Untrue Confessions

Untrue Confessions

“Stuck in a limited
emotional cul-de-sac
circling endlessly
inside the bell jar”
—Joyce Carol Oates
“Sylvia Plath and the
Death Throes of

I’m sick of confessions—
Looking in the mirror

I’m tired of the same—
Old controlled hysterics

Seeing the world only thru—
Myself-as-subject eyeballs

C’mon, gimmie a break—
Some ironic attitude

I wanna ditch—
Lowell’s “Life Studies”

I wanna get into his—
“Imitations” of others

Although I’m shy—
I’ll do ”Three Women”

I wanna be unobtrusive—
Yet still into “realpolitik”

I’m tired of endlessly—
Exploring Number One

There’s nothing worse—
Than the same old drag act

I’m not preoccupied—
Anymore with Big Daddy

My pathological lying—
Bores me to tears

I’m ready for some—
Self-mockery lit crit

I’m willing to dish—
My ugly kitschy puss

The same old dismal—
Ventriloquist Act

I’m tired of being—
A Bell Jar kept boy

I’m bored with—
Oxygen-sucking tulips

I wanna start all over—
No face, no façade, no trip

Can I survive Schmaltzy—
Romanticism’s death throes?

Can there be life—
After “True Confessions”?

Is there Something after—
Twitter or Face Book?

Ariel on the flipside—
Gigolo on the inside?

Can I say bye-bye—
To another Swansong?

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