lucy johnstone

 Ica bo wrote a poem

How's it Done?


you are accepting me

in all my pomp and glory

I am wearing my best boa,

falling over my ridiculous heels on the cobbles

and there you are cheering and singing

 five seconds later

This is you

with a club and tar and feathers

(not for fetish,spitting hate)

just tearing off my wig

and screaming feminazi in my face

More confusingly than that

You’ve locked the toilet door,

but that’s not you, that’s me

and I am pissing on the floor


everything you said

To be honest

I’m so bewildered now

I’m in a suit

smoking cigars

and beating orangutans

for money

And hanging out with oligarchs

Who’ve cleared the city centre

whilst paying not a single penny

to the council

tsk tsk tsk

And the boa is now bloody, ratty,

lying in the mud of human excrement

that we’ve adorned the streets with

and we both are crying like children foiled

and our brains have been completely boiled

and all that’s left is fury fury fury

And suddenly

A butterfly hiccups overhead and dies

so we both break and look for shovels

to start clearing up the shit

Me in my suit and heels

You in your bowler hat

and the beeb says crisis over

and that my friend is that

until tomorrow when we both begin again

This insane pursuit of better

Without reflecting about best

We are in perpetual motion

terrified of being still

What even is that?

It’s as if we haven’t noticed

we reached our destination long ago

and now we need to live here

Perfecting harmony

Not acquisition




Nurture and simplicity

Do nothing

Don’t go to the moon

don’t colonise the stars

You haven’t learned how to be a neighbour

t hang around in bars,  without killing each other

It’s time to learn how to sit, celebrate unique and  

 that money is a construct

ad stuff is a distraction

Your gender queer blackwhite catholicmuslimbuddhist miscellaneous next door

is you you silly fuck

You and nothing more



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