Emma Watkinson

I dream of doing yoga But I worry I may fart My downward dog emitting A shame inducing parp I’d love to do Pilates But I’m terrified I’ll boff If I relax so much my bowels relax And set a gas explosion off I have attempted meditation But my efforts hit a bump When my mouth let out an “ohm” my arse let out a massive trump I aspire to find tranquillity Peace and calmness from within But I know that silence would be ruined  By me loudly breaking wind

You are a plaster on an arse wipe finger and you smell just like a public bog you're a hairbrush that a dog has pissed on You smell like an incontinent dog Your voice is like a scratched up record nails scraping down a school chalkboard your house smells like a split side bin bag or smeared roadkill that spent 2 weeks on the floor Your touch is like a warm raw chicken fillet a week older than its use by date your breath smells like a salvaged dog end mixed with strongbow and a jar of princess salmon paste You’ve got rancid sour milk smelling armpits with blackheads on your shoulder blades you’ve got love bites on your pustuled neck line How does a meff like you ever get laid? Your jeans have smudged up greasy knee caps I bet there’s skid marks on your well worn draws dried to flower potting standard clay stains You’ve got a limp caused by abrasion  from your shit stained baggy smalls Brush your teeth with some sulphuric acid and wipe your nose to clear your crusty upper lip ch...

Clever Kids EMMA SEASMAN · SUNDAY, 10 JULY 2016 I’m proud to have two clever kids, but they cause me such confusion I have to Google search their words for conversational inclusion They’ve got brilliant researched knowledge and analytical insight I’m trying hard to to get a word in as they attempt to be polite See, they mean well and respect me, but I’m still here feeling daft When they have to stop, and show me how to use my iPhone apps With meticulous verbosity, beyond average teenaged patter They argue over human rights and things that really matter Even when we talk of music, my most confident chat of choice They can’t help but overthrow me with their Wikipedic voice The verbal spillage of their knowledge is like reading NME They’re music experts at the level of a doctorate degree My son is playing strings like Clapton, he knew his chords within a week He was playing lead within 9 months and he’s only just turned fourteen My daughter ...

Liverpool’s a hot bed for protest and for change. Politics is ‘r first language debate’s how we engage. Our only Blue’s in Goodison Red’s ‘r governing flag. Yellow is for bellies who’s left is middle class. There was one of independence she shunned those primary hues, she fought for hidden voices, brought breadlines into view. She studied noble Dockers held spotlights on their cause, questioned unfair acts from bosses who paid crumbs for those on board. She questioned why our women who had equal sweat on brow had to work for less than pittance with them in charge expecting bows. She took arms against oppression infuriated by our plight: didn’t condescend or pity she cleared our paths so we could fight. She craved for equal power, pushed for knowledge to be shared, created services to guide us, so our voices could be heard. She addressed the global challenge of how women where abhorred, subject to violence and repression, ignored and robbed of...

Johnny Wok was a legend, the ginger Tom Jones He had plenty of groupies in his life on the road Then he copped off with Winnie who ‘ad a houseful o’ kids He moved in, settled down, started livin’ in sin He was the world’s greatest step dad and Winnie’s best friend a new modern man who cooked the tea and made the beds After two years together, he got Winnie knocked up I am Johnny’s first baby, an’ her 6th little one For the first five children Johnny Wok lost his step they’d moved on from their real dad ‘cause he chose to neglect Their first years where happy, then us kids went astray Winnie’s heart took the knock, so she pushed Johnny away See, we’d changed from The Waltons to a challenging brood Getting lippy with teachers, having fights, being rude My teen years arrived and I grew desperate to leave watching mum and dad fight was just too sad to see ...

Freckle Attack EMMA SEASMAN · WEDNESDAY, 20 JULY 2016 Freckle attack, they spread and explode My summer affliction with sun forced speckles aglow I'm smothered in 50, a child's SPF The sun blisters and scorches with corrupt disrespect It's a vampiric battle, seeking shade in the day While you wish for blue skies, I crave for the grey I wish parasols where trendy so I wouldn't look nuts If I cowered beneath one, taking shade from the sun When you smear tanning oils, I slap on calamine I say Aloe to Vera whose cooling comfort’s divine We all need vitamin D, I'm aware of it's skills But I replace the sun's rays, with multivitamin pills My S.A.D issues are the wrong way round Coz I bake to bright red and not a much preferred brown You should think of us gingers and the trauma were tackling You'd be miserable too, if your skin looked like crackling © Emma Seasman 20/07/2016

Friday 12th October 2012 Dear First Love I remember the first time we had sex. I wasn’t sure I was ready. You reassured me that we loved each other so it was right. You walked out straight afterwards. “I don’t love you. I just wanted to shag you.” You must have been so confused. I remember when you gave me a lift to the hostel when I was kicked out at 18.  I was careless and dropped crisp crumbs on your car seat. That was stupid of me. You had saved for ages to buy your Fiesta. I could see your point when you pushed me out of the car, into the street with my bin bag full of clothes. You where so kind to take me half way there. I was such a bitch the day I told you that I didn’t love you anymore, that must have hurt you. I understand why you shouted  “you fucking do love me. You do”. I was mortified when you threatened to call the police on my husband today. He was pissed off that you sent a harmless flirty inbox message on Facebook. He called...

We can be arl arse to each other from clothing to careers With benchmarks set at higher peaks than they where in previous years Our jobs judged if they’re not elite our waistlines mocked if wide With ageing skin observed with glee, a focus on aesthetic pride We roll our eyes at those not cultured or if maternal styles are flawed We audit split ends and foundation lines or how our living room’s adorned I heard one girl slag off crinkled nets as if a measure of human worth A protest cause by creased up blinds as un-ironed fabrics are perverse How dare you wear non label shoes with soles beige not scarlet red? Our commitment judged by diamond size and our proficiency in bed We don't value other women without a red brick cap and gown The tick box for acceptance will be the thing that drags us down There's feminist hostility, segregation betwixt our placards How can we fight patriarchal oppression if our matriarchy's knackered? My weight's up and down like sto...

I like mates who don't need selfies to prove our friendship's worth, there's no need for Facebook check ins for every meeting place we share I like mate’s who don’t demand my time in every vacant spot For who months pass without a text, then we pick up where we left off I like mate’s who don’t beg allegiance for all of their opinions you know, those one’s who hog the limelight ( and treat their friendship group as minions ) I like mates content with silence, who don’t need to fill each pause our chats without performance ‘cause simple company’s the cause I like mates without a tournament to tick a success box Competition with a mate can make a friendship hit the rocks I like mates without a mandate, who don’t demand I take instruction Who love when I’m a knob head coz their tickled by dysfunction I like mates who hate my fella when I’m angry with him too But then revert when I’ve made up with him, coz they respect my altered view I like mates who know it’s not personal, wh...

The effs and the Jeffs fall out of my grid Like an angry old man or a ket wigged kid The C's and the T's leave the passengers shocked As I swear on the bus with my censor unlocked I turn the air blue as I chat to my mate Expletives aloud in our curse ridden debate I make the girls blush with my filth laden chat Expressing anger and bile in a profane attack They stare and shake heads as I bellow and holler I should filter my words, when I wear my dog collar Amen © Emma Seasman 14/07/2016

I don’t mind a trim or a bit off the side  but I won’t wax it off Hollywood style   If baldy’s your taste in that bit past you waist  that’s sound but it’s just not my pubic style taste!   If you’re “Yippee-ki-yay.” that is totally fine if your pants have Bruce Willis' hair style inside   But if it’s pressure from a fella as he prefers bare,  why does he have a say in your bodily hair?   Girls have to shave under arms and all over our legs  but man hair’s accepted, so the question it begs   Why can they rock hirsute but demand women shaven when the beard on their face is a biscuit crumb haven?   His bathroom is stocked with beard styling wax  but if you don’t strip bits, he says his knob will relax   If he says “wax off your fur”  then you should wax strip his nads bare so he can experience the painful removal of hair   The depilatory sting if we wax off our minge,  or if we chose to shave it or thread it with ...