Write My Anthology For Me

Today I wrote
titles down, looked at all
my pretty words
even practised out loud

then moulded them
into sequence. Should I die –
by plane

crash or even by
my
own
ungrateful
hand

roof? rafters? it matters
not too much, but
get this – you,
write it down! I’m dictating
the way my words should
stack up and sound

first, the deadly
the visceral
the oh-so-good-you-feel-it’s-real
stuff, you know,
you suck it in and

China drips
from your tongue. Those first.

Then, the ones
about revolution – external,
umbrella, global phenomenon –
(you know the one)

I wrung it out, bled
each barricade dry; strung those
baton butts into words
for you. Thank me,

you should have thanked me
from your sidelines
I did my time, yes

nestle our occupation
our first
brief and bloody taste of uprising
between words admiring
my Eastern queen and the sorry

disintergration

of my mind. Third kind,
third part: words that ripped themselves
into a shaky whole
and blew your mind (and mine, a mess)

oh, I stand apart from those,
the ones
that made you shake your head or
pray for me. Those,
they are needle-like,
tiny hurt-filled epiphanies

they should come last and
remind my readers – teenagers, housewives – the perils
of opening veins
to strangers. Write this for me,
will you? I’m through

ordering my own
anthology (post-mortem), screwed.

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About fiercemissc

Twenty-something Geordie girl living and working in Hong Kong. Young, free and single and making the most of it.
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