How You Might Know Me E-Book

Sabrina Mahfouz

• Herausgeber: Out-Spoken Press
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 37

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

How You Might Know Me is a poetic exploration of four women s lives, connected through their experience in different areas of the UK s growing sex industry. Written following years of workshops and Sabrina s own experience of working in strip-clubs, the collection represents a broad range of backgrounds, ethnicities, ages and political convictions. The characters of Sylvia, Tali, Sharifa and Darina bring challenging and often unexpected perspectives on their work and lives to the reader in electric free verse and quieter, traditional forms. Examining taboos, surprising sexual encounters, the politics of desire, the vastly differing viewpoints on sex work and most prominently, the status of women s equality in the UK today How You Might Know Me is certainly a fiery collection of poetry from one of the country s most exciting new writers.

Leseprobe

First Edition

Copyright © Out-Spoken Press 2016

First published in 2016 by Out-Spoken Press

Design & Art DirectionBen Lee

Printed & Bound by:Print Resources

Typeset in: FreightText Pro

ISBN: 978-0-9931038-6-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any other means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

For Carmen Dasilva,my dearest mum.

Sabrina Mahfouz is a poet, playwright and screenwriter who has published a number of theatre pieces including Layla's Room (2016), With a Little Bit of Luck (2016), Chef (2015) and The Clean Collection (2014), all with Methuen Bloomsbury. Her poetry and writing has been performed and produced for TV, radio and film and includes Railway Nation: A Journey in Verse (BBC2), We Belong Here (BBC iPlayer); Breaking the Code (BBC3) and Sabrina Mahfouz: Arts Academy Scholar (Sky Arts).

www.sabrinamahfouz.com

1. Sylvia

2. Sharifa

3. Tali

4. Darina

1 Sylvia

in the garage with a good client (sylvia)

filled up with all sorts of shit

boxes

bricks and bricks of boxes

building up to

it’s all just a build up really isn’t it

there’s nothing to keep us here but the anticipation

no space in here

why have extra space with no space in it

beats me

this one won’t beat me

not a chance

his hands are feathery

couldn’t grip the bones of a glove

probably why there’s a babylonian paper garden

growing mould in this

when he dies will it go to his wife

she’ll sit on a mirror of her own tears

sifting through white sheets

get a paper cut

suck the blood

corner of her wedding ring

a tray of timely memories

drop fingertip to a photo she isn’t in

rip it up, rip it all up, sleep.

No sleep for me

not for a few hours

see who’s out

see him he’s hunting for the

stiletto stash

plastic clear full

only box here without a lid

blue shoes give blisters

red shoes rub the bunion

I told him

oh oh oh oh

here we go today he’s decided red

foot soak when I get in

look, him holding them like slabs of tyre rubber

tingling with motorway crash heat

smile now sylvia

taller now ay sylvia

three and a half minutes to go

two white strands in his black eyebrows

all mine grey, ha but I have a dye kit

he might be in a car when he dies

twisting metal might make a washing line out of his membrane

gross that would be gross he’s a nice man

well not a bad man

not one of the bad ones

one of the worst ones

he doesn’t take

one minute to go

there’s that beach again

I will sunbathe there before I die

really go there on a plane not just go go

whenever I go

go go go go go oh oh oh

ah bunion fucking kills

who invented pointy shoes

asked my mum once who invented me

she said no idea my petal

but it must have been a very clever man

so disappointed

I wanted to have been invented by storm waves

to protect them from the williwaw.

living room lamp (sylvia)

gather then lift their judgement cards

fake-tanned botoxed faces on the telly

telling sweating hesitants if they can last

until next week, if their feet worked sufficiently

hard to turn a scuffed rubber floor into fantasy

for two minutes of tango salsa waltz foxtrot,

women like sylvia lauding the costumes so glittery

whispering feathers for life’s prime slots.

sylvia has one hand around a warm wine glass

when scott pushes swelled knuckles sinkingly

into the settee, his beer can finished starts

to raise himself up bowing to sylvia’s beauty

asks may he have this dance hand out hopefully

she shakes her head I’m sixty two scott, not

some first date post-war teen or these sorts on tv

whispering feathers for life’s prime slots.

scott regards himself as a reverse human ballast

conducting maximum electricity to sylvia’s body

white wine always makes her weak she won’t last

until next week or to the end of her argumentatively

affectionate refusal, she dances drunk and clumsily

the living room needs painting, now bright apricot

seems a hopeful colour, she dances more gracefully

whispering feathers for life’s prime slots.

scott closes his marked eyes, spins sylvia dreamily

she trips on the rug corner, her falling arms knock