I am a writer, I suppose

I spose I’m a writer now, because I write things

But not much gets published. Does that matter?

I’m wondering if validation equals a career or

Maybe at least a vocation? No. A passion?

I don’t really think so. Of the hats I’ve worn

This is a fairly comfy one. Is it a compulsion?

Do I feel worse if I don’t write, and better

If I do? I guess I don’t obsess, don’t sing

My own praises enough. Or maybe too much

In passive-aggressive woe-is-me port-soaked

Nonsense. Who knows. Who cares? Pfff.

I can call myself a poet if I want, but nobody else

Really gives a toss about that, which is fine by me.

Actually I lie. Who wouldn’t want other people

To read what you do and say things like, ‘He

Really taps into the zeitgeist,’ or, ‘Joe calls

Things as they are, but you can see he believes

In something better.’ Stuff like that. Really. Truly.

But that’s really not the point is it? It’s kind of a self-

Obsession if I’m motivated by that. Again, though,

Maybe that’s the point. I think I’m missing something

Rather than the world missing me. So…

Journalism is different. Non-fiction books, all that

Is easy really once you realise that the story

Is already there. All your job is on that one

Is teasing it out, finding good quotes to stitch

Together. Chasing the ever-falling wordcount

And hoping to get paid. Nobody got rich

Off of these pulpy unauthorised biographies.

Well, not me, anyway. I don’t think they’re crap;

Some of them – all of them for different reasons – are

Pretty entertaining. I surprise myself when I read them

At some of the stuff I scribbled for a laugh. Ha. Ha.

Fiction? It’s stuff that’s made up, stuff that hasn’t

Happened. Or, stuff that could have happened, and

Is plausibly enough scrawled onto a page that it

Engenders hallucination of sorts, a mental movie

Translated from the printed black on white bits

And bobs that equal written language. And so we

Keep on reading, keep on dreaming way beyond

The confines of the ragged world’s constant spasms,

To lift ourselves from day to day drudge, or fear,

To stave off the urge to get fucked up or to fuck off

Altogether, and finally. Why? Well, the truth is: I have no idea.