i know about things
you know about things
but your things are boring though aren’t they – be honest
and they’d send an alarm clock to sleep and it’d get fired, and you’d have to look that alarm clock’s kids in the face and tell them why they’re not eating wouldn’t you
because they’re boring aren’t they, your stories and how you deliver them
I can let poems out of the cage as unfinished monstrosities,
as lumbering creatures sort of sewn together, but not quite –
all the filling sort of hanging out like a burst silicone implant (I watched a lot of surgery programmes today).
But not prose, it sort of gets treated like the over-guarded, over-disciplined older child.
It feels too real and I feel like it has to be better, has to be more of a photographic representation of my feelings… I just can’t be as playful or carefree.
And I find that annoying.
Because my feelings are in flux all the time anyway, “so what does it matter?” I ask.
But what if by the time I press publish it feels out of date?
I don’t know, I just can’t let go of it the same.
But I’m sure I will, I just need more practice and more time, a few months ago I would have felt sick posting a poem on here and now I’ve posted over 200.
I feel like I’m being very lax with them darling, don’t you think?
i see your edges and your calm
i see how you push through round doorways as a triangle
i see how you roll uneasy
i see you sand yourself away to a viscous nub
but it grows back doesn’t it,
the shape reforms grotesque
and it disgusts you doesn’t it
it holds you in its grotty hand and when you look back
you’re confused by the concern of strangers
triangle bastard, poor sod,
you’re not a circle my love, you silly shit
you’re a pointy fucker with internal angles adding up to 180 degrees
point the other way
maybe you can make yourself useful as an arrow
the circles are twirling shit-bags anyway, haven’t you seen them try and fill a corner, they’re no Frances Houseman fgs, I can tell you that for a fact