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.