Tag Archives: SST10

Mask Of Makeda- ioney sst10

29 Jan

Behind The Mask Of Makeda
(after ‘The Same City’ Terrance Hayes)

Being human is not enough.
I’m an intern for a film company in Rome

The first day, my arrival
permeates the office

like the lingering stench of feces.
Phone calls cut.  Conversations hang

fingers hover over keyboards

necks twist to their limits
pupils track  me from door to desk

each step a breach of the norm
a stain on whiteness.

Let me start again…

I’m the first person of colour  to infiltrate
these white walls

I have to defy suspicions
of brown faces on news bulletins

burning cities,  extinguish fantasies
of hip shaking jezebels

answer for every crime committed
justify every immigrant that arrives

on Italian shores because each one
is related to me,

and politely prevail.
at. all. times.  be.   polite.

Know that frowning is intimidating
my bone structure threatening.

Some colleges make an effort
one shows me a photo of his

adopted Madagascan daughter
the other plays Bob Marley on his lap top

my smiles stretch to smother awkward

When the whole office is bought lunch
I sit in the corner alone

smile and nod when I’m told
they miscounted.

So I wear mask of  Makeda
prepare for battle and mental warfare

to navigate across an open plan office
being woman is not enough.

I’m never a woman, always a Black first
each morning I apply a queens

war paint, protect the
delicate with  jewelled amour

I going to start again…

I arrive into a sea of fear
drowning every image of

a black woman they cling
onto so desperately

with each step, i command
the sea to part

my melanin a magnet, pulling
their eye balls across the floor.

Neck long.
Back stern.

Chest high.
I had arrived.

Queen Makeda
is now in Rome

‘le persone di roma sentite,
la regina è arrivata… salutare!

“Davvero, che bellissima!”


It happens on a balcony — Beccy Shore SST10 performance draft

28 Jan

Hey. No idea what will happen to the formatting when I press publish, but I didn’t want to attach it as a file cause then you all have to go to the effort of downloading it 😛


It happens on a balcony


Like this isn’t extraordinary – being alive

without walls or ceilings, when we’re humming like fairy lights.


The generator, for a few beats



breathing. We look up, like the eyes

of someone who loves you, as you walk in.


Constellations I don’t


flicker on. Clouds steal our breath

the moon shows scars


and all the stars point

to you


and to everyone else. To you –

all the stars point. The moon shows



Flicker on, clouds, steal our breath. Constellations

I don’t recognise, the eyes of someone

who loves you

as you walk in. We look          up,

the generator, for a few beats,

stops breathing.


We’re humming like fairy lights,

without walls or ceilings, being alive


like this isn’t extraordinary.



Dean SST10 – Adele, Trigger Warnings and a McDonalds Cup

19 Jan

Adele, Trigger Warnings and a McDonalds Cup



You have your headphones on

Listening to music

When a McDonalds cup appears over you shoulder

Attached to a hand

Attached to a man

Attached to a voice

Just a faint mumble under the music




Addressing the whole section of train

And not you directly

You stare at your phone

Adele’s face is looking back at you

You’ve been listening to her on repeat for a week

And you wonder what it must be like

To be a millionaire at 19, 21 or 25


A lady opposite you goes into her purse

And produces some coins

He brings his cup forward

She brings her hand forward

They meet in front of your face

And clink

The coins go into the cup

But it hovers there with only a slight jolting

With the train’s bumps and turns

You continue to stare at your phone


And when this man’s hand disappears

You know he is still near from the smell

And you think to yourself

If I can ignore this

No wonder I am so desensitised to what I see online


Is this man, his hand and McDonalds cup

Any more real or surreal to me

Than Trayvon Martin’s packet of skittles

Than Eric Garner’s haunting last words

Than little Aylan Kurdi’s body on a beach

Than a night of bloodshed in Paris

Than air strikes on Syria


“I’ve forgotten how it felt before the world fell at our feet

There’s such a difference between us

And a million miles”


In a recent interview with Graham Norton

Adele said her tweets have to go through two people

Before they are posted online

Her management made this decision

After too many drunken tweets and opinions


I often want to delete every tweet

Facebook post and picture on my Instagram

I want an “Are you sure?” button

And then an “Are you really sure?” button

Before the one that lets you send your post online

These words and images can haunt you

Like a ghost wearing your own face

But now there’s an app

Called Snapchat

That shows you fleeting moments

That you can never get back

Its logo is a ghost

But isn’t that just life?

Fleeing moments

That you can never get back

We see ghosts of ourselves

When we look back

At our past post on social media


That’s not you anymore

That’s not you anymore

Every moment that passes

We are different to who we were before

And yet we build digital monuments to ourselves

Curate galleries of selfies

Publish our opinions about everything


It’s important to have an opinion about everything

And tell everyone everything you think about everything

Think about it

Now tell me what you think about it

So I can tell you what I think about what you think about it

And you can tell me what you think about what I think

About what you think about it

But you mustn’t think

Without posting something

Because how will anyone know you’re thinking?

Now let’s think about something else


I never needed a nightlight as a child

The dark never frightened me

No monsters lurking in the shadows

Or under the bed or in my head

But now my phone has become both

My nightlight and the way the monsters get in


When I log on to social media

The world’s woes, worries and wars

Tumble into my phone

So sometimes I need to disconnect

And spend some time on my own


When I disconnect from social media

I reconnect with myself

Pay more attention to my physical

And mental health

When I disconnect from social media

I breathe a sigh of relief

No wars are waged, no terror attacks

No refugees, no grief


A friend of mine only ever tweeted once

He is dead now but his Twitter account follows me

He will always follow me

He will always be smiling in his profile picture and in my memory

At the funeral a friend said she found out via Facebook

Part of me wanted to see his dead body so I knew it was really true

Death has become something we see the footage of and not just hear about

Social media is an open coffin at the front of a church

It’s up to you if you want to go and look in

But don’t say you haven’t been warned


Trigger warnings:


Abusive relationship




Animal abuse

Animal death







Car accident

Child abuse


Cyber bullying


Death penalty


Domestic abuse


Drug use

Eating disorder


Forced captivity

Graphic sex









Medical procedures


Nazi paraphernalia









Ritualistic self-harm



Serious injury


Sexual abuse






Terminal illness









Not everyone needs the trigger warnings

Not everyone is afraid of the dark

Not everyone can see the ghosts

Everyone’s relationship to social media is different

Just like everyone’s relationship to Adele

Or to themselves

Headphones on

Listening to music

When a McDonalds cup appears over your shoulder

Attached to a hand

Attached to a man

Attached to a voice

Just a faint mumble under the music




But this time you look up to see

He is wearing your face.

BeaBop SST10 (3rd Draft)

8 Jan

She lived for that green
the shade that bled the sun through
tall stems full
of the stuff of life
laying foundations in the moss
cultivating a kind of eco-festival
full of cool, hip-for-you stuff

– Beat –

She hailed from Masaka in royal Uganda
she whispered evergreen national parks
wore celebrations piled atop afro coils
a silent disco danced behind cocoa eyes
And like a sister, scrap that –
a daughter, she wrapped me in tribute
Pursing lips to my dimples

Once, I thought I had jailed my chance
to mother after severing myself from a house
full of too many women
growing big for their boobs
I kicked the dirt and left my idea of family
to flap in the cross-wind
in a pea-green boat

– Beat –

She was the road sign green
that directed me back to motherhood
back when truth was wedged
between puberty and middle classdom
a detour made through males too old to be boys
I would hide my dreams behind
a padlocked Brady Bunch

Her face was the key
opening the old fashioned golden door
beaconing for folk to stay awhile
empty their souls
rest up and ease lines
carved across play dough
whilst sharing a little philosophy

– Beat –

Her voice was the architect
plucking my dimples
to loosen my shadows
the chef: pressing jerk, pimento
scotch bonnet, garlic cloves
into my middle
seasoning me for motherhood

– Beat –

She loved the little bit of apple mixed with olive
the kind that took the edge off a hard day
of walking wards
in worn-in clogs
her uniform a starched green
the type that made you stand to attention

Or hide your boyfriends attitude
until he wanted to do the right thing
all by himself
by presenting himself to her
to ask to place a ring on your finger
before even thinking of
taking your crown

And she would call me

– Beat-

Now she whispers to me
And I mother a handful now
using those tints
of her cool, hip-for-you, stuff of life


[Tech requirements:3 – 4 colour washes – different shades or intensities of green cycled for each stanza. Timing/length : 2’25”]

BeaBop – SST10 Idea

2 Dec

Light is part of our physical world – electro-magnetic waves, which is much more than we can visibly see.

Metaphorically, there are people who consume light; give off light; emanate light.

Every day people are affected by light – emotionally, physically.

I want to explore this powerful force as a metaphor for someone special in my life.

Posted by BeaBop via WordPress for Android