My Poems

Having written and performed as The Big J in the 1980s, Janine started again in 2014, after a brief interlude of around a quarter of a century.

Froms sonnets to villanelles, limericks to ballads, the occasional rap and plenty of straightforward rants, serious and humorous and sometimes both, here is Janine's verse.

Babyface

You don't look small and cute enough
Your upper lip has grown some fluff
You look quite tall and rather tough
You show the scars of sleeping rough
You look so foreign, feral, wild
You don't look like a child

Tests on My Breasts

Take this basket into this stall
Waist upwards: off with it all
On with the gown
(No, the other way round)
This is what we're going to do
OK with you?

Into the room, off with the gown
Lift your breast and lay it down
​On this plate, stand like this
Shoulder back, hand on hip
​This might squeeze a little bit

Rude Words

When Donald Trump said
"Grab them by the pussy"
The objectionable word
was not "pussy"
It was "grab"
His words were not "lewd"
They were violent

Tumour Humour: Titter Ye Not

They're big and they're flopsy
They had a biopsy

Wore a gown like a nightie
My clothes in the lockers
Some people like me
But I do have my knockers

Tubes in my boobs
Making maps of my baps
Taking bits of my tits
Then I got the answer
It's cancer
Oh shit

Next appointment
They will be pointing
Their surgical pistols
Straight at my Bristols

From Alex, 6 Years Old

On 21 September, the White House published a letter that President Obama had received from six-year-old New Yorker Alex, offering a home to Omran, the Syrian boy whose photo had circulated widely.

Please tell the boy in the ambulance
To come and live at ours
And we will greet him in the street
With flags, balloons and flowers

Beneath that dust I know he must
Be frightened as can be
But when he's washed the bloodstains off
I think he'll look like me

Where Has Everyone Gone?

Move to the ground in the centre, you said
Nobody likes a dissenter, you said
Victory hinges
On leaving the fringes
Let us move to the centre, you said

Come down from the high ground, you claimed that we must
Move from town to the plains, this is shit or it's bust
You would find the location
With triangulation
Just there, where the ground's laid with dust

#LABOURPURGE2

You've voted Labour all your life?
We don't trust you, pal, or your wife
I've made an entry in my casebook
You posted something rude on Facebook

You want to know: what did you do?
Well guess what? We're not telling you!
Left-wing stances you're absorbing
Seen your Twibbon - voting Corbyn

Trains out of London

Rhythm tapped out by the
flats of the wheels of the
train with its steel drum re-
frain, past allotments and
rubbish heaps, rubble and
people in trouble, past

ivyed embankments where
knotweed grips coke cans, di-
gests the degradables,
strangles the cables and
chews up elastic bands,
spits out the plastic bags

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