Jessie Millson
my writing
I want to build spaces and projects in which political theatre is allowed to say what it really means, but I also think we often have to be sarcastic, sadistic, or downright silly in order to do this. this means my writing often becomes tongue in cheek, but i’m certainly not biting my tongue.
My writing is always queer, as I am a queer writer, and due to my directing background I leave the gender of most characters open. I want to make queer theatre, but I don’t want to vocalise that, I just want to let the characters' queerness exist and, whenever possible, let that exist with joy and freedom.
I also write extremely political narratives, as I am a political person, but I allow politics to seep through the cracks of odd, often unbelievable situations. I am writing in a time that is comically cruel, so why shouldn’t my plays be the same?
this is an ever changing page
through which i both update anyone
who may be interested in my work,
and a way for me to be contacted
should anyone require information
or want to collaborate.
Feel free to peruse :)
@jessiemillson
writer
director
actor
hardly working
bristol old vic
edinburgh fringe
After a performing at Bristol Old Vic in June, this new play by Jessie Millson follows a queer relationship blasted apart by politics and pranks.
We are placed between worker and slacker, between filthy rich and stinking poor, between staying or going as the bar between Charity and Lois becomes a bigger and bigger boundary.
Do you serve to live or live to serve?
Jessie has written and begun R&D for Hardly Working, their new two hander set to be performed as part of the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School showcase at the Weston Studio. The play is then set to be taken to Edinburgh Fringe 2024, at theSpace Three on the Mile.
Trust, truth, and tequila.
Could you date someone of the opposite class?
Does class actually determine politics?
What happens when the patriarchy walks into a bar?
Hang on, this was meant to be funny...
Cooker
Pressure
A new play by jessie Millson
The kettle boils, the lights come up, and we find ourselves watching four sixth year med students treating a patient. As the play develops, we realise they may not be quite as sober as they should be. And, as we find out more about how they treat their own bodies, we wonder how capable they are of treating the body in front of them. Under the heat, will they uncover what's wrong with the patient, and will they discover the lies amongst themselves?
options
tobacco factory
Jessie is in their second R&D period for their new play Options. The shortened version of this was shown to a sold out audience at the Tobacco Factory in February 2024 as part of SPARK festival and went down a storm!
Acting Credentials
Nicola in The Lockdown Hauntings (2021) |
Sam in Doll’s House (2017) |
Soloist, Ralph Vaughn Williams 49th Parallel, BBC (2022) |
Eileen in The Silent Canary (2022) |
Girlfriend, Mum, Climate Activist, Friend in The Doomed Hysteria of an Unexamined Mind, at the Alma Tavern Theatre (2022) |
Propsero in The Tempest, RSC Summer Shakespeare Festival (2017) |
Juliet in Romeo and Juliet, at Clifton Hill House (2022) |
other writing
Email pressurecookerplay@gmail.com
or jessicapmillson@gmail.com
Movement Direction
poetry
Heya! My name's Jessie Millson and I'm a young, queer, non-cisgender creative based around London and Bristol.
I'm currently at Bristol Old Vic Theatre School studying Drama Writing and I’m the writer of Pressure Cooker, winner of the KeepItFringe fund this year and a sell out in London and Edinburgh.
This part of the website, however, is for my other passion which is writing silly little poems and hoping they make some people smile occasionally. I have just begun an endeavour of self printing my poetry but I would love to publish collections I am working on that promote positive thinking and self care.
I hope you enjoy them, and feel free to contact with feedback and / or enquiries
:)
the self centred section
Jessie Millson (she/they)
collection 1;
waiting for what
Waiting For What is a collection written over 2020-2022 and one I hope to publish at some point soon! I will welcome any feedback and advice with open arms! Contact me on Twitter in the link above or on instagram @JessieMillson !!
waiting for what
This little spider is so cute.
Tiger striped
And jiggling her ass in the wind
As the
web shakes
like bass.
What's she waiting for?
All the flies are at home,
Stinkin round my buzzin bin.
She looks hungry.
I wish the wind would stop.
Must be like a waltzer on that silk wire.
i saw a man in a suit on the seafront
published - lucent dreaming, issue 11.
The sea is rising, slowly.
Currently at ankle height.
I do not know whether he stands
To admire beauty or await the rising tide.
I wish to wait and watch the sea
Climb higher on his grey suit
Until the ash wool resembles
Charcoal after a fire. To watch it
Reach the knees, hips, elbows…
But I do not wish to see him drown.
The image is so serene, so meant,
That it would be like burning poetry,
Scrapping art, to save him now.
His knees are wet.
So I watch, for a moment more
Then go
Wandering back across the pier
And wonder for a week or two
How high the tide rose.
Safety Just above my pillows
Or In The down of my duvet.
Comfort in the way our boots
Move together, in syncopation
With the fellow ginger voice
Blasting through the little kitchen speaker.
‘Let the children lose it.’
The speaker’s too small for a youth this big.
Our voices drown him out.
They don’t blend either.
He’s above us, in the stars like he says.
You’re in the ground, grounded,
And I am floating just above the kitchen sink.
safety
I will always be here.
And I will always hear this when I
Understand your jibberish scrawlings
That bombard my phone
On your crawl home from 11 jägers.
I can understand the vein on your temple
When they talk about your home town,
Or football, or the queen.
I can understand the fiery tybalt,
The boundaries of family and friend,
The first pint we shared.
I don’t mean to say I get it
Because we are not the same.
But I’m semi fluent
And I hope that’s enough for now.
Tell me how you can bear hug me
Without danger. Tell me how
Im comfortable here. Tell me how
I feel like dandelion seeds
Settling.
quiet walk home from the club
Walking home
The angles of the buildings are off
As if some prodigy child
Has found the playdoh
And created this
World.
They’ve had a tantrum at the cathedral,
Couldn’t get the bell tower right
And hit their hammer hands right down on the spire last week.
I don't know how they made this playdoh sky.
Must be a dome.
Maybe that's why
It's so quiet inside.
They’ve put their laughter in the street lamps.
It’s bottled, trapped inside glass
That wouldn’t smash
But can’t be heard
on a lighthouse near eype
I shout across the bay, a hue you cannot yet hear
A yellow hope you cannot yet comprehend.
You, in the light, needless of a future.
You, in the light, needless of assurance.
In the light, your face turns and goes
Towards the light, towards the light.
You do not need me where I stand.
And you will not
Until the house grows dark
And you cannot see the shore.
You do not need me yet
And yet I stand,
Ready.
softer.
I want my world to be knitted.
I mean, I think
People would be kinder
If they had woolen nails and teeth.
If a handshake felt like a pillow fight
And sex felt safe.
I think I’d like a knitted world
Where nothing's at stake.
dis-card-ed
I collect all of daddies post cards
I have boxes and boxes
I made him once.
Put all the postcards out until it looked as big as him on the floor.
The speed Iimit
I cross to avoid
That tells me 20.
Go at this pace.
I can’t even drive yet
But feel myself flying
Over speed bumps in the road.
I thought they were graves as a kid.
Go at this pace. 20.
Wait until you can drive.
To run any faster
Would be a silly idea.
Go at this pace.
flying through
I pass a cafe and speed up
Because I’m scared of how slow
The old Italians are driving
Spoonfuls of soup into
Such patient mouths,
Waiting for the sweetness
Between soupy sour conversation
On the topic of how promiscuous
The kids are these days.
Memories of young moans
Waste away
Into greying ash on their plate.
I start to run.
london , a
Go at this pace.
I’m scared if I controlled my speed
I wouldn’t move at all.
I’m scared if I cared at all
I’d lose the need to sprint.
Go at this pace.
Fly. Catch your breath
In moments between
The numbers.
Stop
For no one but yourself.
I’ll learn to drive soon
And go much faster
But my legs are pretty good
For now.
while back
response to
'grief is a thing with feathers'
Indeed, grief is love’s
Climax. I have never loved as much as
In grief. I’ve got Hughe’s crow KR-KR-
KRAWLING through my veins, turning my
Blood to bile. I have not felt this
Kind of grief since leaving home,
No, since they left, no,
Since the side of that motorway,
Hurling and wretching
Into a field of curious cows -
Oh,
it all happens again
Doesn’t it?
It repeats.
I’d like this grief to last a long time though
Id like to be acquainted with heart ache
To know what I staked was
Worth this.
first and final reactions
love's gonna hurt in the morning
The day you touched me
I turned into silk
Slipping, scrumpled, To the floor.
Sliding into slumber I cannot escape
As you drape me, scarf,
Round your tree stump neck.
I bend to you as a stem in the sun,
Following this course, utterly yours.
knock knock
Silence by the violence of the sirens
On the road outside,
I wait by my window
To see you. Would you climb up
the gutter if I couldn’t muster
The courage to open the door?
I know that you wanted to see me
To tell me you couldn’t see me
Anymore. I’m silently waiting
For your words to break me,
I’m sleeping beauty,
The pinprick ran through me,
I’ve been told my ending before.
I’m waiting for you
To battle the thorns
And climb up to the window
To kiss it all better.
To wake up would mean
The sirens that scream
Are really there, flying down my road.
There’s people in danger
And I cannot seem
To answer the door to you.
Everything is slow.
What if I said no
When you eventually tell me
You won’t see me again.
What if I said no
And I don’t let you go
See, we signed a contract
Where ‘friends’ just won’t do.
I’m crying whilst waiting for you
And your words. My wails
Like sirens because you are my world
And my wound. I want to see you,
That’s always true.
But I hear a knock on my door
And can’t help thinking
‘Too soon.
anton du beke kind of heartache
I knew your body so well
That I formed that perfect shadow of you,
Hole in my house,
When you ran through the wall
And left.
Could even see the frizz at the back of your hair
That now pulls the plaster
Into grizzly flecks round the bedroom.
I have to dodge them when I go to bed.
sillylittlementalhealthwalk
There's a stone in my shoe
But imma keep walking.
I like this walk
And so long as I keep moving
This treadmill earth will keep spinning below.
If I sort this damn stone out
I might miss a sound
Or a stranger
Passing by.
On escaping definition
How should I know
How sweet the sorrow
In the sweetness of the sound
Of a lark in this park can be
If they keep taking birds names
Out of the dictionary?
How am I meant to write my poetry
If the meaning of natures reality
Keeps changing with the
Growing concrete.
Secrete my senses then.
Block me in then with the men
That walk to the office
At 7am to meet with
Their surviving adolescence
And their computer screen
And pen and stumble towards
A world that may
Never have needed them.
Fill me up, then,
With screens
Not buttercups,
I don't know what that means.
This world is growing greyer
By the hour
And I'm tired
Of waiting for then.
I write from the confines
Of a love sentence.
My words to you disappearing
Into these plaster prison walls
And escaping through the bars
To the outside, to no one.
love sentence
Sometimes I whisper them through
My little food door
Thinking they might reach you
Should you be on the late shift.
I wish I could hate you
For locking me up
But instead I suck
Loveless air
Through my little food door
And hope you won’t ignore
The groans and moans
You heard from me before.
I hope one night
You’ll punish me.
Slam my face to this
Concrete floor
And kick my ribs in-
I don’t need them anymore.
I want to feel your palm on my face again.
Gun to the head; ‘I want love, or death.’
for amelia
Sweet as the scent of tea
That rises from the kitchen
And warms the passage
From sleep to waking sleep;
Bitter as the books
That made her cry,
Or laugh, or weep;
Musky as the scent of those pages
Is the dawn that wakes her gently,
Spilling gold and amber
Onto her tender face.
Oh, what a beautiful day!
i promise the sun will rise tomorrow
One day,
You will wake up
And it will be summer again.
You will not have noticed
The hours growing,
Or the leaves.
You will not have realised
The nights are not so long
And the days not so grey.
You will step onto the threshold,
Bracing for cold,
And notice
Warmth has returned.
And you will wish for eternal sunshine.
collection 2;
and then they went home
bzzzzz
do you think birds on telephone lines
feel odd,
sitting on all that energy?
I do.
fucking hell
A man once looked me in the eyes,
Precisely,
And told me he sees my insides
When he fucks me.
He feels the curves of it all, sure,
But he also sees the walls
Collapsing,
Folding in and retreating
For him.
He sees red in darkness.
The lights are out
And he has a golden desk lamp
That makes me look 2D
As the drawings of teeth
And feet
And tits
Climb up from pages
Stare at us.
He sees inside,
Pushing, prodding,
Inspecting.
I am not a partner but a patient
And he is disecting,
Slowly,
As if in love.
But his gloved instrument
Is merely moving
As it should, in sequence
With the red and the black,
Pulsating.
Where the incision began,
I try to hold him tighter
To remind him of
My beating heart
A little too far below his.
He is looking in my eyes,
Seeing
The freckle on the back of
My retina
The strain on
My optic nerves.
I think the blue of his eyes
Is the same shade as the river we swam in.
He sees in mine
The brown of my father and my mother's green.
shut up, brenda
I can't sleep.
Something is eating at my feet. I think it's Brenda.
She won't shut up. Shut up Brenda.
Yesterday, I was a child again.
I could have flown a kite. I should have flown a kite.
Today, something is eating at my feet.
I tune into the radio, playing
'Get well soon, my lovely husband, Dave,'
And wonder what my wonder woman
Is cooking for tea.
I tune into how that nurse with the fringe
Is getting on with her divorce
Then Brenda chimes in-
Shut up, Brenda.
Perhaps the nurse will forget Brenda in a week,
Perhaps she has already forgotten me -
It's ten past three. They're late.
Ben has already shouted twice for codeine.
Something is eating at my feet.
I'm going to go to sleep now and
Hopefully,
Tomorrow,
I will wake up a child
again
pre drinks
Crumbs
On the countertop
Through my fucking fingers.
Thistles. What the fuck -
Shit. Just clean up your shit.
And, while we're on shit
What the fuck are
The millions of smells in this house?
Like some alleyway in Soho
I don't want to know
Just clean it up.
And, while we're on clean,
I called mum today
The signal is still vibrating
Through my face,
Twisting my eyebrows and mouth
Into whatever this clapped
Thing in the mirror
Is meant to resemble?
Fuck, I'm late.
And I'm late.
I'll buy a test tomorrow.
Fuck, I have a test tomorrow.
Cover, no, smother yourself
In makeup tonight
Then at least you'll look right
Under club lights.
Specimen on their metal table,
Exposed and scared
As the doctors stare
At my insides
Through the bassline.
Fuck, I'm late. Run.
Brush your teeth!
Oh my God, I feel so much better now. I'm so sorry you had to witness that.
we rolled our hearts in paper bags
We rolled our hearts in paper bags
And stuffed them in our pockets
Amongst the array of junk
We'd picked up that day,
Thinking we'd keep the moment
Forever.
We tried to blink when the image was right
As if our minds could capture the night
Like film, like pixels, like ink.
Laughter sinks into the sepia of our night on the town
When your trousers got soaked
Because the child in your soul splashed
Laughter up from a muddy puddle.
We lit cigarettes on the harbour
And hoped the smoke stain wouldn't last
Like the papers that disappear
With each unwatched toke.
We hoped the paper in our pockets
Would burn slowly,
Would protect our vulnerable hearts
In that moment.
i come from i come from i come from
I come from a place
Within which every family name
Is on one of our benches.
Proudly. IN CAPS LOCK.
I know all of them,
Where to go to check our their view.
A newer name in the town
Where I come from
Wouldn’t notice them.
Would perhaps enjoy the view a lot more.
They’d be able to sit on benches
And stare from their own experience, paint the trees themselves.
I just think it’s sad these names on benches
Spent their whole lives here and chose,
Or were chosen to keep their
Names and graves stuck in our mud.
Bleach and orange juice
Make a metallic
Tang in the back of my throat
Where it’s swollen
From holding down my anxieties for this many days.
She hasn’t drunk her orange juice
And the plastic cup has left
Little wet rings where she’s tried to move it around the tray.
Mmmmrrreurrrgh, I hear.
She’s singing.
Hello, Darling, she says.
But my feet are still on the polished floor, blue with flecks of darker blue
Like the bottom of a pool. It’s so clean here, polished perfectly
And I feel bad that my feet are muddy from cutting through
The hedges from the car par to the door.
I wanted to save time.
christmas day OJ
mmmmmmmm.
Very clean, but it does smell a bit like wee too.
I say hello and cross the floor leaving footprints
And hold her hand. She’s held my hand all my life
And now mine outweighs hers so many times over.
I am very much holding her hand now.
Hello, I say again.
I swallow the metal,
Officially in charge.