Thirty-something and — shit! —
Windows is shutting down —
again with the lag and tidings.
If I don’t have a name for it, how do I recover?
Maybe I should push more.
But then I see the riverbank
sluiced in red from the sacrificial high season.
I can’t get on board with that, no siree!
Artistic men standing by with their motivations and fashionable
facial hair. Me? I prefer a “I grew up like this” aesthetic
for my unsuccessful auditions.
Thirty-something and —
what’s that crash scene up over the horizon?
When I grow up, I’ll impress the world
with how calmly I can walk away
from exploding cars/buildings/spaceships.
My life story will fill pages and pages
of Google search results — instant proof
I’ll neither confirm nor deny
when the time comes to sell out.
Instead, I suggest you hunt through
secondhand stores looking for
my obscure inspirations and give new life
to Goosebumps® reading lights.
I’m going to
fuck it up. (Don’t fuck it up.)
I guess I’ll sit here silently
in the name of art. Has someone written a book about that?
ivy adding class to ambition. The walls
are fit for purpose, but the sky is not.
Tonight, Matthew, I’m going to
disappear into the dark side
of the stage. Tonight, I’ll just watch.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chris Tse‘s writing has recently appeared in Sport, Cordite Poetry Review, IKA, and Queen Mob’s Tea House. His first book of poems is How to be Dead in a Year of Snakes (AUP, 2014).