Nadia Drews

Nadia Drews

Nadia Drews is a playwright, director, poet and performer. Thirty years of repressed rhymes mean she writes long poems - but she reads them fast.

National Poetry Day: Fingered
Wednesday, 02 October 2019 10:27

National Poetry Day: Fingered

Published in Poetry


By Nadia Drews

He put two fingers up
A little prick
Balls barely dropped
Hawking up snot to spit cockiness
Chock-full of spunk
Tickling mid-air
Teasing the pleasure from his waiting mates
Taking the piss, fake masturbating
Grinning a tongue-flicking grin
Ear to ear
Stretched clear to the side
Like knicker elastic, leg lifted leering wide-eyed
His mates hissing

‘You lie’
He smeared a skinny pubic-wisped top lip
And sniffed in
Grimacing shit-eating smile wiped
Pigeon-chested with pride. He sneers
‘See it stinks,
She must be rotten inside.
Like something you’d hook Sunday on the side
Of Pennington Flash with your dad
Fish that has long since died
Lusty titters
Guffawed oohs and phwoars

Becomes disgusted, twisted, bitter
He grabbed his dick
Flicking his wrist, dismissive wanking
Licked his lips
Pretended to gag
The verdict from the lads
‘Ewwww….you are sick for fingering it’

The girls whispered
‘Carol Donnington’s a lying bitch
Her tits were the only reason he went with her
He’s fit. Have you seen her nails, all bit
They’re fake those tips
And he lives in The Limes
He went with that girl Kitty
Gets on my wick
I saw them from the bus loads of times
Holding hands like husband and wife
I think he even bought her a ring
Silver, solid not sterling
It’s which finger, that’s the thing
How you know
Her dad’s rich
I’m not being a bitch but a lad like him though
That’s the kind he’d go for, the kind he’d get
She’s in the top set
Buffed to a shine, filed to points, whitened
Uptight though. She’s right stuck-up
Toffee nose
She’s always got new clothes from the posh shops
The way she smells like...I dunno...Roses
You can tell how well off they are
Better than Carol Donnington by far

His dad drives a sports car. They go abroad. They can afford it.
Cream carpet in the bog, a Dulux dog
Gravel on the drive, a brass knocker on the door
I know ‘cos me dad laid their floor
They have a bathroom with a separate lav
A lean-to. You know like you can have
Carol Partington’s mum’s a cleaner
I mean
I bet he’s been up her
That’s why he’s keen
As if she’s his girlfriend. In her dreams’

In Class 3B Carol Donnington tossed it off
Flicked the market varnished V’s
They could believe what they liked
She wouldn’t tell tales
Noticed a chip where she’d ate the acrylic
Welled-up, started to skrike
Then thought better of it
Tore it in her teeth then spit
Winced scratching the surface on her lip
Remembered jagged edges
Ripped-open petals on flowers on bushes
Torn with thorns
A brass knocker on a door.

The collage is Rag Town Girls Are Star Fuckers by Steev Burgess.

Like Mother
Monday, 16 January 2017 16:17

Like Mother

Published in Poetry

Like Mother

by Nadia Drews

Settle down, bottom set, poor concentration, what do you expect?
Failed tests, predictable results, staying behind
red lines
Life viewed through windows in the sticks ,drizzling with tears of spilling piss
Clinging like dribble to chins of grizzling kids, you didn’t do what the other girls did
Tossed like crossings out on screwed up scraps
The Battersbys and the Bickerstaffes

The flimsy, thin, sterling silver skin stinging slaps
The back of the class chatting up robbing from the stock cupboard smothered laughs
Julie, longing lashes, soft, leather wrapped in Frank
Debbie, bitty little. Biting lippy, outside the chippy
Gob full of fizz bomber jacketed hands jammed in high
Up in arms, sticking out like chicken wings, flapping
Clucking fuck this and fuck that
Flicking V’s, not free to fly
Leanne, lanky, shrieking streak of ‘Miss!’
Witty, eyeing, disguised lined rims hidden behind
Sharp as a knife flicked fringe
Shading every shame filled cringe

All subjects of so much rigid invigilation
Tiddy-tipped, spit slippy, wetly dreamt of detentions
Gripped like slurped chipped china mugs gulped and spilled
Held in belched petrol smells, cider swilled with fry –ups
Eyeing up, weighing out, measured in points for their pleasure
Stiff inches of shifting skin counting you on scribbling fingers
Summing you up, in and out scratching walls
Hurtful mis spelt spurting words
Running out and leaving
Stale-tasting tell-tale stained pockets of cock-eyed explanations

After all those years of teaching you lessons
Never reading your need to know
NO …..NO…..NO
Minus one of them speccy gets noticed you go
Woe betide you’d ever forget it uniformly checked
Stubby short to skinny strip
Hanging from the tide marked neck
Now noosed round a reflection in a dressing table mirror
A face painted with disgrace
With no-one waiting till you washed it off
To bare your face then confiscate that birthday gift from your mum

Full term came and went for some
An unmarked summer break becoming an endless spiral-bound roundabout
A mid-afternoon, windblown, swinging groan
With no bell ringing time to go home
Down the dole to drum on doors hard
Then a card and a ticking clock
On the Verdigris, smocked copper bonnet factory top
Making dull days, patinaed with wages
Catalogued to pay for life in reasonable instalments
24 or 36 weeks
Outfits in drips to disguise your defeat down the pub

Atmosphere thickly stinking mist of chart hits
Spewing what was supped in the gutter
Thrust against throbbing, glugging, tugging
Filling up belly-aching gaps, swallowing laughs, tapping off happiness
Getting ribbed, getting bent coins banged in avoiding trouble
Chasing, knocking back, seeing double

Others would try to get in the club
The price was too high for you to pay
And you were too old to run away again
All your mates had to stay in evenings
Facing days framed by pram handles
And pacing familiar avenues
Dangling struggling little girls
Heavy with giggles from the hip
Where you all used to stand about strangling laughs
Yanking tangles, swapping bangles
Mixed up ten pence teeth sticking sweet dreams
Twisted in bags ripped from string
Escaping tear away paper thin lips
Skinned suckling pale pink dissolving flying saucers
Sore ochre cracked areolas with sleeping smiles inside
That mithered mothers now bribe their daughters with
Outside Clare’s shop beyond the school gates when you were meant to stop

You paid your debts to Great Universal
Ticking the box to say you would no longer like to be a representative
And walked out in a patent leather patiently anticipated excellent value for you shoe
Through the front door this time
With your mum’s packed away sadness and matching set of unused suitcases for all occasions
Full of qualifications to be somewhere else
And you slipped into the empty space on the empty bus
Like a pear drop from Betty’s shop
popped in
a shared quarter passed between mother and daughter sat on the sofa staring at the blaring telly
Yelling jokes at soaps her stroking your hair and hoping