Is the art of writing good art
to lose all inhibition
like Sharon Olds
with her detailed,
anatomical odes to her
mother, carving with
syllables the cave she exited
and the nipple she drew
milk and blood from?
Visceral, strangely alluring,
profoundly deep. I could
do the same, write a
sonnet about my cock,
the trials and fire I put
him through,
personifying him,
and then forming a
transcendental connection,
but unlike
Olds I’m not well known
enough to get away with
a salacious rant, however
promising it might be.
If my words
adorned the pages of books
and magazines, they’d garland me,
say, What depth! And from a
fiendish, voyeuristic
vantage point too!
But here in the cyberspace,
they’ll think I’m mad like
the naysayers on FB,
ready to pounce, tear me apart
and then not do me the honour
of at least feeding
on my carcass.
Just a Writer 