On Automatic (Poetry)

My pen writes to me
tells me things I didn’t know
about myself that make me nervous
wondering what it’ll come up with next

It seems to be in touch
with thoughts and ideas
I don’t recognise at first
but as they shape themselves
however roughly strewn across
odd scaps of paper
I have to claim ownership — admit
                                            resemblance

The fact they must have been
hiding from me for all these years
like foreign stowaways
waiting for me to sail into a friendly port
so they might take the opportunity to
                                            scramble ashore
declare themselves as refugees
and complete the documents
all this undermines my sense of self

Suddenly I am multiples of opinion
                                            declared political
my mind’s an endless hall of mirrors
reflecting these grotesque and unnerving crowds
who insist on being heard