Best Friends

It was a cold winter's day

When Misogyny and Racism decided to work together.

They'd seen each other about at the same places many times

And knew how each other worked.

It was Discrimination that suggested the partnership.

They'd had a tough time of late

Several high visibility cases in the media

And they felt too exposed to start a new venture.

The need to work together was partly driven by the new Millenials:

Inclusivity and Equity.

They'd been doing the rounds for a while now

But were still met with quizzical brows,

Often found themselves not invited to business meetings

And even worse, social events where they would be told at the door

"Your name's not on the list - you can't come in".

And, as for Social Justice, they struggled to get employed anywhere

Being told their needs were 'too complex' or 'too costly'

In times of austerity.

So, hand in hand Misogyny and Racism

Worked the rooms they were invited to.

Whispered in the ears of those who welcomed them.

But all the while, they were unaware

Of Humanity

Who had noticed them.

And feeling more courageous of late

As so many had taken to the streets

Decided it was time to end the partnership

Once and for all.

The Pugalist

God never knew we could fight so dirty

Hit below the belt

Leave him flailing on the ropes

Bruised and bloodied to hell.

Our uppercuts of religion

Smashing into his skull

Blurred vision slows his fighting skills

And we go in for the kill.

The ref is counting, we dance in the ring

We've regained man's true title

But when God's down and the towels' thrown in

We've no opponent left to fight for.

So instead we fight amongst ourselves

Each believing our cause to be holy

The sacred bomb and gun and knife

Doing our God's will daily.

And when the last man twitches and groans

And slides into oblivion

God will hire another promotor 

And the fight will simply begin again.

System

The system is definitely not broken

It works as well as it should

I can scrub the floor until my knuckles bleed

So you won't kick me as I know that you could.

The glass ceiling needs a good polish

It's stained with the smear of your spit

I can gaze straight through it when it's shiny and clean

It's the price I pay so you don't hit.

My hashtag is always a worry

No matter its title or name

Like a virulent swarm, it draws out the monsters

And bating my life is a game. 

It's the hush in the boardroom meeting

When I speak as an idea flows

The quizzical look that I may have a point

And all my confidence goes.

For the fist is a mighty weapon

It bruises and batters and blurs

But it's basic and brutal and can't hide the shame

Of how the system can grow. 

But I have a secret weapon

Amidst the eye of the storm

A million voices that are just like me

And don't gesture, threaten or perform

So I'll pack away the cleaning materials

Hashtag my life again 

And in the end, you'll see that I do have a point

And the system will be reborn.