it's language, of course i'll be desperately self-conscious and worried and ashamed like i had been caught with a thong, attempting being a transvestite; i'm a man, i ought to be on a building site! instead i have about a hundred chinese per head tailoring and making things tick... what is this ****?! what, everyone had a poetic potential in them? so poetry has become an excuse, the art of excuses? hey! eh! play the jockey part, i'll do the moaning from now on... be the cashier at a supermarket, i'll do the dying bit of the existential convention of the many trades being advertised to foetuses! well obviously when you make music free all art forms will follows; everyone forget Newtonian causality? good... which means you'll all be artists... in your spare time; i do truly wish i had the inhibitions of a labourer, a smithy, at least then i'd know my life was full; rather than being a scarce exhibitionist as guiding the normalised feeling of inertia, coupled with hopes via the digits of readership.*

i can't do anything more
to this poem:
a Hackney hipster (live editing);
i can feel the shame of not
owning a cupboard and putting
it in there, dyslexia what have you,
html typos etc.,
i guess i'm just worried
by the speed of your reading
misappropriating it to
a different meaning, and
undesirable activity via quote into influence
of expression that shocks people
and gives them straitjackets of hope.