Clare Pollard is a English poet, and
new to me. I read her book
Changeling, from
Bloodaxe Books in England
recently, and was struck immediately by some refashioning of myth
that so many people do badly, but not her, thank God, as well as some
stark confessional poetry that hit me even more. It's Sextonish, yes,
but with a contemporary and more cynical feel. Well worth the time to
track it down, this book. Go forth and do what you must: consume.
Adventures in Capitalism
Nothing is real and I want it to stop.
I cut my wrists, but the blood looks
like make up.
I slump in toilets snorting cocaine
but it doesn't seem true, just a grimy
dream.
I wanted to feel, so had a
tattoo done.
I chose a sea-blue anchor near the
bone,
then saw it in a tabloid and felt a
fake.
Crashed a car dad bought me. Nothing
broke.
I went to see Othello swallow a
lie
and cried at the end, but it was only a
play.
Read some Rimbaud, bought a black
polo-neck
and a bottle of absinthe, but felt like
a prick.
I whisper 'I love you' and 'Tie me
down,'
but all that moan and fisting is just
porn.
Signed an online petition but it made
no difference.
I bought a house, but it's like playing
house.
I own How to be a Domestic Goddess,
but I've never
cooked from it, if I'm honest,
and the brownies
and aprons are only props
and my wardrobe's a
Fancy Dress box,
and I yell at
everyone who cares. I hurt them
because I need
something to fucking happen.
