The Crested Tits and other Fowl Things

Good morning beauties,

I wanted to take a moment to scream into the void of the internet and let you know that I am part of a poetry and spoken word collective C.T.C poetry, standing for the Crested Tit Collective (we are censored as some social media platforms that shall remain nameless have a big problem when it comes to exposing any kind of tit). We made up of six women writers and artists who all take part in the MA in Poetic Practice at Royal Holloway, University of London. We are based in London and Egham, Surrey, and regularly host readings and open mics. If you want to get in contact or pop to a show, our socials are below.

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Change the World with Words

Changing the world with words and art is something I have always dreamed of doing, but assumed it was the job of other people. The privilege of a few gifted visionaries and an unachievable dream for me. Why are you wasting your time? What do you want to do that for? Why don’t they put their money into curing cancer instead? These are questions that have nagged me for years. Guilt passed down by my family and generations of that working class survival spirit.

I am not a doctor, scientist, or politician. I volunteer and shout at protests. I make art. Art is power and it can have just as much effect, if not more, on the hearts and minds of society than any politician. But I don’t need to tell you that reader. I need to tell myself. And it is something I am realising I can do.

The only problem is - the problem that creative times have come up against since time in memorial - money. I work multiple jobs and study, and all of my hard earned cash is spent on those annoying but necessary daily needs; rent, food, and medical care.

It was only after reading Amanda Palmer’s The Art of Asking and seeing the rise of creators and entertainers using fan based sponsorship programs, that I came to understand that it's not about privilege, it's about asking for help and giving back to the community. So, with that in mind I started my own GoFundMe.

I have already been invigorated and humbled by the support I have already had. From financial, promotion, publication, and love from wonderful people I will continue to give to the community and I urge you to as well. Monetary donations are great but we can't all provide in that way so fomd the creators you like and retweet, like, recommend, shower with support and love.

Thank you, I love you all.

Now, let's change the fucking world.

Weinstein - When justice isn't what you expected

I have recently become aware that the 'weinstein' is now a word in the OED. It left me pondering how to apply it. A noun? 'He is such a weinstein, don't go near him'. A very useful social short-hand. An Adjective? 'I have never been in a room that felt so weinstein before'. I'm quite partial to this one. But, I think it would be put to better use as a verb. As in, 'I have been weinsteined'. Manipulated, abused, and coerced by a person more powerful than I.

I was weinsteined before we had a word for it. And, on the day that the titular arsehole was arrested, and we celebrated along waited for liberty for Irish women, I found out that my abuser had met something approximating to just deserts. His company was shut down and he is potentially on his way to keeping Mr W company in prison.

Huh, not what I expected. For the longest time I have wanted to see that man taken away by blue flashing lights, but I didn't think it would be like this. So, how do I feel? I can't tell you at the moment. How do I feel that Harvey Weinstein is now a part of the cultural lexicon? I can't tell you at the moment. I can't deny that I didn't smile. I can't deny that I didn't let out a gleeful yet bitter laugh. Both of these punishments have problematic ramifications that deserve to be looked into. But, for now, maybe I should just be satisfied with karma, and keep working on expunging his stain from my life. 


My witches mark
Iodine coloured stain
Under my left breast
Denotes where you made your first incision

Sebastian's subtle arrow
Snapped at the hilt
Left to rot
Like an embedded splinter

No amount of washing
Can cleanse me of your smell
A chemical burn to the nostrils that
Erodes my brain like acid

Rusting the precious metals till
All that’s left is your etched in memory
And scar tissue blackened
By rot

The plaster you slapped on
Over the sore
Did not stop me from noticing
How it festers

One putrefied fig cleaved open emits
The sweet smell of decay which is
Intolerable to none
But me

You are the bulging buboes that I
Should lance but
No amount of dried herbs and smoke can stop
Contamination through osmosis

Revolted by the sight
I bind it with clean gauze
And wait to see if
It will devour me whole

There is no balm or salve to apply
No chalky pill or rose and mercury to choke down
It has to be invasive
Your tumour must be cut out

It is time
Your cancer cannot be allowed to spread
Cannot escape my bloody fingers
As they search for you in the darkness

In the meantime you hide
Straddling my brain and
Plucking at my optic nerve
You haunt my perifers

A shadow on my future but you cannot hide indefinitely.

I’ll rip my eyes out

If I have to.