Emma Watkinson

“Go back to where you come from, ‘cause we haven’t got the room!” Well if “they” should, so should you ye tit,  I see no ancient Britons in my view We’re stood in Liverpool you gobshite, once the gateway to the world We welcomed travellers from lands afar, and shipped slaves to yield our wealth Half of us are Irish bred, from the Emerald Isle they fled Famine caused by England stealing spuds and wheat and seeds for bread That migration caused hostility, and they were accused of stealing jobs Then we focused on opposing sides of Catholics versus “proddy dogs” We did the same shit during Windrush, and put signs in window panes Aligning dogs savaging for scraps with nationality and race Now we criticise all non-Christians for the actions of a few We forget our country’s religious terror past in this blinkered point of view “But they’re terrorists and rapists, they’re all abusing little girls” Check statistics mate, you’ll see all faiths and races share that world ...

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