To the Captain
of our sinking, mutually destructive ship

I am watching the ebb and flow
           of my life

splatter black
ants, workers burning on
an iPhone screen

                even tracing
every goddamn stinking
single thing

you, Reader,
Captain – pervert
                          Peeping Tom
are peeking through the curtains
at the car crash
of me

I’m taking questions
about poetry,
               specifically; why my poems burn and
           bruise me
(because it’s true:
they’re ALL about me)

is she still with codename
            as bright and shiny as a
virgin penny, did she

fuck up with him like she fucked up
       with Breathing Space
         the other, the Bosnian guy?

is she still getting wet
about two or three-night love

over three or
                        four page prose?

Who knows, and if she

can’t turn off the tap
of death by her own hand –
        (who does she think she is? sickness, sadness
                              ain’t a brand)
Well said! And what ego,
      what inflated
            unsubstantiated, insatiable ego
to write
              stanza break


, self indulgently dipping
       toes into her jewelled tropes
                and laughing at our attempts

to pin down
the exact kind of
mental disorder she may or
                   may not have. All I want to
say is

      if I was on TV
                   you’d watch me
    until I
          cracked and pulled out, like
               Christine Chubbock
(I went there. You don’t know me at all.)




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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