I love myself – I keep telling myself that, I think it helps

I think I’m gonna fix my computer

or try.

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.

 

 

Camera eye

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.

Nah.

My brother hasn’t read any of my poems

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.

He jokes:

“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.

 

CRH (a warning from monkey)

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”.