Deconstructing Dickens

Deconstructing Dickens

What is it about writing

That breeds quotes like

‘I’m a writer

If I’m not writing, I’m nothing.’

Which is pretentious

Unoriginal

Highbrow twaddle

Not somebody you want to spend

Too long with

In an empty room.

The sound of a voice unchained

Is a scream

Barely recognisable as human

Why would you want to

Write with somebody else's voice?

In their style.

Isn’t that a bit like being Oasis?

Good as far as it goes

But why does it exist?

I am neither here nor there

I write stuff

I use my own voice

It gets it done

Like it or not.

As like as not

You don’t.

I say I don’t care

But like all elitist dingbats

With more salt than vinegar

Stuffed into a patriarchy

I really do

But not enough to change,

Rearrange the words,

Come at things

From a different angle.

Circumvent the analysis

Of myself as a grade two

Listed old fart

Of a wannabee

With a messianic

Manspeak complex

Who peddles the belief

He is an atheist

Even to himself

And refers to himself

In the third person.

Like all seriously deranged

Jackonapes

With great expectations

I recognise my failings

But see them as proof

Of individualism.

In an age of enlightenment

That is high praise indeed

Self-praise is

As you may guess,

Like self-delusion,

A common denominator

Of the glorious failure

The seriously deranged.