Showing posts from April, 2011

A chav protests

A certain lady poet has declared
that chavs can't vote, because we're too impaired:
distracted by the 'Sun', by beer n fights
to know the difference 'tween 'trician n 'phile
'Bollocks!' I say, they're paedos, n it's right
to treat 'em all as though they're fuckin' vile.
We see that votes from crumbly citizens
put in the Tories, time and time again,
thereby denying us a decent future
through education, art, museums, culture.
So wild we are, n beastly chippy too,
don't give a fuck, n quite determined to
crush, to the best of our ability,
snaggletoothed legions of senility.

The Guangzhou bar bore

Another oldie, this time from about 2007 and the infamous Paddy Field, Guangzhou:

'Nnnerrr,' said Roger, like old Wilfrid Bramble
'Grammar schools, nnnerrr, hanging. South Africa
used to be great, that’s where I would ramble
when the ni-nnnerrr were down, in the sixties. Pah!
It’s no good today, crime and disorder.
Nnnerrr, I was apprenticed, kids now no plan.
Even the beer don’t taste like it oughta...'
'G’night,' I said quickly, and fled from the man


I wrote this the day after seeing 'Antichrist', about 18 months ago, and read it at the Poet's Café in Reading that night. Let us say the applause was more 'Thank God he's finished!' than 'Encore!'. I publish it now as an appropriate beginning to Holy Week.

for Lars von Trier
The maenad cuts Her clit with scissors, pulls  blood from His prick. Tiresias nods and laughs  at agony in woody places, full  of nothing new. The gynocide is crafted  by three beggars, and Satan’s church is nature.  Grief is a Deer, her stillbirth hanging aft.  Pain is a Fox that gnaws its belly – state  of chaos. Despair’s a Crow that never ends  until the maenads climb a lonely hill to rend

Décadence Mandchoue

The memoir of Sir Edmund Trelawney Backhouse, 2nd Bt. (Backhouse /bækˈʌs/, which is appropriate) will be published this week, and a cracking good read it looks, even if it is a load of old cobblers.

I wouldn't be so sure though. Reading the review I was reminded of my own time in China; if I published a memoir of life in Guangzhou in the mid-noughties no-one would believe it. I could tell of the divorcée who invited me to move in and offered to sweeten the deal by installing a concubine or two. The girlfriend who came over one night with her 17 year old, uninitiated, eager cousin. The unspeakably depraved practices of Mystic Meg from Hiroshima. The policewoman who, upon discovering the effects of black resin on the male member, ensured that there was always a ready supply on the bedside table. The millionaire's daughter who drove me to a nightclub with one hand on the wheel of the Merc and the other not, at every traffic light her head bobbing down for a quick...
As I say, no-on…