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The Troubles

Warning: this piece contains strong language

It was a damp night in Belfast in February (or was it March?) of 1972 that I didn’t kill someone and I wasn’t put on trial for murder...perhaps I should explain?

It’s funny what you think about in moments of fear and confusion, about the odd chain of events that have led me to crouch down, making myself as small as possible and hopelessly trying to push myself back into the unyielding hedge beside the footpath while I watch death rolling slowly down the hill towards me. Damn these street lights.

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The Turning of the Tides

As soon as the words had left his mouth, we knew they could not go unchallenged.

We knew somebody would have to do something and it would probably have to be us.

On that Tuesday afternoon, Mike Gilbert had made his entrance shortly after one o’clock. We rose to our feet and he nodded, “Good afternoon, class.”

“Good Afternoon, Sir!”

“Sit,” he motioned whilst speeding between the desks, distributing printed sheets of paper.

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The Voice of Rebellion

I had tried to rebel; but you were very convincing.

You persuaded me that I was at fault, and I believed your tales. I dreamed of having a long tail with which to whish your tales away. But instead I seemed to gather your tales closer, holding on as if to let those tales go would be to lose something that I did not know what it would be like – or did not deserve – to be without.

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The Woman in the Hat (for Emily)

The bit is between her teeth
But she’s not bridled
Not saddled
And yet, this burden, for her
Is intolerable.
The race she runs in
Can have only one ending
Another may be declared winner,
But she will win.
We all shall.
But, at what cost?
To her the price is final;
No more can she pay, in pursuit
Of this prize.
To those that have come since
A debt will always remain
To the woman in the hat
With the bit between her teeth.

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The Wrath of Can

I'm going out and that's it.

Don't tell me I can't

Because if I don't go out, I'll just die.

I need to be with my people,

It's our ritual, it's what we do

Drink, dance, kiss

Drink, dance, kiss

 

She puts on her mask

Eyeliner winds around her eyes

Lashes long

Powder splashed across her face

Lipstick precisely marked

Marlene Dietrich

Eat your heart out.

 

She's a different person now

Can do what she wants

Play with fire

Fire in her heart

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Thelma and Louise, Bitch

Thelma and Louise, Bitch
By Anna Stewart

How me and mum came tae be livin it up on the Forfar Road is a pure massive saga. So I'm just gonnae tell yi the best bit: the end.

We were visitin Edinburgh fae Dundee, stayin at my Great-Auntie's flat on the other side o The Meadows. It wis a summer night and we were walkin back fae toon through the line o trees cawed Jawbone Walk, and that's when my Mum's husband put his hand up my skirt, right in front o her.

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They Boots

Warning: this piece contains strong language

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Keywords: 
glasgow, community

Those School Doctors

They said I had Heart murmurs. I asked them “How do you know?”
They told me. “Our stethoscope told us so” “Oh!” I replied, “Can they talk?”
They laughed and said, “No, but we know the sounds that heart murmurs make.
Therefore we want you to go to a Special School where people are trained to take
good care of children like you.

But, my present wee School was special to me
I shook my head and said. “It’s here I want to stay
It’s not far from my home, and I know the way
I even know the Policeman on Points Duty.”

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Time Poor Talent Rich

I never have the time,
To find a clever rhyme,
So I settle for what's plain,
Like a coat meant for the rain.
Sure, I'm a rebel,
As hard as a pebble,
But I'm certainly not able,
To patiently write at a table.

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Tiny Terrorist

I’ll paint a masterpiece on the living room wall
An artistic genius with red nail polish
I’m going to stick my finger in that plughole
Curious, carefree, I’ve a house to demolish

Watch out, here it comes, change of clothes at the ready
I’ll spew projectile vomit all over the place
Can’t leave me at home, I will tantrum in the town
Shrieking in the shops, I am a dinky disgrace

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Keywords: 
childhood rebellion

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