Tracking

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

tracking
                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
nineteen?
            as bright and shiny as a
virgin penny, did she

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

is she still getting wet
             writing
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

                  metaphysically
self-referentially

, 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
                                               avidly
    until I
          cracked and pulled out, like
               Christine Chubbock
 
(I went there. You don’t know me at all.)

         

    

       

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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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