poem for you

By | 1 March 2015

I’ve been trying to write a poem for you
that’s lacking in lust, that has a point of reference outside of itself
which is you, not the rhetorical you
and me, the real me-misis
not cornered in a self that frankly even as a feminist
I’m getting tired of problematising

I’m being devastated by the hard lines of words
and the absorbing whiteness of it all, the sheet
the mirror suck of the
context of these blocks waiting to be filled
for me to touch them into being and say
something that I couldn’t just say
because it doesn’t exist yet, how could it?

One thing that went wrong is I’ve been
trying to construct a metaphor
around the way that
keys on a keyboard are pressed to make letters which make words
which a word processor can decipher and register

it probably involves electromagnetism or
code or something but there’s no way of googling that doesn’t
lead nowhere, like
I’ve tried how does word work and how do we make writing
and computer typing science and how does word word
which was a typo and nothing so no metaphor, barely any poem at all

it was supposed to say something about form, about a meaning filling
up its neat preformed box and the relatively limited
materials we have to work with and way language ultimatey blocks communication
and I was going to fill the serious space in the middle with some
pasted scientific words
(cf. all the poetry I’ve ever read or written)
but as I’ve no idea how it works
there’s no hope for my metaphor
but there’s still a poem for you
it’s not disappointing, it’s not vacuous
it’s not me, it’s not you, it’s
really for the reader, who’s being a brat

What’s the worst thing about this poem?
Well, it might actually throw the whole thing out
like, this is me at full stretch and this is the best you’ll get
What did you expect? Do you even know what it’s like being alive right now?
Someone’s probably emailing somebody else right now

I’m only good for my carbon
I’m offset by tax breaks and charmed by incentives
for our love
house prices are improbably going up and
the sky is frozen like its been stuffed
at the back of the fridge
I’ve been winded like a horse
stashed in the out-buildings like a corpse
strung up like road kill meat, free and illegal
and broken all the way through
shook up like change
rolled up, crushed between forefinger and thumb,
kept in a bag, lost on the Tube
befriended by cats, stuck all over with hairs and making
peace with corners and undersides and insects and
the enormous cells of their eyes
nonbeing is the new being
muyu is the new yu
one of the things about the self is that its edges bleed, and please

I get so sick of these poetry boyz being always making a fuss
writing poems about love like it’s the final cleverest metaphor
if you were in love with me you’d shut the fuck up about it

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