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Twilight sleep

Stay high

In part 11 Alice finds some scribbles written whilst high on state induced morphine in the hospital bed series’Connecting to the mother keyboard.’ She has no recollection of writing it.

Purple hazed memory blocker. We are but we are not. It happened and it did not. Holding two truths in the drained purpled half light, half dark to what is real.

Strange drug of choice sleep, half sleep, half awake, more halves that make more than one of me.

Lower than any high, strange drug of choice – royal and purple and fuzzy over the edge of it all. Looking back at clear lights in rooms we don’t belong where they never forget.

Betwixt the night and the day through the holes in the veil of truth. Hanging like cobwebs betwixt the lips, betwixt the sips, betwixt your truth and your lies the gaps we fill with silence and laughter. Eyes straining to see into the violet light of past and confusion. Through the windows flames burn, pinpricks of certainty in a world of no True North. No Truth.

Sleeping leads to dreaming perchance and there is no sleep here for the righteous or the wicked in the twilight where the memories peel away to the silver floor…..

Make mine a double sister!

Alice Smith Wonderland 2022

Alice is recovering from a serious injury and writing a series from the hospital bed ‘Connecting to the mothership.’ This is the only one is was not sober for.

Consent

more mixed messages

Consent

The sea leaves scars on the sand

but the sand still loves the sea,

‘Don’t leave me!

Imprint some more!’

No more smooth, soft sand for playtime.

The sea has left a broken rhyme,

a feathery bruise, a crater.

The sand waits.

Later on the sea comes in,

it doesn’t creep,

it owns the sand,

it’s a keeper,

the sea brings its angry waves to pound and smash.

The sound scares the birds

but at least they are free

as they fly over the debris when the tide is low,

‘Don’t go!’

The sand lies cold

but the sun strokes it and we are told

it felt nothing

but that’s a lie.

It begins to enjoy this nightly thrashing.

The air is electricity flashing above the fight.

When it leaves it doesn’t apologise,

it’s wise enough to know who is boss,

tossing and turning like a child who ate too much

until it can return as the darkness swallows such a sunset.

Endless days are part of its appeal,

predictability is a wheel of fortune

hidden in the sand dunes,

healing is a mirage.

September 2016/ Weston beach

Alice Smith 2022

Stigma in schools

i spy homophobia

Stigma exists in schools. stigma thrives in school. The staff room is full of stigma. The staff room is full of the narrowest minds in the uk – teaching our young people how to label, ignore bullying and promote heterosexuality at the cost of every other gender choice. How do I know this? Because I have sat in staff rooms in schools and colleges around the UK and I have heard it. ‘Well, what you you expect? It’s a broken home.’ (Yes really. In 2019!!) ‘He’ll never make anything of himself. ‘He’s not bright.’ ‘There is no dad around.’ ‘She is not top set material.’ And so on and so on….I was part of this system from 2003 until I got ejected from it rather roughly in 2015.

I wrote this poem after being escorted to my classroom to collect my things after my 5 year career at a private school ended. The Head asked me to leave because my abuse story ‘upset parents and staff.‘ My mental health was ‘made up.’ (‘I’ve got a friend who has been in a war that has PTSD. If you have it, it must be a different sort of PTSD – if it exists. We only have your word for it.’ ‘We need someone who can be in front of the children full time.’ And the worst feedback – ‘Forget your teaching record. You are only as good as you are right now.’)

Reader, they paid me off.

Exorcism

Walking through the corridors,

heavier than a ghost,

the familiar faces float –

unfamiliar eyes regard me with pity, loathing or indifference,

the most painful drug.

I am a touchstone for their conscience.

They cannot meet my eye.

Yesterday I belonged.

Now I feel like a beggar

Sensing strangers behind me.

Kicked in the back.

A pile of disposable rubbish.

‘The eyes have it.’

Soul starved I wander through the corridors,

Heavy,

followed by the smell of failure,

heavy and pungent in the fresh spring sunshine.

I belong to yesterday.

As they head for tomorrow,

they push past me,

their unwelcome ghost,

Squatting in their classroom.

Written in 2014

Alice Smith 2019

Choose not to matter

In part 10 Alice asks are you choosing not to matter with or without your marriage and your mortgage?

Choose the pen

Choose (single) Life

Choose the NHS

Choose you -no one else will

Choose not to matter.

Choose a waiting list

Choose your mortgage

Choose a carrier bag of cider

Choose not to matter.

Choose him for the money

Choose to lie back and hand it over

Choose silence

Choose not to matter

Choose to stay

Choose to go

No one really cares.

Choose not to matter

Choose to forget

Choose not to cry

Choose to stare

Choose to look away

Choose the way, the truth and the life

Choose to lie

Choose not to matter.

Alice Smith is recovering from a serious injury and writing a series of blogs from the hospital bed called ‘Connecting to the mother keyboard.’ Is this the last one? She doesn’t know.

Kicked it

In part 9 from a series of blogs from the hospital bed ‘Connecting to the mother keyboard’,Alice realises some people just don’t care.

Illuminated. Thanks.

I’m not on your mind but

I’m on my mind.

It’s an easy mistake to make.

It’s a maze with no followers.

It’s a rabbit hole

I have to shrink before I can step.

Drink me.

You’re just not that into me but

I love me a little bit more.

Party girls get old but who knows

The drugs might work now?

Mid life mid poem.

Staying high is not an option

if I want to survive

(Do I want to survive?)

So there’s no ladder to climb into your mind.

I kicked it.

No longer intertwined on your bunk bed

No longer sharing that void in your blank head.

I’m not on your mind.

I think it was always this way but

When I was younger I didn’t notice or didn’t care.

Now I know and now…maybe I care……

Alice Smith is recovering from a serious injury and writing a series of blogs from the hospital bed called ‘Connecting to the mother keybiatd.’

I am my gun

Part 8 of Alice Smith’s series ‘Connecting to the mother keyboard is trigger happy.

Pull the trigger

I am my gun and I want to fire it.

I am my gun and I want you to fire it.

In the right circumstances this could be fun.

My aim is high high high.

Your aim is low low low.

That’s my gun.

That’s my gun right there.

I’m pointing it at me not you.

I don’t want to dodge the bullet.

I’m mother fucking crazy sane.

You can hold it if you like but

I like to hold it.

And fire.

I’m smoking hot when it’s smoking and this is not russian roulette so there’s no need to pray to no god.

That’s my gun.

That’s my gun right there.

Concealed in the packet that’s prescribed for me.

The doctor hands it to me and the chemist colludes. The nurses fire it at me like sexy barstaff. Another shot. Bang bang. You feel alive. Another shot. Bang bang. Who are you again?Another shot. Bang bang. Who am I again? Bang bang you’re dead.

All Jesus and flashing lights,

Rushing through the tunnel of love. I’ve been here before.Lie still….Lying……. still I reach for my gun.

Place it on my bedside table.

Never sleep alone with you there with me.

Clean teeth. Check. Clean pants.Check. Bottle. Check. Pills.Check. Door open. Check. Counting sheep……counting guns….

The box is my gun.

The bottle is my gun.

The remote is my gun.

You are my gun.

He is my gun.

I am my gun.

Alice Smith is writing a series of blogs from the hospital bed called ‘Connecting to the mother keyboard.’

I am my gun

Part 7 of Alice Smith’s series ‘Connecting to the mother keyboard is trigger happy.

Pull the trigger

I am my gun and I want to fire it.

I am my gun and I want you to fire it.

In the right circumstances this could be fun.

My aim is high high high.

Your aim is low low low.

That’s my gun.

That’s my gun right there.

I’m pointing it at me not you.

I don’t want to dodge the bullet.

I’m mother fucking crazy sane.

You can hold it if you like but

I like to hold it.

And fire.

I’m smoking hot when it’s smoking and this is not russian roulette so there’s no need to pray to no god.

That’s my gun.

That’s my gun right there.

Concealed in the packet that’s prescribed for me.

The doctor hands it to me and the chemist colludes. The nurses fire it at me like sexy barstaff. Another shot. Bang bang. You feel alive. Another shot. Bang bang. Who are you again?Another shot. Bang bang. Who am I again? Bang bang you’re dead.

All Jesus and flashing lights,

Rushing through the tunnel of love. I’ve been here before.Lie still….Lying……. still I reach for my gun.

Place it on my bedside table.

Never sleep alone with you there with me.

Clean teeth. Check. Clean pants.Check. Bottle. Check. Pills.Check. Door open. Check. Counting sheep……counting guns….

The box is my gun.

The bottle is my gun.

The remote is my gun.

You are my gun.

He is my gun.

I am my gun.

Alice Smith is writing a series of blogs from the hospital bed called ‘Connecting to the mother keyboard.’

Sweet shop

In part 7 of her series from the hospital bed Alice asks – what’s your pill?

Happy little pill

What’s your pill?

Is it sweet?

Is it bitter? Stout? Or mild?

Drink as a child,

Mum.gives you the willing glass,

Dad pours it with a knowing wink.

Pause.

They both helped you not to think.

Does cocaine turn you on then turn you off

Spaced out in your small space?

Is sex and friction your pill?

Fictions banging out in your head

Head banging against the bed

And your self,

Suffocating with his hands around your neck?

You put them there remember?

Is it the kids?

Picking them up is a pick me up.

Skids. marks.

Do you care to get your kicks?

Each judgement licks your lollipop,

Heads. Tails.

Throw up……your coin.

Pick your pill.

Swap it. Trade it.Choose it. Lose it.

Alice Smith is recovering from a serious injury and is writing a series of blogs from the hospital bed called ‘Connecting to the mother keyboard.’NHS choice of pill is morphine. Instant hit. Instant peace on the ward. One is still flying over the cuckoo’s nest

17

If you could do it all again

with all that strength going to waste,

steady feet,

clean teeth,

hands full of flowers

to buy the best years of your life,

your teas on the way….

eyes unseeing…

If you could do it all again –

big deal, so what?

Shining in the dirt,

pressed against the odds

would it hurt with all that strength going to waste?

Sex and shoes

taking your time to find their taste.

Small girl world.

You lived.

People wasted you.

You lived.

17

Alice Smith 2022

Scooter sonnet

Part 6 of a series of blogs from the hospital bed from Alice Smith called ‘Connecting to the mother keyboard.’ Inspired by life on a mobility scooter.

Do you know who I am?

men want to fuck me. Helpless…….

children want to be me. Whizzy..….

my reflection wants to cover me. Ugly.….

the floor wants to greet me. Bang!

shops want to bar me. Nuisance…..

some friends want to avoid me. Needy….

some friends want to be me. (Looks) easy

The step wants to stop me. Difficult….

family want to ignore me. Faulty…..

you want me to get better. Slow….

the job wants me to work me harder. Lazy….

the morphine wants me to forget. Hazy…..

Does it make it easier being temporary?

Or are the steps still just as scary?

Here I go…….helpless, whizzy, ugly nuisance, needy, easy, difficult, faulty, slow, lazy, hazy BANG!

Alice is recovering from a serious injury and writing a serious of blogs from the hospital bed called ‘Connecting to the mother keyboard.’