TOMBOY BOOKCLUB- The Terrible!!!

Everybody gets settled in layers sometimes: relentless sediments of little things that somehow pile up, broiling into a bodily pressure. Like a stone of fruit nuzzled at the back of your throat, or the constant feeling there is something you need to do, but don’t know how- a heavy mantle of blue. Blue that prickles and hisses from time to time, flashing hot points of red that peak to a frenzy- you petrify, then stutter. Words tumbling faster into nonsense, trying to outrun and mask the wildfire infection of nerves scrambling for safety in a place of dead ends.

Emotions are a spectrum, which we all tilt and glide upon, attempting revelation, to reach that sweet spot of happy sanity. The fact that knowledge and identity are so intimately bound in such a mercurial, turbulent realm as emotion/ feeling, the foundational impulse of life impossible to define or fluently articulate, is both the saving grace and damning fall of us all. Feelings are so important, but it is so hard for us to say what we mean, to define or describe or demarcate. Today’s book- The Terrible, by Yrsa Daley-Ward- has a remarkable literacy for tremulous inklings, sinewed vibrations of soul; and while the narrative events are specific and local to one person, the articulation of the emotion behind the person is something I think everybody could benefit from reading.

The Terrible is a pretty neat title encapsulating the ‘plot’- but really, there is no strict plot so far as the traditional rules apply. Daley-Ward uses poetry in all its various styles and modern applications to weave scenes, good and Terrible ones, to tell the story of a girl’s growth through childhood with her brother towards lonely adult life, all too familiar with pain. The way each poem functions as both a standalone piece and one part of a chain makes for a very compelling read, the pace is taut but always shifting in its moods.

Another element of the writing which I found beautiful was the role of imagination and fantasy, especially in episodes in the early part of the book. In order to cope with grim adult reality infiltrating their young souls, Little Roo and the main speaker (Yrsa) concoct sparkling realms of unicorns in the night and distant kingdoms where absent fathers are kings. It is a tender and magical touch of beauty in the sprawling chaos of lives ensnared in the grip of troubles- be that money as a Northern working class family, facing racism and misogyny (misogynoir) as a black girl/ woman, or problems finding and sustaining love when you’re used to feeling less than lovable.

Some parts of the book are incredibly difficult to read, especially knowing that the events are based in reality in some way. One episode that sticks with me is how the protagonist (Yrsa) behaves towards another stripper whilst working; the betrayal of female love and friendship for the dirty money of a nasty man is not something you can read without your heart hurting. The desolation and depression seems unbearable, but that only makes it all the more astounding that somehow, beauty was forged by Daley-Ward from it all. She survived the Terrible, in herself and the world, and she has crafted magnificence.

If you’re feeling some kind of way and don’t know how to say it I recommend this book; Daley-Ward has a striking clarity with the powerful, direct language that she uses, tempered by whimsical strains of tenderness and imagination to bring the harmony. If you are feeling down trodden, lonely or lost The Terrible will show you how one girl coped with it- that infinite, unspeakable place called the mind that we all have in common.

“You may not run away from the thing that you are
because it comes and come and comes as sure as you
breathe. As certain. The thing is deep inside your linings, way
down in the marrow. People have a lot of words for it…”

TOMBOY BOOKCLUB- ASSATA SHAKUR!!!

Hello everybody!!! It has been a HOT MINUTE since I posted on here, so excuse me if this is long…  BUT ANYWAYS!!! Todays book is thoroughly inspiring and informative, offering an alternative history; the flip side of a coin that has us all in its clutches, exposing the sinister and ubiquitous state sanctioned violence that upholds white western capitalist patriarchies. It is with great esteem and admiration that I introduce todays book… ASSATA: An Autobiography. The story of the FBI’s most wanted woman.

First and foremost: Assata Shakur is a fucking bad ass and we should all worship at her feet. Now we have that out the way I can make my next statement: how and why isn’t Assata’s story more pronounced in popular culture and mainstream histories of Black American resistance to racism?!? We all know Malcolm and Martin, but where was Assata on the history syllabus?!? Perhaps my ignorance stems from individual laziness, or a lack of prompts into further investigation from a white background unconcerned with disrupting the status quo. But I also strongly believe larger white supremacist algorithms have worked hard at disrupting the astounding influence of Assata’s activism, painting her out to be a monster rather than the martyr she truly is.

Prior to reading her book, the only knowledge I had of Assata was that she is Tupac’s god mother, and was in the Black Panthers. In my basicness, I imagined god-like qualities for her, assuming that she had been born enlightened and was always down for Black liberation the moment she exited the womb. Reading Assata, you follow the events and experiences that accumulated towards her acute awareness of racial inequality- how she describes the segregated south and its forbidden amusement parks, or how cruel she was to the first boy who loved her on account of his skin and how other kids teased him. It is not easy sailing following the path that unfolded for Assata to learn her activism, her enlightenment to violent abuse systemically and sustainably enacted upon the Black American community (I could go into her developing awareness of gender differences as well, but despite her undeniable intersectional feminism, Assata’s book is proudly preoccupied with racial politics).

However, as this is a very personal account and as Assata is still in hiding (she can’t give certain names or go in-depth about her escape, as the US government could use it against her), it feels like some larger historical details and general explanations of political happenings are missing. If you are wanting to educate yourself on the wider history of Black Liberation, especially the Black Panthers and Black Liberation Army, then this book is a great place to start but you will still need to do further reading to fully build the whole picture.

Assata has a brilliant knack for exposing hidden realities underpinning the seemingly innocuous face of the ‘American Dream’. She interjects some history lessons about the American Civil war alongside the unfolding of her own education, as she was taught to praise Northern America for helping end slavery, feeling betrayed and rightly furious when deeper investigation during her college years revealed a very different truth. Assata critiques many facets of culture where black people are exploited but never praised, and thanks to Assata spilling the tea I now no longer like Elvis Presley. It is mind-boggling when you become aware of the double-sided nature of things, how the white supremacist capitalist patriarchy masquerades in flowered dresses to hide the wolf within.

Despite the scathing and rightly critical analysis of racism in American society, her voice throughout is an inviting one. There’s a bohemian coolness underlying a zealous love for life, and disrespect for abusive authority in all its manifestations. You get the sense of somebody loud but not arrogant, somebody striving to find beauty rather than be it. The style of writing is traditional prose, which narrated by Assata’s keen wit and tenderness, makes for an easy but emotional read. One element of the novel I really enjoyed was the inclusion of some of Assata’s poetry, it was interesting to see the contrast and similarities between her prose and poetry. There is a directness of line and sparse intensity of language in the poems that really enhances the prosaic progression of narrative; adding deeper intimacy into how she was feeling at the time.

Ultimately this autobiography does exactly what it should: gives unprecedented access into the inner mind of one of the 20th century’s most radical revolutionaries. Her bravery and determination in defying the norms of a fucked up world are very inspiring- resisting arrest, giving birth in prison, escaping to Cuba- and I wish I had found this book earlier on. Not only to learn more about the history of Black Liberation to fight white supremacism manifest in all western capitalist societies, but because I really think she is a great role model. Assata teaches us to think for ourselves, to know your enemies and not build your own prison from their lies, her story is for anybody who wants to dedicate their life to being a free individual.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

“…My patience was zero. i didn’t want to wait for something to happen. i was into living and living for now. i was hungry, starving for life, but at the same time i was growing more and more cynical every day. i wanted to go everywhere, do everything, and be everything, all at the same time. i wanted to experience everything, know how everything felt. i had many zigzag conflicting ideas rolling around in my head at the same time. One day i was happy just to be alive and young and moving. The next day i felt like the world was coming to the end. Everything in my life was jagged, sharp, unfinished edges. Nothing happened calmly. Nothing was like i had thought it would be when i was little…”

TOMBOY BOOKCLUB- BURGERZ!!!

Hello!!!! I had never read anything by today’s author before, but yesterday evening to enjoy the last strands of the sun I sat down on a bench, sparked a zoot and acquainted myself. This book did more to illuminate me than the sun did, and I closed the covers after finishing with what felt like afterglow swarming under my skin. I had tears in my eyes, and good ones. It is a playpoem from one of the UK’s most prominent emerging queer voices, championing a gender-non conformist identity politics in their work. They are a writer, performer and theatre maker and I for one am in love! Today we shall be honouring ‘Burgerz’ by none other than the fabulous Travis Alabanza!

Burgerz’ seeks to make sense of a transphobic attack (Alabanza details how they had a burger thrown at them on Waterloo Bridge, and to humanity’s shame not one person did anything to help in the aftermath) by interrogating the seemingly innocuous object that became such an insidious weapon: a typical burger, as the title may suggest lol. It isn’t a long play, but Alabanza has gloriously made each word count- as it is pretty much a one person show. There is a density of emotion throughout that really makes it hard to stop reading, and more importantly- empathizing. ‘Burgerz’ attempts to make plain the hidden hurt that has continued to resonate since the burger was thrown, how hate attacks are not a one-time, stop/finish event.

The emotions of shame and confusion that Alabanza felt (feels) cannot be contained, put in a box (‘Burgerz’ also uses boxes very interestingly in its staging): the burger is reclaimed and infused with new metaphorical meanings to articulate what it is to live as a gender non-conforming person. The hyper visibility in public making them prime targets for attack from bigoted scumbags, yet simultaneous invisibility when it comes to needing help. They address the social pressures that can make it so much harder to build up a self-concomitant identity when constantly lambasted with external opinions/orders on what does or does not go into a good burger.

The play is minimalist using only 2 other characters, a white cis-gendered (presumably straight) male and female, who act as witnesses to the monologue revelations. When Alabanza confronts these figures with the raw, and uncomfortable vulnerabilities of how they feel being placed at the bottom pile of society, it is defiantly and definitely NOT an SOS plea. It is a soulful demand for solidarity, a refusal to stand in front or behind each other when we could be standing next to each other. I walk past Waterloo Bridge every day to work, and I know it is a big bloody bridge. Many people would have seen, many people could have stopped.

If you are interested in learning more on the internal/ emotional aspects to living as a visibly queer, gender non-conforming person I would highly recommend this book. Equally, if you are wanting to learn how to be a better ally, and how to support marginalised people who the Powers-That-Be wants us to ignore, or worse to actively obstruct. If anything, ‘Burgerz’ has one simple message: do not stand by and let bad things happen. Do not be complacent, do not believe the problem has nothing to do with you, that you are above it all (news flash: nobody is above caring how other people are treated. Nobody is better than anybody else).

Keep an eye out for more work by Travis Alabanza- they have a lot to say about the wonders and woes of non-binary living, and the ways we can best uplift one another XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

“What came first? The Burger or the Box for the Burger. Man or woman. Or the cages made for man and woman. The person free from man or woman. Or the person in charge of capturing the person free from man or woman. Gender or violence? That last one was the same thing. When I think about boxes I think about order, about containment and the need we have to tidy things. I think about how when things are tidy, it’s always those that are messy that are punished. Colouring outside the lines was never rewarded, only shunned…”

TOMBOY BOOKCLUB- The Half God of Rainfall

Hello everyone! I actually wrote about this author very recently, but after a light summer rain I wanted to dance in thunder, hear the clouds boom (do you see I’m setting up a rain vibe?). Today’s book is a blending of modern quotidian life with epic forces of Ancient mythos, and I have just learnt that it has been made into a play too- so I guess it spans genres as well as histories. The Half-God of Rainfall is the latest offering from Innua Ellams- a dramatic tale of revenge against the powers that be, in this case the gods themselves.

I talked about Candy Coated Unicorns & Converse All Stars a few weeks ago, and this long poem seems to be a technicolour extension of one of the poems at the beginning of that first pamphlet- Portrait of Prometheus as a Basketball Player. Combining the drama, power and passion required for ruling the basketball court with the patience, meter and skill for composing poetry- The Half-God of Rainfall brings apparently separate realms of sport and art, of gods and mortals together into glorious collision. It follows the story of Demi: a half-god bastard prodigy born of rape. His mother is the mystic and quietly strong Modupe, a woman drenched with the sacrifices of her ancestors, who is forced through the cruelty of the Gods to repeat that cycle of pain herself- left alone and traumatized with a life she never asked for in her arms. The powers and influence of the Gods flow down to the world of mortals below, and whilst Demi may seem like a wimp to the other boys in his Nigerian village- it is his tears that rock the world, cause devastation with their emotion. He has inherited his mother’s humanity, along with some distant power. Love and rage. A powerful combination, which the Gods in their weakening purity cannot ignore, and like the mortal men they foolhardily think they’re so different from, seek to control in order to protect themselves.

However, whilst Demi is lauded with stardom he is not really the hero of this revenge plot. Ellams’ poem is a reworking of myth and modernity to make an exciting (and very satisfying) blood bath of feminine retribution against the Gods- who for all of history have been demanding that the feminine stays on her knees, in more ways than one… With the protection of the Nigerian spirits, and what turns out to be an inter-connected rebellion of all the feminine deities across the globe- rest assured Modupe does not let the Gods decide fate easily. I don’t want to give away spoilers, but Hollywood ought to zip it with Superman and that rabble, and really should make this poem into a film because I would LOVE to watch Modupe fuck shit up all goddess style. I thought I could predict the ending from the plot, and the tradition of revenge tragedies (me being an arrogant lil boffin) but what is remarkable about The Half-God is that it uses the old and hidden to make something dynamic and timeless. We all know that mothers are superheroes without capes, but this is a revision of herstory that truly reinstates mothers- and all those who suffer under colonial patriarchal violence- to their true majesty and vivacity.

If you love a good old plot of celestial planets and powers, sports and punch ups I would highly recommend this book. Its rhyme and metered verses make it fairly straight-forward to follow, without the laborious and cryptic language that epic poetry rooted in the ancients often remains. A modern decolonialization of myth to give the world a new taste of what power can look like, it’s potential when fuelled by love and not bloodlust.

“…Among the Greeks there is a famous tale of pride,
about a child strapped with feathers and wax. It’s told
this child who got too close to the sun fell and died.

Whenever and however this story unfolds,
it’s never admired that he flew that he proved,
it was possible, knew it, that- wings- fluttered bold,

Bright, b r o a d, a graceful glide of a thing and it moved
towards the horizon before gravity pulled.
His vengeance needed greatness… “

TOMBOY BOOKCLUB- INNUA ELLAMS!!!!

Hello!!!! Today’s post is going to be a little bit different from how I usually write, because there is actually a bit of a real life story behind how I discovered this author! EXCITING!!!! I went to a poetry workshop last week in York and to a poetry Slam- Say Owt– afterwards (with my doting lover, I know they would not want to be left out of this post aha). I wish I could go into detail about all the marvellous Slammers I witnessed- bright, quick-witted poets showcasing the intelligence of the mighty North. But to be frank, I was giddy on rum and reefer and my time there wasn’t solely for intellectual probings, but to have a good lark. I know the winner of the Slam was Dami Okhiria, a medical student training to be a doctor at Cardiff uni. Her first poem used humour to talk about the seriousness of domestic violence, and had everyone laughing then holding back tears- it was FIRE, and I hope she manages to get more of her work out into the world in the future!!!!!!! But I am not going to write about her work, but about Innua Ellams. He taught our workshop before the slam, all based around personal story-telling and how to interrogate objects into speaking narratives for you. I got his book, which he read at the slam: Candy Coated Unicorns and Converse All Stars. Hence, this blog post.

I got goosebumps reading Candy Coated Unicorns, loving the balance of humour with sentimentality, solids with light, and of plot, storytelling with abstract poetic imagery. The way some of the poems slotted themselves into a wider chain of imaginative events reminded me of how many of my own poems start out: the bones of a moment, a snippet of story that I can mould into other meanings- creating fiction from a private timeline of ‘fact’.

Ellams is a Nigerian author who has lived in the UK for much of his life, and one renowned aspect of his work is celebrating and exploring race in an anti-colonialist agenda (he has also had plays performed at Edinburgh fringe) and whilst that isn’t the main focus of Unicorns, it is clear how resistance to authoritarian powers always informs his poetry, the need to create meaning and beauty: a refusal to contain your mind in one lonely world is in itself a rebellious way to think, the first step of manifesting hope.

The stories told in these poems are a treasure trove of detail and sound: each blends surreal, busy magic with a curiosity for expanding upon what we see as material into a bridge towards more iridescent states of being. I want to finish this blog post with a section of Corinne Bailey Rae. I interpret it as a scene captured of life, of the speaker listening to Corinne in their room and watching the small world around unfurl fresh textures of colour as music tumbles out of a speaker somewhere. The specific moment described that I love is just sunlight hitting a glass- every day spellbinding in the air. This poem reminded me of the importance of respecting the tiniest of motes in the shortest of moments, because you never know when poetry will come to whisk it up into heaven. I will definitely keep an eye out for more of Ellams’ poetry and that like it, and please do let me know if you do it! 🙂  xoxoxoxxoxxoxxox

….

“The beam hits a tumbled glass and scatters,
the glass plays prism, a rainbow pallet splatters
and colours come into their own, red rides an apple,
bleeds into a burning candle’s orange glow, wax
drips onto a copy of Othello, the yellow’d paper
greens where blue ink stains, fades to a dusty
indigo, rests on a violet folder.

This harmonious violent, accidental rainbow
hits a mirror and smatters across the room, sends
a thousand things twinkling in the summer gloom.
A confined borealis blinks, sinks into the swirl
and soft madness of a still warm duvet: the ghost
of sleep rises to meet the ghost of music, entwines
in the sparse sparkle. Worn footpaths in the carpet
look like crop circles, and a natural mystic fills the air.

…….

TOMBOY BOOK CLUB- NANCY CUNARD!!!!

Hello again!!!!! It has been a hot minute since I’ve had a chance to write! I have been twitching to get the poetry/blog ball rolling again, and so I’ve decided to indulge myself and write about a poet I don’t know too much about, but whose work makes my soul sing in the lushest and funkiest of ways… NANCY CUNARD!!!

I first discovered this poet/heiress/bad-ass icon at an art exhibition- Modern Couples at the Barbican, to be exact. After having read a few more articles about her, I can paraphrase her fascinating life with my patchy knowledge as such: Nancy was born to filthy rich parents, magnates of the Cunard shipping line and famous for their posh parties. She was always embarrassed by her wealth, but used it to fund her art: establishing a printing press, The Hours, and hobnobbing with Modernist greats (she knew Virginia Woolf- FANGIRL MOMENT), even bedding many of them as her lovers too. SHE IS A COOL LADY. In her later years, she dedicated much of her life to fighting injustice: she was involved in the Spanish civil war, actively fought fascism as it spread throughout Europe, and also used her money to help champion the artistic talents and civil rights of black people in America to fight against racism there. Nancy actually lost her huge inheritance over her refusal to concede to her family’s wishes to break up with black Jazz musician, Henry Crowder (but sadly they split eventually anyways). She helped the French Resistance in London during WW2, and somehow was even on board SS Windrush from Jamaica when it travelled over to the UK (not that she was involved in fighting for immigrant rights so much, it is just a weird coincidence she was on board). Her activist efforts are sometimes dubious by today’s standards, many rightly criticise her efforts for being heavily steeped in exoticism and White Saviour-is, not really making the efforts to fully grasp how to best help people and rather revelling in the drama. However, I do like to believe Nancy had good intentions even if her execution was not always on point. In the end, her life was very sad- abandoned by most of her former friends and artistic cohorts, sick and mentally unwell in a Sanatorium; which is also why I think it is important to remember her now, so that grim loneliness in the hospital isn’t really her end at all.

Nancy’s poetry is full of heart and soulful observations about the world around her, infused with messages- whether it is an apple tree, a bunch of jonquils or a busy Parisian street, Cunard finds meaning in many places. One of the most stunning works to me is a long poem- Parallax– she wrote in response to T.S Eliot’s Wasteland, and what she felt was an uncompromising and somewhat misplaced negativity after the chaos of WW1. Where Eliot’s work is stark and undeniably morose, Cunard is febrile and sensitive, mingling the past sorrow of lost adolescence with the happiness from those memories that still lives in details of her contemporary post-war moment. She channels exuberance with grief, sensitivity with a tasteful gaudiness for expanding on minutiae, and doesn’t present a monotone landscape of emotion. Her works are serious in their poetic sincerity, adventurous in how they manipulate traditional motifs and structures in on themselves to create fresher voices, and saturated with nerve. Whether lamenting the loss of love and beauty, traversing and interpreting/interrupting urban landscapes or challenging social status quos and injustices- Cunard has a gravitas that can change its tune, but never its conviction to making us feel something.

Without going on and on, I will finish by including a poem of Nancy’s that I found very romantic and despondently beautiful in its intense stoicism on the pains of unrequited love. A sonnet of sorts that, in its strict structuring of lines, hides a trembling heart afraid of its own devotion, and the terribleness of the implications of being known. Nancy is a poet of mystic and fantastic vision, not fully understood but still starkly passionate in her various rebellions against family, cultural tradition and dominating politics. May we continue to rediscover and celebrate her legacy to modernism, activism, and generally being a bad ass rich bitch with a mission. The so called ‘socialites’ of today could never….WE LOVE YOU ALWAYS NANCY XOXOXOXOXXOXOXOXO

You Have Lit the Only Candle

You have lit the only candle in my heart that I am bound to worship,
Kneeling in the draughts of that cold and most solitary place,
Alone, without the stirring priests and breathless sounds of confession
That have made holy such other seclusions, and in their hour of grace
Absolved desires and sins that I am barren of. This sharp
Straight flame of yours is silent, and like a saint throws down on me,
Now I have knelt again after so long on this remembered ground,
The steadfast radiance of his mute impersonality.
You have lit the only candle that shall illumine my wayward paths;
And I tell you, before the time comes when its flames must tremble
and start,
Facing some great wind of eternity that rends and masters it,
I shall be gone with the thread of its tall spirit safe against my heart.

TOMBOY BOOK CLUB- LINTON KWESI JOHNSON!!!!

Hello everyone! Today’s blog post is all about the Jamaican-British, Reggae-poet genius of the one and only LINTON KWESI JOHNSON, dub and rhyme master of the verse!!!!! 

Before reading his poetry, I knew Johnson was the only living poet to have the honour of their work being published by Penguin Classics, normally reserved for deceased writers of greatness only. So he is a pretty big fucking deal to be a LITERAL living classic. To give a brief summary of him before I talk more about his poetry: Linton Kwesi Johnson was born in Jamaica, but moved to Tulse Hill to join his mother again in 1963. He was involved in the British Black Panthers during the the 70s and 80s, and now has poetry accolades and awards coming out of his ears! His engagement with combining music and poetry has led to the creation of an almost spoken-word reggae poetics on music albums, and is majorly interesting! If you don’t like reading poetry, just listen to his songs instead!

His poetry deals with the visceral ups and downs of life for Caribbean immigrants in London, the potentials for joy and violence in the instability of transitioning from one life to another in a hostile country. They celebrate brotherhood and youth culture, exploring the city and new language forming from the mixing of Creole and patois with standard English. A big fuck you to colonial logic, separatism and binaries, and the hierarchies of language alongside race. The poems spit in the face of authority: Johnson writes of police brutality with a fast paced anger, and whilst his poetry does not expand on imagery or soft lyricism, the guttural iterations of his reggae rhythms pack all the descriptive punch you need to grasp the systemic violence he sees. Sadly, its not just the police who instigate strife: Johnson also writes of the violence amongst immigrants at that time fighting with each other. It isn’t hard to work out how Johnson’s themes- immigration, law and order, racism, community and class- make his poetry timeless even today. What with Brexit, Windrush, the refugee crisis and general global disdain for immigrants and travellers of all kinds- Johnson’s poetry brings forth a marginalised displacement I am certain many still live through now, and that everybody must respect and pay witness to.   

For better or for worse- depending on your preferred style- the only way to truly appreciate the sonic mastery and rhythmic precision of these poems is to read them aloud. I know! It does seem silly to read aloud sometimes, and especially if- like myself- you are a somewhat nerdy white girl who really has no idea how to pronounce some of the words and have no intention of being a culture vulture/ putting on a blaccent. BUT I STILL INSIST! Much of the language is more phonetic anyways, so even if you cant understand what a word is on the page odds are as soon as you say it aloud the meaning will reveal itself. And once you grasp the pattern of a verse, and feel the pauses in your breath- the reggae powers do the rest. I can attest from first hand experience, as me and my lover read some of these poems together aloud, and even though we did have a bit of a laugh at each other, hearing the words spoken really is captivating. We also decided the poetry was best enjoyed the most authentic way- with a fat zoot…

These are poems not to be dithered about, and so I will stop waffling here. These poems are for crowds- to read in the park, the pub or political rally- to hear rhythm and feel emotional truths, not silently in loneliness piking metaphor apart. They are bodacious in character and precious in history, with a distinct vernacular and vocabulary that still manages to talk to us in this moment, about problems which should have been solved a long time ago… I shall leave you with an extract from a poem both Elvis and I loved: INGLAN IS A BITCH. And it truly is. England is a fucking bitch, we have to do better. XOXOXOXOXO


Inglan Is A Bitch


well mi dhu day wok an mi dhu nite work
mi dhu clean wok an mi dhu dutty wok
dem seh dat black man is very lazy
but if yu si how mi wok yu woodah seh mi crazy

Inglan is a bitch
dere’s no escapin it
Inglan is a bitch
yu bettah face up to it