celebrating and creating our own LGBTQ+ history in honour of Sheila McWattie

Archive for February, 2018

day twenty one

Squared (for Ellyott)


Things have changed since

Van Limburgstirumplein last saw us

Cycling around her

I sit to sip overpriced coffee

Hoping I can still see

Your cheeks puff

Up front on a giant homemade bike

Me with my

Over stuffed rucksack

Dangling from the back

Two foreign girls

Escaping our governments

Looking for life lasting love

And finding it

In each other’s

Secret world faces

Ellyott, my lover is

Several inches shorter than even me

But three times as strong

Astute jockey always pushing through

What else can a dyke woman do?

Over tram tracks

Careful never to get stuck

The number ten

To Javaplein

Which too has been

Reclaimed from the squatters

Renovated and rebranded

Reblended into Amsterdam green

These days’ dykes are not so strange

Everybody is somewhere

On the queer spectrum range

Integration is the new normal

As everyone assimilates our fists

And to be fair our old enemy capitalism

Never needed homophobia as an excuse

To kick anyone where it hurts most

We, like the Moroccans have been priced out

Way beyond the railway tracks

Unless we have money

When we are welcome

To spend in the sunset lit square

Nice bikes sitting upright tidy in their racks

Adorn the advertising pumping station

As if it has always been

Like this there

Not filled with junkies their gums burned bare

The Kemperstraat stands far too quiet



Without her graffiti minded sluts

Near the Avondwinkel in

Need of more than

A lick of paint

The number of bridges getting smaller

As the city council carts

All homeless looking damaged bikes away

The cries of freedom from restraint

Have all grown faint

But the pigeons circle

The square indifferently

Just the same




day twenty

Your Ideal Life


We must look like ants from way up there,

Insignificant nothings, wisps of air.

When you’re born into so much wealth,

Why should you care about National health?

Housing, no problem, schooling too.

Get out your cheque book, it’s easy for you,

Since you were old enough to understand

You were told it’s wrong to give us a hand.

It encourages laziness, lack of drive,

Only tough love will help us thrive.

You were told you’re special, born to rule

By teachers at your boarding school.

We share a planet, a country too

But you don’t get us and we don’t get you.

Still people like us keep voting you in,

In awe of your swagger, we let you win.

‘Newspaper’ barons confuse us, too,

With fake news and the hate they spew.

Divide and rule – that is their game,

Pages filled with rage and blame.

Immigrant, Muslim, Socialist, youth,

No one survives their contempt for truth.

They pull our strings and make us prance.

To their soulless tune, they make us dance.

They dodge their tax; they axe our pay,

Our rights, our wealth, they steal away.

But waking up are the many,

Drop drop drop goes the penny.

The internet has set us free

As print press dies, the truth we see.

Your puppets we will be no more,

Now we’re showing you the door.

As your pay climbs, ours is slashed,

As your hopes grow, ours are dashed.

On our backs you climb up high

While you gobble all the pie,

Then you force through austerity

And blame us for our poverty.

You scamming, cunning narcissists,

We are DONE with all of this.

A leader now has come along –

He plays our tune and sings our song.

He gets us and we get him too,

We know he is a man that’s true,

“A cult” you mock, “the great J.C.”,

You don’t see his integrity.


Jenny King, Kent

day nineteen



I printed you on paper so someone could find us and know who we were,

In passions felt and seen, rebelled and held onto as scraps in a box.

Against our wars

Tactile tenderness of a page in a hand,

Held on to who we were with words.




day eighteen

Splintered Kindling


Dark oak, gothic; furniture that has been mine for years.

She’ll bump into it, bruise, curse me. I know.

Taking the small axe from the wood pile I bring it into the house of me

And set about rendering the thing to splintered kindling.

We burn it now in our fire

And the smoke curls out from our nostrils and mouths

Steaming and hissing.

Old ghosts expelled,

Clinging curling clouds

Vapour disappearing into the clean blue air.


Nicky Mitchell


day seventeen

Says the Man…


Make America Great Again,

Says the man,

Who makes America hate again.


In the military we’ll have no Trans,

Says the man,

With tiny hands.


We’re gonna build a wall,

Says the man,

While his approval ratings fall.


We’re gunna drain the swamp,

Says the man,

Who demands all of the Pomp,

And circumstance of a military parade,


Even though he didn’t serve his dues.


He’s a man informed almost solely by Fox News,

With little depth and perception.


Now is the time for insurrection,

Time to make a stand,

Time to bring together this monumental band,

Of brothers and sisters, of queers and hipsters,

Of trans folk and lesbians, of Muslims and thespians,

Of immigrants and women, of pussies that ain’t for grabbin’!

Of Mexicans and beefcakes, of libtards and snowflakes,

Stand up for your rights, time to stand, time to fight,


And we must, because needs be.


Time to send the puppet in chief,

To get in the fuckin’ sea!


                                                                        Kelly Tonks, Folkestone

day sixteen

More Bus tales


Yeah this afternoon half two…hope it brightens up for them…

You wouldn’t get married would you?

Not a chance it’s a life sentence …you get less for murder!

I’m not bothered I’m secure now and at least I’m not getting slapped.




day fifteen

Bus tales 



She sat on’t sofa an lifted up er top, should see size of er!


Is it twins then?


No but maybe there’s one hidden round the back of ‘tuther!


Any idea what it is?


No but our Michaela wants it to be a girl, says she don’t want another brother!