One poem in,
And now she introduces the self she wants you to know.

No real transparency with its glassy distortions and its “shine me, crack me, anyway you want me” cries for attention – no.

No.
She smilingly serves a safely sorted selection of sanitised samples (even the alliteration stinks of disinfectant).
She speaks about herself in the third person.
She tells you she works in the IT industry, she doesn’t tell you what she does.
She claims to be a songwriter, a musician, but offers no supporting evidence.
She holds up pretty pictures, tickets, trinkets and a used Anzac day poppy as if these somehow validate her existence, her presence, her poetry.

“That’s how it has to be”, she says,
“I know audiences. They just want to toy with my affectations.”