Confessions from one who talks too much (and worries too much)

I was in between National Geographic articles and dusty gramophones.

I was stuck on thoughts about capitalism over tea with my mother

who never really left the asylum of materialism

I was told it was just a phase over coffee with my teacher

that i should bow my head and pray 

to become a doctor

or afford a sunny suburban 3 bedroom house.

i was told by my art teacher that Rococo was useless 

and had I read Freud?

i was told not to take the crusts off sandwiches i ate

on my way to pick grapes for the dogs wine.

I was told that I did not know myself.

However I know that the fish would die 

and our seas would be empty by 2048.

But hey, have you ever tried sushi?

I know to never fall in love with a boy who recites Bukowski  while asking for a lighter.

I know of the secrets that English teachers refuse to share

about the secret meaning of Yeats and Burroughs.

I know it is not just a phase.

I know that the monotonous circle of dreary suburbia

will grip my friends with microwaves and tucked in shirts.

I will break that circle.

I will play with the crazies until 

we collapse on the floor,

drunk off words and DADA cafes of 1916.

I will wear yellow gumboots to a politicians dinner

and spit in their beef rather than protesting.

I will burn my microwave and not tuck in my shirt.

I will socialize with the untouchables whilst drinking

the finest champagne out of a boot.

I will not listen to the radio while making eggs for my alcoholic husband on a Sunday.

I will tattoo poetry on my eyebrows,

causing distress in my fathers eyes

over pickled onions on a Tuesday.

I will dust the left corner but not the right

I will nbe upside down and cut my own hair.

I will be my own wild thing

I know that this isn't a phase. 

Oliver De Sagazan is my imaginary friend

                                                  

On one side I wish to be a writer,

to get drunk and

  see what words an altered state would say

about the world,shoes and the creepy neighbor.

One side craves the bright lights and city lust

whilst abstinence tempts my words.

the color of paint goes 

from 

red

to blue

to purple

like the veins on my spidery arm while i try to sing in tune.

My church has stained tear windows

and a backyard priest foaming about ideas 

of the world and physics.

The barefoot shaman battles with the 

practically depressed artist draped in stained denim.

The insecurity of what and who to feel and be

is eating my existence whole 

while i drink skinny green tea hoping to feel something.

I am not taken seriously because my maths sums are never correct

and i forget to punctuate my sentences

i am falling but rising.

i am just trying to exist.