“It is men, only men, from the first to the last that we have to do with. To please a man I did wrong at first, then I was flung about from man to man. Men police lay hands on us. By men we are examined, handled, doctored. In the hospital it is a man again who makes prayer and reads the bible for us. We are had up before magistrates who are men, and we never get out of the hands of men until we die.” - an extract from an interview with a prostitute by Josephine Butler as part of her campaign against the Contagious Diseases Acts.
Yeah yeah, that’s what she said.
Lady Wilde digested the newsletter, and folded it, placing a cup of tea on the stand, looking out the window.
Number 1 Merrion Square,
a shadow where her son’s statue would sit, lounging on a rock all Tulisa and dead stare.
A man of some importance. He got a statue. His father got a plaque.
His mother… well, she was just a groundbreaker. Why cut her any slack?
Her salon emptied out, Bram Stoker was thinking vampires would never catch on.
Isaac Butt was yet to write any Good Bits.
Speranza chilling, listening to Rihanna, thinking about her pronunciations of ‘Jameson’ and ‘paper’.
Markievitz: Dear land thou art not conquered yet.
Sitting in the Abbey with Maud Gonne, placing a cup of tea on the stand, looking out the window.
Shadows where the drug dealers would be.
All benzos and gear, valium and crack stored in Dublin City Council plant pots along the Liffey.
Markievitz now, just second in command (naturally) in Stephen’s Green, 1916, just opposite where TopShop will be.
She holds out in the Royal College of Surgeons for six days
until Pearse’s P45 comes her way.
Kilmainham Gaol where she’s number 70 of women in prison.
The rest put there for stealing bread, or taking British troups up to Monto Monto Monto, running from police on Foley Street turning the corner towards SuperValu, only distracted by ballet dancers rehearsing where The Lab will be.
“I do wish your lot would have the decency to shoot me” –
Markievitz’s words in Kilmainham jaded by the mercy afforded to her sex.
1971, still in Monto, this time, the platform of Connolly Station.
Boarding the contraceptive train to choo choo choose their bodies.
You can do stations of the cross on O’Connell Street like Mad Mary who lived up the road from me
and knocked me off my bike aged seven for whistling saying it was the music of the devil.
Dancing at the crossroads of Larkin and the Kylemore Café, near where Ann Summers will be.
Robinson was just a career woman, which presidents tend to be.
Ambitious. Driven. Went to Trinity. Always looking to the next gig.
Female attributes that don’t sit well with callers to Joe Duffy.
She was turned into a rug on Dame St opposite where Crackbird would be -
now this is the 90s so this is pre-waxing.
Rugs were allowed then, removal wasn’t so taxing.
Give us the smooth lubricated body of Page 3.
The rapey pummeling of pornography.
Like when Levy said Britney’s body became so familiar she started to almost think they used to go out.
A slave for you. For me?
Now, on Capel Street, a stone’s throw from Youth Defense, if you’re into throwing stones.
A rock’s throw to the Rotunda up the road from Monto, where by men she is examined, handled, and doctored as she turns the ferry ticket over in her pocket.