Confessional poetry is yesterday,
academics in pale jumpers say.
You don’t use I because
it isn’t inclusive
and people don’t want to be
excluded. So use we, or they.
It means I shouldn’t write this.
See what I did there?
And again, a second time?
What the hell, I’m a rebel,
third time, I’m on a roll,
Oh! That was number four.
I’m on the floor,
five,
about to share
something about myself,
only I, six, haven’t at all.
The poem’s only so long!
Oh shit. Am I out of time?
Seven. No? Only good kids
go to Heaven. It’s not
confessional but contemporary
free-form verse
pricks in tweed
and corduroy
will approve of. Maybe.
I don’t give a monkey’s shit.
That was number eight, I think.
Nine! I’m, ten, going to my bed
because it’s getting late.
No, that’s not confessional.
I’ll say, eleven, I’m going to bed
to anyone. Twelve. It’s what I do there,
thirteen, I won’t share, fourteen,
with anyone but who I’m with.
Fifteen! Curtain call. We’re done.
Count them if you don’t believe me.