TOMBOY BOOKCLUB- THE HOUSE OF IMPOSSIBLE BEAUTIES!!!

Helloooo!!!!!

It has been a hot minute since I last blessed the internet with my unwarranted literary insights and opinions, BUT NO WORRIES I AM STILL HERE TO BLABBER INTO THE ETHER!!!! The book today is a slightly chunkier tome which may be why it took me a tad longer to organise my thoughts but I am so glad to have ploughed through, which ended up happening with ever increasing speed- such irresistible words. It has beauty and tenderness at its core, swirling in a universe of New York streets, glittering fineries and many, many cigarettes. The House of Impossible Beauties, by Joseph Cassara is not a book that will leave you quickly.

Paradoxically, it was actually by watching TV that I found out about Impossible Beauties. For anyone whose eyes haven’t yet been graced by the drama unfolding in the TV show POSE (The Category is: FIERCENESS!), then get on it!!!!! Pose (and Cassara’s novel) is inspired by ballroom culture curated by lgbtq+ people of colour from mainly Black and Hispanic descent- in particular and especially transgender women and drag queens- during the 1970s/80s onwards in New York. Mostly rejected by their original ‘nuclear’ families, young gender non-conforming people would come to the city homeless, and (hopefully) become members of their own self-made communities; putting on Balls, runway dance battle extravaganzas to celebrate (and read to filth) each other’s’ existence, dressing as whoever they wanted to be, away from the cruel white supremacist, heterosexual mainstream.

Impossible Beauties is inspired by the lives of Angie Xtravaganza and Venus Xtravaganza- of the Xtravaganza House- two transgender women who should be celebrated for their undeniable contribution to queer culture, but also towards fashion and club history. One criticism I have read, is that Cassara based his novel on real history without doing the necessary research. I believe he couldn’t conduct any face to face interviews with people who had been influential in the scene, and many dates in the novel are not in synch with details surrounding how the AIDS epidemic impacted lgbtq+ life. I will say there seems to be a lot of empty gaps in the novel, often serious events in the characters’ lives are omitted, and regarding scene setting- there is only one ball actually detailed in the entire book! I think omitting the personal scenes is one way to emphasise already devastating loss further, letting emptiness breathe for itself. A lot more effort has gone into imagining quotidian detail in fleshing out past backstories and how characters relate with each other, which I do still adore. It just would have made a lot more sense to set a greater portion of the book at the actual balls, considering that is what it’s based off!

Having said that, what the book lacks in historical clarity is made up for with emotional detail: this book will make you smile, it will make you weep. The way the characters are followed as they grow up into themselves, only to be misunderstood or devalued somehow, and the damage that leaves, is a searing study on the humanity of outsider-ness. All of them- Angel, Dorian, Venus, Hector, Juanito and Daniel- are fun-loving souls entangled in the needless brutality of a world that doesn’t want them to be fabulous. The love they have for each other is immense, but this love comes with an unspeakable baggage of trauma, trauma they must navigate around each other. But humans are humans, mistakes are made, and devastating hurt ensues. I did not think a book could be so brimming with laughter and dancing and sequins, yet simultaneously so deeply rooted in pain, violence and goodbyes.

Historically it may not be 100%, but Cassara certainly does not wash over lgbtq+ history with rose tinted glasses to make everything one big piss up of amnesia. Without giving too much away, one of the most heart wrenching parts for me was how the AIDS epidemic at the time is portrayed: too, too many people dying with no explanation why; people losing their lovers without being able to say it as such, grieving alone. (Never forget) Impossible Beauties is a testimony to the absolute zenith of glamour and feisty togetherness that Ballrooms gave, and a eulogy to everybody who lost all that they had in the name of living for love, real love.

May we always continue to delight in the beauty and glamour that femme queens have been serving for themselves, with a sincere and sober commitment to fight for and defend the political rights that enable such brilliance. If The House of Impossible Beauties has anything to teach us, it’s that beauty wears a brave face. Beauty always survives.

“It is about love, but a different kind. A kind that you can only find and not substitute for. And I think it’s hard for them to realise. So they go out to the balls for all the wrong reasons. Not all of them, but most of them. They go out seeking an audience of adoring fans who aren’t gonna hurl shade. And they go out looking for their Adam or their Eve, their other half, the other pea in the pod, or whatever you want to imagine it as.

I just want to shake all those darlings. Love is great, it is. But it’s also so brief. Didn’t these kids ever learn that even in the Garden of Eden, someone betrayed the other?”

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXXOXOXXOXOXOX

PS: If you are interested in learning more about transgender history and the origins of much of lgbtq+ culture now (*ahem RUPAUL*), I also highly recommend watching the documentary Paris is Burning!!!

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 BOOK CLUB- FRESHWATER!!!

Todays’ book has me utterly besotted. It is one of the best – in my humble opinion- that I have read recently, way up there with Audre and Patti. I first found out about it because it is one of the longlisted books for the 2019 ‘Women’s Prize for Fiction’, but, more interestingly to me, it is the first book in the prize’s 27 year run to be written by a non-binary transgender author. By glorious coincidence, just as I finished this oracle of a book the months had changed to welcome in the beginning of PRIDE season- so what better way to usher in a month of acknowledging and understanding all things and people non-heteronormative or cis-gendered than by celebrating a book sincerely invested in expanding that conversation even more? Freshwater, by Akwaeke Emezi is stunning, wild and daring in its pursuit of defining freedom in identity: who really are we, and to whom do we belong, if not ourselves?

I didn’t realise it until mid-way through after reading some interviews, but Freshwater is actually a fictionalised representation of ‘real’ autobiographical experiences. I had been reading, stunned and touched that somehow, some stranger had put into words feelings I had never known myself how to articulate. To then learn that this story wasn’t pure imagination spoken through an art form, but grounded in and woven through actual breath and body was serious magic. This blurring of fiction and non-fiction is just the tip of the ice berg when it comes to Emezi’s dismantling of oppressive reason and the destruction of organizing meta-narratives rooted in binaries. Freshwater vibrates with a low humming queerness and punk, strung through a modern indigenous ‘fairy tale’ of Nigerian spirits from another realm.

We follow Ada from birth throughout *her* becoming, however this isn’t a story of growing up- it isn’t wholly her speaking. It is the tale of the spirits trapped inside her- who both are and are not her, who want to live so badly, just not here– and what they make her do in the pursuit of their own freedom. The Obanje spirits are at once mischievous, malicious and innocent- not good or bad, childlike yet wise beyond years with their inherent knowings. They rail against the torture of individualized embodiment, the concomitant fears and consequences that come with realizing you are one and singular… to then throw away their rules. The sprits know they aren’t alone in Ada, she is of them.

In my feeble reckonings, I think the integral mission of Freshwater is to make known the alienating, terrifying, yet utterly freeing and beautiful realisations that come through the collapsing of the binary and fusion of supposed opposites. Deviation flows in abundance through Freshwater, a transgression of established borders, the edges we put up to organize ourselves which only leave us lonely: Blurring happy/sad, god/mortal, insanity/sanity, life/ death, the individual/ the crowd, male / female, black / white, animality / humanity, emotion /empirical fact… INTERCONNECTEDNESS IS A SECRET NO MORE!!! Awareness of self and the construction of destiny is rendered back to primal impressions, where knowledge is powerful because it cannot be appropriated for gain or purpose; it simply is what it is, and that’s who you are- for one moment.

I will stop fangirling now, but for anyone interested in concepts of multitudes and hybridity, I cannot recommend this book enough. Akwaeke Emezi has created a world of sprightliness and depth; intoxicating in its imaginings of private mental space, made vivid through the scaffolds of reality structured around raw flux at its centre. Freshwater was also a breath of fresh air for me, and I can’t wait for what else Akwaeke Emezi has in store!!!!!!

“…This is all, ultimately, a litany of madness- the colours of it, the sounds it makes in heavy nights, the chirping of it across the shoulder of the morning. Think of brief insanities that are in you, not just the ones that blossomed as you grew into taller, more sinful versions of yourself, but the ones you were born with, tucked behind your liver. Take us, for instance…”

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