Ah them little flags, who is hoisting
those flags, is it you? And please do tell,
what in tarnation do those annoying
little flags do? Perhaps it is well

to use them to flag a ***** poem
that is inappropriate and that
offends. However, I wrote a poem
about cold snowy Oslo, and drat

if it didn't recieve nineteen of
them little flags. If I can't write on
the subject of snow so pure, what Bruv
is a girl to write about, c'mon?!

Please use them flags for offensive poems
and f*ing leave the rest of us alone!

When I was five Miss M sat the Chinese
new girl next to me and I made a face.
Miss gave a sharp look like: empathy please,
an ethnic discriminates against race?

Even as a child I squirmed at being
cast as Other. I wanted to be with
the anglo kids. The natural fleeting
first impression of a child who writhes

at injustice. I was conditioned to
socialise and be protector of those
who I didn't want anything to do
with. The brash Anglo kids I suppose

were oblivious and weren't burdoned by
ideas too mature for them. Ah equality.

It was the place where I'd step from the train
and the sea air bouyed and supported me.
It felt just right. No sense of human drain
and exploitation. There I could just be.

Then I thought about it: About the men
so so beautiful and sparkling who chose
other girls. About the sweet fishermen,
surfers, beekeepers, gardeners, those

cool cafe workers, the greenie coop
community, musos, artists, weavers,
woodworkers and keepers of chicken coops.
Reality checks sometimes find dreamers.

Of all those lovely people I admired
not one reached out to teach me anything.

the girls with the boys are always the same.
A head length shorter, usually petite,
glazed expression sifts you out of the game.
In a group of boys they always play sweet,

avoiding controversy, agreeing
or chiming cutely in protest. Moulding
to become the double of the being
that exists in men's heads: Woman? Masking

themselves in culture, language, ideas,
stealing other women's work, no credit
given, or kindness. What appears is a
male-protected parasite. A Creature

who echoes whatever is in fashion....
Vegan? Banana? Coconut? Tasty?

In Oslo, there was this horrible thing.
Merciless, the abhorrence stuns your bones,
renders your hands useless and makes ears sting.
White dark isolating night hard as stones.

The Darkness swallows even the daytime.
And it's slippery! Every step you take
may leave you in flight. It's a lonely time,
risk eye contact and fall. Bones you may break!

A few of the Vikings will surely die
walking into it unprotected with
no gloves or hat. Some in shorts! Why not try
it yourself, is perilous cold a myth?

I think I'll read and crochet for four months
indoors and curse the cold with vile affronts.

To outrun pain, I became airborne.
The problem is that with insides like
a spinning top, often I am torn
and spend indecisive days ghostlike

indoors, listening to white noise. I
don't know how the girls and women
who have been ignored by the male eye
can transcend the status quo vision

when everywhere we are seeing white
males with asia ladies or other
exotics. Cringe waiting for the sight
of our love with a parasite lover.

Forced to find feeble colours of rare hues
a gift for just we who have been abused.

What is there to do when society
has played musical chairs and left your ***
without a place? Stand stunned or feel flighty
and go somewhere else? For you there's no home.

It seems there are always gatekeepers who
smile and take your money, frown to turn you
away. Calm in their porcelain skins. Do
something to conform? Forget what you knew?

You can't because you are no great actor
who changes with the ideology.
You're a truth seeker containing a store
of history, forgotten atrocity.

Walk on a tightrope between human minds?
No substantial future. Guided by tides.