anonymizing her hair and make-up The kid in seat B-1 Is now a warrior for justice denied Sulking saviour of the educationally oppressed A lone revolutionary in a world that doesn’t understand her Any more than she understands herself She is Mothra in mascara Crushing the school beneath her knock-off trainers She is anger set firm with styling gel Her bones as thin as knife blades To cut through the slave bonds of Year Ten The kid in seat B-1 Is just brave enough to be annoying To swear and draw on walls But not brave enough to simply walk out And I begin to wonder how Those boundaries were built.   July 2025