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.