Two years on from Bowie’s death, I read something on my phone about how he battled to get his private life back, hence why he dropped off the radar for those final lives. As someone who wanted his poems to bring some kind of fear in my younger days, it felt good to imagine my current existence as something one of my idol’s had wished for. I love being listened to and read but I also adore being left the fuck alone. Fame is it’s own art these days. Some are able to become famous before bringing out their first book of poetry, which they sell by the bucketload. This pisses off so many other poets that they say these people aren’t real poets. Real poets send their work to obscure magazines that are read by a few hundred people and forgotten about. Real poets use line breaks. Some say that real poets are remembered for hundreds of years after they die. Deliver us from real poets and their real poetry. I have no problem with poets who design their book covers in a way that inspires young women to make a copy part of an intricate tableaux that they photograph and post on instagram. One of my prized possessions is a copy of my own first collection that I bought from amazon for one penny. There isn’t a single date stamped on the insert. That tells me more than any blue thumb or red heart could ever tell me.

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