Thanks for reading, everyone!
Sarah
Xxx

We did it three whole years ago, my love,
That’s how long I’ve been civilised to you
(It’s like being married only far more sexy)
And though the only things I own of leather
Are my doc martens, you are my gaywife
And when a marriage lasts for three whole years

(Or civil partnership, for three whole years)
Perhaps they think a couple bores of love,
A husband loses interest in his wife
Perhaps they think that I won’t fancy you
And so this anniversary is leather
To spice things up and get us feeling sexy.

I do not see the point. I think you’re sexy
In your pajamas, and I have for years.
But hey, if you’d prefer me dressed in leather
Cracking a whip, I’m happy to, my love!
Because I would do anything for you.
Would you prefer a dominatrix wife

Or a submissive, chained and gimpish wife,
Locked in the attic? That could be quite sexy!
Or I could be a biker dyke, take you
Out on my motorbike. I’ve said for years
I’d look good on a bike, and I would love
To celebrate this milestone dressed in leather.

Alas, I haven’t got much made of leather.
A pair of docs, a belt: I’ve failed my wife-
Ly duties. But you know how much in love
I am, and that I just want to be sexy
and keep things hot and fresh throughout the years
So understand I’m doing this for you.

My anniversary surprise for you:
Me, at your workplace, wearing all my leather:-
The docs, the belt, that strap-on we bought years
Ago. and nothing else. Do I look sexy?
Your colleagues think so: please agree, my love!

Three years being civilised with you
And still in love, so who needs all this leather?
Hey, wife: next year it’s fruit! Now THAT is sexy!

Before this I had written three sestinas
And every time I thought they’d never end
But people liked them, were not irritated.
They weren’t to hard, I seemed to get them done
With ease, but did that make me a real poet?
What if I did it for 100 days?

I’d meant to set a schedule up for days
For daily writing, it could be sestinas
Or anything: I’d work at being a poet
But I would get distracted in the end:
My daily writing just did not get done
And left me petulant and irritated.

So maybe I was mostly irritated
When well, exactly nine and ninety days
Ago, I said “Right, that is it. I’m done
With easy targets, 100 sestinas!
I’ll see this project through right to the end
And then I’ll be a bloody expert poet!”

But has it helped me be a better poet?
I’ve learned that even when I’m irritated
Or tired, or busy, even at the end
Of all my patience, I can fill my days
With keywords, keep on pumping out sestinas,
And even if it’s crap, be glad it’s done.

And what else has this mad adventure done?
Well, I’ve not wondered if I was a poet:
I’ve been too busy writing these sestinas!
And though I know sometimes I’ve irritated
My wife, and had my dull and dismal days,
I’m kind of sorry this is at an end.

Now my sestinas are so nearly done.
One left, and then the end. Am I a poet?
Or have I irritated you for days?

And when I think i’ve thought of it myself
I often find it’s unoriginal
That centuries ago, it was a fresh
Idea, but now the bloody thing’s been done
So many times it makes me want to swear
It has been painted, written, sung and told.

But there must still be stories to be told,
Some plotlines I can have all to myself!
They’re somewhere in me, certainly, but where?
How will I know when I’m original
And when derivative? If it’s been done
Then can I change it into something fresh?

It’s so important, now, to keep it fresh:
For readers get bored quickly, so I’m told,
If they suspect that your ideas been done
They’ll walk away and leave you to yourself
The pressure’s on to be original
That’s what makes stars like Lady GaGa wear

A meatdress, which is lots of fun to wear
But, like my poetry, will not stay fresh
But better stink and be original
Than decorous and classical but old
News. So do not sabotage yourself:
And play it safe with something that’s been done.

As BNL once sang, it’s all been done:
And now I think about it, that is where
I got this idea from. I’ve conned myself
I thought that this Sestina would be fresh
But meta writer’s block is really old.
So I have failed to be original.

I think, myself, that everything’s been done.
Nothing original is anywhere:
To keep them fresh, old themes must be retold.

I find seeing the bigger picture stressful.
It would be easier to be a tory.
If hard work’s all you need to be successful,
Then slogging out my heart I wouldn’t mind,
Knowing I’ll be rewarded for my grind
And have a happy ending to my story.

So why do I suspect it’s just a story?
Why are these public service cuts so stressful?
Why do I get the feeling they will grind
The poor into the dirt? Is that the Tory
Ethos? They don’t think the poor can mind
Because only the lazy aren’t successful.

But it is easy to become successful
If yours is a prep school and Eton story.
I see how it might never cross your mind
That being underprivileged is stressful
If I was rich, perhaps I’d be a Tory
believing my success came through hard grind

When I’d not even ever had to grind
My fresh-made morning coffee, so successful
Was the sense of privilege which, as a Tory,
Became the only palatable story.
And any other worldview would be stressful:
To think my wealth was luck would blow my mind!

Some days I really think I wouldn’t mind
Abandoning my roots and daily grind
Being a trendy lefty is so stressful!
If I could be posh, thick and quite successful,
And scoff over champagne at tragic stories
Of public sector cuts, I’d be a Tory.

It’s stressful, but I think I know my mind:
I’ll never be a Tory, though the grind
Is hard, it’s unsuccessful, that old story…

I used to think I was a feminist.
I thought that women should have equal rights
And that society was run by men
And women’s work was not appreciated
Enough, and so I wanted to object
At inequality based on my body.

I thought I had the right to show my body
Or cover up: that as a feminist
The choice was mine and no-one could object
But no, this view is bad for equal rights
Apparently it’s not appreciated
If I’m objectified by Evil Men.

Or worse still, if I act like Evil Men -
And feast my eyes on other women’s bodies -
For flesh is not to be appreciated
By me or anyone. It isn’t feminist
You can’t be sexy and have equal rights
Because you’re being treated as an object.

Well, that is what I have been told by Object:
I shouldn’t look at women. Nor should men.
And no doubt those brave feminists are right,
So, when I like to look at women’s bodies,
I am a very naughty feminist.
So punish me! I have appreciated

The female form, and I’d appreciate it
If I could be brought into line by Object
So firm and strict, oh please, talk feminist
To me! Oh tell me it’s the fault of men!
Yes! punish me for lusting after bodies!
I love it when you take away my rights

And make me think like you, for who needs rights?
Why should sex workers be appreciated
For all their work? They disrespect their bodies,
So we can too! That’s what I learned from Object:
The home of dominatrix feminists!

It seems I have no choice, but who needs rights?
I’m feminist and unappreciated!
I’ll “learn” from Object: never trust the men.

He was a funny little boy, our Andrew,
Unique, you could say. Or else sulky, wooden.
He wouldn’t speak for days: I’d go bananas.
And he’d do nothing but gesticulate.
Though, when he talked, he’d get all metaphysical
He’d ask what Jesus looks like to a dog.

He was determined, then, to have a dog.
And very single minded was our Andrew,
When I’d say no, he’d wax all metaphysical:
He asked me, once, if grown-up souls were wooden
To not love puppies. He’d gesticulate
His rage, till we all thought he’d gone bananas

For weeks he would eat nothing but bananas
“I’ll eat my carrots when we’ve got a dog”
What could I do except gesticulate
And dust my knick-knacks and ignore poor Andrew?
He’d got to learn, although my heart’s not wooden,
Sometimes the answer’s “No.” so metaphysical

That boy, he’d always get so metaphysical!
Just six years old and munching on bananas
His sullen face as stiff as any wooden
Mask. And all he wanted was a dog.
It broke my heart to disappoint poor Andrew,
But how his father would gesticulate!

(Like Dad, like son: they’d both gesticulate
When angry) If the metaphysical
Had become physical, and little Andrew
Had got his puppy: he’d have gone bananas!
My husband never could abide a dog.
And I preferred my pets polished and wooden.

I see now why he thought of us as wooden,
Why he would sulk, and then gesticulate:
We could have made him happy with a dog.
Instead, our household never met a physical
And vital life, and so we bought bananas
And slowly crushed the dreams of little Andrew.

A dog just might have made us act less wooden
And Andrew might have stopped Gesticulat-
Ing. Metaphysically, we’re bananas.

But just before you reach oblivion
When you can feel the texture of the cotton
Pillowcase against your cheek, when dreams
Wait in the wings until you do drop off,
You start to re-experience the day
And fit it all together in your mind

The time you said you really didn’t mind
But would have cursed them to oblivion
For making you look unprepared today
Floats up through those protective layers of cotton-
Wool we call subconscious. Shake it off
You’ll sort it out much later, in your dreams.

For that’s what they are for, all of your dreams
Not prophecies or omens, but your mind
Untangling itself. You start it off
In that brief space before oblivion
And after wakefulness, wrapped up in cotton
All safe and warm, you’re ready for the day

And all its meanings – for although the day
Is over, it comes back again in dreams
You wrap your feelings up in fluffy cotton
To keep them well protected in your mind
Then empty them into oblivion
Until you find, at last, you can switch off.

There’s something comforting in nodding off,
Abandoning the troubles of the day:
A homecoming into oblivion.
You snuggle in the waiting arms of dreams
And settle down to sorting out your mind
Protected from the night by soft, white cotton.

Alas, oblivion is so far off
No cotton sheets for me –there’s so much day
To get through. All my dreams still crowd my mind.

Their profile may not tell you who they are:
It’s calculated to attract more friends.
Who tells the truth, hidden behind a screen?
The perfect chance to spin a grand illusion
Of popularity. Come on, you know
You’ve done the same, and so you understand

So why is it so hard to understand
That others hide the truth of who they are?
We like to think that we are in the know
And can’t be taken in. We call them friends
Participating in our own delusion
Invest so much emotion in the screen

We scrutinise their pictures on the screen
And though, as adults we can understand
That all we see may well be an illusion
Still we believe they’re who they say they are
Though one dimensional, they are our friends
Could they be hiding something from us? No!

Or, if they are, we do not want to know
We’d rather trust the image on the screen
Implicitly, than really know the friends
We make online. Who wants to understand
All of the faults that make them who they are?
Sometimes we just prefer the damn illusion!

But now and then that beautiful illusion
Is shattered, and then we are forced to know
Exactly how unreal those friendships are
No more than pixels cluttering the screen
And then, we briefly truly understand
That friends we make online are not real friends.

We think they are, but that is pure illusion.
Our friends are people whom we really know.
We trust the screen, and fail to understand.

The village is surrounded by a bog
That’s home to boggarts, goblins: sprites of darkness.
They fear the sun, and cannot stand his light
But creep out of their hollows in the night
To lure lost souls to slimy, stinking death
And then they fear no force except the moon.

And how they hate her! Lovely Lady Moon,
The friend to travellers lost in the bog
Who, late at night have wandered close to death
She lends her light to guide them through the darkness
So they escape the creatures of the night:
The creatures who detest her silver light

One night, a wanderer, bereft of light
Searching the empty sky for Lady Moon
Began to fear he’d not survive the night
That he would be pulled down into the bog
Cried out into the dank malicious darkness
“Oh save me, Lady Moon, from certain death!”

And she would not condemn a soul to death.
She hurried down, and spread her gorgeous light
Sent all the goblins scurrying for darkness
Resplendent in her goodness: Lady Moon
But suddenly her cloak caught in the bog
And she was trapped: the goblins had the night.

They swarmed towards her, filling up the night
All eager to condemn the Moon to death,
They forced her down into the stinking bog.
Extinguishing her haunting, silver light.
But soon the villagers all missed the Moon
As every night meant unrelenting darkness.

They asked a wise old crone about the darkness
She said the moon would not forsake the night
She must be in the bog. They sought the moon
Weak mortals in the dark, all risking death
They found her, and they freed her silver light,
And as she rose, her face lit up the bog.

Oh Lady Moon, protecting us from darkness!
Lost in the bog, we call to you at night:
We’ll not fear death while you give us your light.

Timewas, way spoolback in the beta longgone,
So googolmany units vital-functioned
In ministores prepackaged, branded “home”.
And earlymodels gamed without alert
Pre megabluescreendeath, the world was other.
It all rebooted wrong after The Crash.

No unit clicks what programmed in The Crash.
Why laptops froze, so far in beta longgone,
So units could no longer mail each other.
The creditstockitmarket quit to function,
The database went into red alert
No unit dared to leave the thing called home.

In uptodate, there’s no such thing as home:
We’ve lived in retailoutlets since the crash.
And I stand firewall, ready and alert,
Although they haven’t raided us in longgone:
The lidlunits have a virus function
Lidl and Comet units hate each other.

We cannot trust their content: they are other.
Though, in the beta, we’d have felt at home
With them, postcrash, we can no longer function
Because they think our people wrote the crash.
On living laptops, spoolback in the longgone.
So they are malware. We standby, alert.

We scan our earlymodels with alert.
Recharge them when we can, and blog each other.
It’s hard without the laptops, but in longone,
The megavirus came. It wiped the home-
Screen, caused the wholeworldweb to crash.
And, uninstalled, the units could not function.

Though we are loading slowly, we can function
Without the laptops. But we must alert
The earlymodels all about the crash
So they will click, and learn to blog each other.
One day, we’ll reinstall and go back home.
Copy timewas, way spoolback in the longgone.

PreCrash, all units thought that they could function.
But in longgone, they should have been alert:
If they’d been other, we’d upgrade to home.