for my 29th birthday, everyone was
being weird and I aimed several
kicks at a traffic cone
on my way home,
why would anyone celebrate me
and then celebrate me like that.
That was the last time I asked
my creator would chase me
to their demise,
until I was alone, floating
away on a sliver of artic
ice, fate unknown.
There's so much they don't tell
you. You can enjoy the work
of someone else without
having to read yourself in it.
You can actually just
live your own life
and feel pain and joy,
all the bloody things
in between and they
are yours and no-one
needs to help you make
sense of it.
You can just respect that
Mary Shelley* is buried
in your hometown and
there the connection ends.
*I drank in the Mary Shelley
once, I was 18, an ember
dropped out of my cigarette
and landed on someone's coat,
I at once slid through the
front door on my ice,
whilst watching the pyre.
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