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

Romanticism”

_________________

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?