Pretentious.

A strange word.  Quite long

and fussy, as though it’s

trying to draw attention to itself –

the dot sitting above the I like

a small hat, the crossbars of

the Ts flourishing across the

page like wiggling eyebrows.

Pretentious.

A manacle of a word.  A lasso

waiting to be thrown around

the neck of the unwary.  It is

strangely attracted to the

working class artist, to those

tentatively dipping their toe

into waters overpopulated

by the creative wealthy.

Pretentious.

A sneering word.  It follows

you around spitting out

criticism, reminding you

to know your place.  Don’t

stand out.  Don’t draw

attention.  Who do you

think you are? 

Pretentious.

A pernicious word.  Killing working

class creativity at its root

with its insistence on conformity,

on sameness.  We do this to each

other.  We use the word

to stifle and to stop, to mock

and to derail.

Pretentious. A useful word. 

A word to remind you.

To show you that you

are extraordinary.  A word

to be tamed and never

feared.  To be kept on a

lead made from the work

of working class artists who

never gave up.