New soundbite lies:
"Austerity is over."
You're all rich men now.
The hungry woman:
No cash, no hope. Her heart broken in
Each regular poverty period.
Her blood: not enough
To make a Tory turn to love,
Find a fair repentance.
On each of us. Steals our days,
Brings endless night.
The above poem was written in three minutes at the end of a period of free writing in a writing workshop at Chilli Studios, a creative space in Newcastle for people with mental health difficulties.
There were three sides to her story.
You each only listened to one.
She's like an elephant to a blind Buddhist
But you only get turned on by her legs.
Or her eyes. Or the way you think she hears
And responds when her ears flap.
Three mistakes. Three misapprehensions.
She won't come home with you
Until you see who she really is.
Those words were written in the same workshop during the final five minutes in which we wrote freely about the number three. We may return to numbers in the next workshop. These words also came from those minutes. Again, create your own interpretation.
Lost in the jungle.
I can't even climb trees.
How will I find a way out
Without a chance triangulation?
Three ways to escape.
Three treks. Three points to position.
Three bundles of a girl's confusion.
A tree creeper who misunderstands directions.