I think I’m gonna fix my computer
The webcam’s broken,
I’ll read my poems to the camera and feel like a movie star,
A bland movie star with a northern accent.
“Nice teeth movie star”,
“Well thanks, my love.”
I wasn’t allowed braces coz they weren’t bad enough so shut your damn mouth.
Nah, I’m joking – I’m alright.
I might let my hair grow out a bit first though, I’ve just had it cut and I look like a budgie that’s just had a sock thrown at it.
Things have been difficult lately.
I’m not keen on just spinning unoriginal drool, sadness, boring stuff.
dragging over lines and
Crusty old diaries
Confessions dragged out in long paragraphs
Should I exploit my past self?
Loot those pages?
Because I’m too empty to come up with new things.
Bone-dry brain folds.
Sometimes I feel prolific,
But is it all shit?
Loose fibrous shit
– Really gets in between my teeth.
Sometimes I see other people’s faces on their profile pic here and I feel a little, not jealous, exactly, but like I want to put my picture up so people can see me,
Why is that?
I’m not sure.
I think it gives such a nice personal touch, and as a reader, and a consumer of other people’s words – I enjoy putting a face to a poem.
Watching someone perform a poem can be really moving, it can be great and I’d love to have the confidence to do such a thing.
However, how would I grasp on to my anonymity then?
I know what I’ve written and published. I know every poem and I imagine that sometime Auntie Margaret might see it or someone who doesn’t particularly like me maybe, may get them up to have a nice laugh.
“Jason, have a look at this. She’s talking about masturbation again- silly cow, what a dirty fingerer.
What makes people like that? Is she an exhibitionist or something?
That must be why she never leaves the house, eh.”
“Huh huh huh – you are funny Janice, I’m glad I married you. You do make a good quip. Now come and sit on me thumb.”
Hahaha – see, how am I supposed to write my poems and look you in the camera eye?
I could just stop being vulgar and disgusting.
My brother hasn’t read any of my poems,
I won’t tell him the address coz they’re all about sex,
Well not all – but a lot,
And they’re confessional a lot of the time.
“Why would anyone want to read about your headaches?”
“They’re not all about headaches.”
“Back aches then, neck aches – are you branching out into feeling cold?”
I do say I’m cold a lot to be fair.
I wouldn’t tell you where I write my stories,
You said you’d still find it,
And you might,
Don’t blame me if you come looking and don’t like what you see.
This is where I let everything out,
My words can play in the white meadows here,
And I can play with them,
And mix them around.
Combine our stories with other ones that you don’t know,
Or choose words for ease or rhythm.
These confessionals reveal a lot but not everything, and I wouldn’t want you to read these and then bypass talking to me, as if you know my thoughts because you’ve read them here all musical.
I just hope you wouldn’t lay your catty eyes on them and they’d become unnerved dinner plates,
And you’d slink away all skittish like you do
Because you saw a word like “love”, or “care” or “think about you”.