I’m too coarse to be a poet.
Like Polaris keratosis
On me arms in summer
And my skin just outta the shower.
I want to easily articulate the
Innate truths and fundamental
Universalities of the human
Psyche.
But my tongue is too heavy
And my accent’s spattered with cunts and fucks.
How am I gonna escape the escape, the system of inequality
That relegates working class women’s opinions,
That regulates what we say and how we say it.
What if I don’t talk like a nice lady?
Paint me like onea your Clontarf girls.
Is it so cliche
To want flowers to bloom
From my empty mouth?
Stick fingers down my throat
And try to fish the rainbow out
Make that almost vomit noise.
I ache under the weight of
My contemporaries words.
I eat, sleep, and breath cliche.
My pre-used and once loved words
could never expose the inner workings of the working class experience.
