Tracy

Tracy, you disturb me.
You probably think that's a good thing,

But it's not.

You're probably one of those people who believes a reaction,
Any reaction,
To your work justifies it,

But it doesn't.

Because it isn't really you
That disturbs me,
But this pock-marked,
Ten a' penny
Sycophantic modern nobody society that chafes
Like well-worn denim
On a sweaty crotch

(And that simile is just for you -
Anyone can do it.)

That a girl - no offence -
An unattractive girl
Used her sexuality
To gain popularity
And then goes wee wee wee
All the way to the gallery
Is just one of many sad stories
That never get told.

So why yours?

Why am I looking at your
Poorly written, poorly phrased
Writing on a wall?
Not that I am particular
With the violent particulars -
And, despite appearances, I am sympathetic
To the everyman's plight.

What I don't quite get is
Why I'm exposed to your story,
Which, as far as I can see,
Fits the template marked out by so many just like you
- as though
The unattractive girl in Bolton who
Gets boinked to win friends
And acceptance
Is somewhat less important,
Or worthy of attention,
When that's all she wants -
Just like you did, no doubt.

Please don't think this is a reaction to you
Or your bed or your tent or
Your scrawly, childish writing -
And please don't mention dyslexia,
People have succeeded through motor neurone disease
For God's sake,

It's not you I feel empathy for,
But the unattractive, fat, greasy girl
In her run down Bolton council flat
With her three kids,
Two fathers,
And dead end giro.