This poem was published in the magazine Under the Radar edited by Jane Commane (February 2016, Nine Arches Press).
I arrived at the station – train delayed an hour.
Stuff that. I bought my own, drove it myself,
got there early. A kerfuffle on arrival –
the Fat Controller spluttered about rights.
I bought the track.
I had a heart attack. The ambulance was late.
I built myself a hospital for the next one,
staffed it with robots. Programmed them myself.
Built a bypass round it for emotions –
auctioned my own.
I sold excitement, pain and fear.
I made a plaster cast of love and sold that too.
I caught an echo of that feeling
of starting to fall for a face, losing control,
boxed it and burnt it.
No decent friendships on the market.
I cloned myself, GMed each clone:
a range of my perfections. They bored me
with their eyes, drilling through my vellum
layers, ready to sew
my signatures into a hidebound volume
of authorised biography. Remaindered.
I bid for the publishers. No dice.
I serialised myself – a comic strip,
sold it for a kiss.