Harry Whitewolf's Blog - Posts Tagged "poem"
The Invasion Of Web Into Heads' Webs and other verse vids
Here are my three latest short videos of contemporary performance beat poetry for your viewing and listening pleasure (or other emotion, depending on your point of view).
SICK OF POLITICS
This was a staple favourite to perform back in the day when I actually performed my poetry live!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QR55L...
FRACK OFF
An anti-fracking poem with looping fracking beats!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CuWnE...
THE INVASION OF WEB INTO HEADS' WEBS
Wanna see the Whitewolf perform poetry whilst head-wrapped in cables?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RSFjB...
SICK OF POLITICS
This was a staple favourite to perform back in the day when I actually performed my poetry live!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QR55L...
FRACK OFF
An anti-fracking poem with looping fracking beats!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CuWnE...
THE INVASION OF WEB INTO HEADS' WEBS
Wanna see the Whitewolf perform poetry whilst head-wrapped in cables?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RSFjB...
PROPAGANDA MONKEYS - The New Book Out Now!
My new book of old poems:Propaganda Monkeys - Twenty Poems From My Twenties: 1996 - 2006 is now available on Kindle, and the paperback will be out in the next few weeks.
Here's the promo vid; a cut-up poetry performance:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0g3vE...
Here are the first nine poems:
https://www.goodreads.com/reader/7080...
And here's the blurb:
Propaganda Monkeys: Twenty Poems From My Twenties is a short collection of punch packing prose pieces bursting with youthful vision, confusion and yearning. Amongst its pages, you’ll discover: vivid political anger, reflections on love, scepticism towards the plugged-in Capitalist world, a little bit of no-nonsense nonsense, personal moments of coping with depression, a sprinkle of wry humour, and a contemporary dose of boundary pushing, beat pumping verse, from when author Harry Whitewolf was just a cub.
If anyone wants a free pdf or epub copy, please send me a message.
Or you could (Eek!) consider buying a copy. It's only 99p on amazon.co.uk
http://www.amazon.co.uk/PROPAGANDA-MO...
and $1.56 on amazon.com
http://www.amazon.com/PROPAGANDA-MONK...
Thank you to everyone who has supported me and my work. You know who you are!
A New Poem for National Poetry Day (in the UK).
i’ll never be no poet laureate.
by harry whitewolf.
i’ll never be no poet laureate,
not ‘cos I ain’t no good,
but ‘cos I wouldn’t take the job,
even if I could,
‘cos i’d not write no commissions,
‘bout rich princes and the queen;
not unless they wanted ‘em,
to be somewhat obscene.
i’d not celebrate no ‘olidays,
‘elping royal advertising,
unless they wanted the words ‘scum’
and ‘bastards’ in the writing.
in fact, i’d love to be poet laureate,
so i could say just what I think:
topple the outdated monarchy.
the bloody lot of ‘em stink.
by harry whitewolf.
i’ll never be no poet laureate,
not ‘cos I ain’t no good,
but ‘cos I wouldn’t take the job,
even if I could,
‘cos i’d not write no commissions,
‘bout rich princes and the queen;
not unless they wanted ‘em,
to be somewhat obscene.
i’d not celebrate no ‘olidays,
‘elping royal advertising,
unless they wanted the words ‘scum’
and ‘bastards’ in the writing.
in fact, i’d love to be poet laureate,
so i could say just what I think:
topple the outdated monarchy.
the bloody lot of ‘em stink.
RIGHT ON BRIGHTON
If I'm allowed to have a personal favourite poem from my Two Beat Newbie book, then Right On Brighton (the longest poem in the collection by far!) would be it:
RIGHT ON BRIGHTON
Just outta uni.
I was a real Real World Fresher.
Where could this featherweight newbie
Of this new century, go for his pleasure?
Hmm. Needed a new home.
Went down to Brighton where everyone’s green and stoned.
On my own.
Alone.
Down to Brighton where everyone’s gay.
Down to Brighton, where hippies are O.K.
The lights on in Brighton, where people have their say.
The big band bang boom and the tie-dye bop, smelly basement rooms and late night bus stops. Hip hop, chip shops, wearing flip flops, feeling tip top, never stop. Opt for late night clubs kicking comedic blubs and poetry slams and funk soul jams. Get a veggie burger from Grubbs.
**
Downing lager, by the beach, down in Brighton. Right on Brighton. Got the sights on. Got the lights on. Locked the highs on. Nice one. Hopping the highlights of hot sagas that race through my mind. Drinking mad hop lagers for the sake of fake rhymes, when the spell of Real Ale was always more my thing. Leaving Brighton’s seaside to one side, I’m thinking ‘bout wannabe Kurts, crusties, yurts, King Kurt T-shirts, shirkers, dread heads, head-shrinkers, burks, chav bling and youthful stride things. Living it up in strobe dubbed shake lighting. First high flying years in Brighton, right on, crazy Brighton, high with the lights on, quick like lightning, were a blast and fast and now past, but cast a fishing line from my mind back to the chats and the squats and the girls I had the hots for and the dim, dingy dealers’ pungent poky smoky flats, and Concorde 2 gigs, Komedia comics, cigs and all that. After work gorge at The Dorset and George, fall to the floors. Any takers for Basketmakers? And all the other lovely-jubbly bubbling pubs in the Lanes and all the subs. The entertaining drinks and grub. Getting high on doorsteps. Grooving up cool clubs.
**
See Arthouse World flicks at Duke of York’s. Tea at the caf, stirred with plastic forks. Get your copy of SchNEWS. Go to private views. Hear the beat of small bar blues. Hen party Valkyries. Art galleries. And geezers on good salaries, listening to Valerie, before it was Winehouse actually. And dub. Boy, down in Brighton, right on Brighton, the shakes were sure hot. Remember making it young, uncaring and alive, the guys and high fives, and the girls never got. The whirls, the mods, moody blues and bad moods. And self-proclaimed gods. Quirks, smirks and jerks. Jammers and jitters. Pints of bitter and carpet fitters. The protesters, anarchists, activists, the revellers, the Levellers, The Level, the lefties, the arties, house parties, the Commies, eco-friendlies, the cafs, the gift of the gabs, Alan’s friend Babs, Albion fans, albinos, fake tans, trans-genders on benders, drag queens on the scene, hang about at Tragic Roundabout and Eighties Matchbox concert bouts. The smokers, the jokers, midnight tokers, anti-voters and Attila The Stockbroker.
**
You’ll find more truth seekers there. Down in Blighty’s Brighton blimey seaside air. Right on Brighton. Nice one. Always a party. Everyone’s arty. Everyone’s vegan. Hm, fucking squawking, squealing, black bin bag ripping seagulls. Arseholes. Anyway, Brighton. Brighton. Right on Brighton. Nice one. Vegetarians, Vespas, hipsters, queens, has-beens, times good, Infinity Foods, Brighton rock and riots. Quiet. Smoke some weed, in our flat, playing board games and all that, with tunes and deep chat, people passing through, all knowing where it’s at. Chilling or standing up on our feet, dancing to The Streets, or some ska beats or Undertones, Stevie Wonder and The Ramones and Stones, and Bentley Rhythm Ace and Small Faces in haze. Smokes with The Strokes. Always broke. Not too much coke. The twirls and jokes, the girls and blokes who like boys to be girls who do boys in Blurred plagiarised quotes of rude boy shenanigans. Sing along again, high on hash with Johnny Cash, The Clash and Ash. De La Soul, maybe Ben Folds, and The Las, playing along with guitars. Billy Bragg. Arab Strap. Put on Dolly Parton, Frank Black, Jack White, Al Green, Patti Smith, Portishead, Grateful Dead, Hunky Dory, Gorky 5, Mogwai, The Pharcyde, The Hives, Derek and Clive, and Lee Scratch Perry, or watching the telly, filling our bellies with munchies, slow Brighton paced, can’t be arsed, watch Spaced, our flat adorned with post-student knickknacks and tatt you think you’re always gonna want to keep. Wrong. Back to the clubs and the pubs and the dub and the rub and rub-a-dub and rubber gloves and push and shoves and bars and ha-has and hoo-has. Brighton. Brighton. Right on. Yurt makers and yogis and Dolies and homeopathists and marches and artists and buskers and smugglers and jugglers and hustlers, down by the bright Brighton seaside.
**
Take a stroll on the pier. Smell some gear in the air. There’s a homeless man. Just there. Now here’re the festivals, Fat Boy on the beach, Pride in the park, passing joints in side streets, down in Brighton, right on Brighton. Seems so sweet. Those first fond years, the beers, the cheers, the chat, the bric-a-brac, the Snoopers Paradise fix, the politics, the lunatics, freethinkers, tinkers, smokers and in-jokers; ‘cos you know it’s Hove actually.
**
Cursed heavy hangovers cured like ham by noon snakebite hair of the dog. Cut to the night. Coming up drug. Getting around. Coming down. Buggery bollocks. Hug a tree. Free. Curling smoke. Always a joke. The dog’s bollocks. Top dogs. Peace frogs. Top Cat in the doghouse chat. Drinking down at Hector’s House. A wee dram. Am-dram plays above the pubs. Arches clubs. Archie’s bullshit and pitbull dogs. Full-of-shit prog-rocker dealers’ green door knockers, goddamn DJ gobshites and whities. Go down to the seafront at night-time in slippers and nighties. Alrighty.
**
Fist bumping mates popping round. Getting around, getting down in Kemp Town, with unkempt beds. Ashtrays surround. Getting high. Hello. Goodbye. Going out. Raucous and roaring in ferocious and precocious shouts. Round about. Down ‘ere, down there. Got an allotment under the stairs. Score a quick henry from Benny’s mate Claire. Rock stars and porn stars and born stars and writers and freedom fighters and cigarette lighters and the famous and nameless. Know-it-alls. Poets. Cools. And activists and actors, sculptors, producers, models, musicians, guitarists, Nick Cave, Paul McCartney, the bloke from The Fast Show (before he was the bloke from Harry Potter, but after he was the bloke from that advert who said, “We wanna be together.” What? You think I’m losing the non-UK and under thirty audience here? Who cares? I know what pants and sloppy joes are, don’t I? – the question is rhetorical, so let’s get back on topic, y’all.), Chris Eubank and his damn big dumb truck, the crusties, the skankers, the wankers, the skaters, the seekers, the shakers, Hare Krishnas and skins. Magpie bin men. The chancers, the dancers, the bouncers, half-ouncers, the anarchists, the taking the piss, the mates in a band, the parks, the punks, the drunks, junkies, joggers and rockers, the lazy, the crazy, the can’t be arsed, the mods and the mads and the off of their rockers. Try it on with a girl down the dark beach. Smashed up on mushrooms and head pumping beats. Walk back in late streets on two too tired feet. Whoosh! The West Pier is on fire. Best bang our drums then and get a bit higher, and take in the heat in laidback back seats.
**
Ashtrays overflowing with after-party cig butts. Freebutt gig band geezers eating banging All Day Breakfasts at the All Night Diner Dime Bar, smoking big cigars amongst ha-has, cha-chas, minds charred, strumming guitars and maybe sitars and drumming on tables on Mars, down in Brighton. Brighton. Right on Brighton. When the music was loud, as were the words of proud opinions, but it was also all bullshit. ‘Cos we love Brit cynicism. Down in hopping, bopping Brighton, right on Brighton, don’t be frightened, it’s more or less dangerous with the lights on, down in Brighton, right on Brighton. High times and nice times in right on Brighton. Right on, Brighton. Nice one.
***
RIGHT ON BRIGHTON
Just outta uni.
I was a real Real World Fresher.
Where could this featherweight newbie
Of this new century, go for his pleasure?
Hmm. Needed a new home.
Went down to Brighton where everyone’s green and stoned.
On my own.
Alone.
Down to Brighton where everyone’s gay.
Down to Brighton, where hippies are O.K.
The lights on in Brighton, where people have their say.
The big band bang boom and the tie-dye bop, smelly basement rooms and late night bus stops. Hip hop, chip shops, wearing flip flops, feeling tip top, never stop. Opt for late night clubs kicking comedic blubs and poetry slams and funk soul jams. Get a veggie burger from Grubbs.
**
Downing lager, by the beach, down in Brighton. Right on Brighton. Got the sights on. Got the lights on. Locked the highs on. Nice one. Hopping the highlights of hot sagas that race through my mind. Drinking mad hop lagers for the sake of fake rhymes, when the spell of Real Ale was always more my thing. Leaving Brighton’s seaside to one side, I’m thinking ‘bout wannabe Kurts, crusties, yurts, King Kurt T-shirts, shirkers, dread heads, head-shrinkers, burks, chav bling and youthful stride things. Living it up in strobe dubbed shake lighting. First high flying years in Brighton, right on, crazy Brighton, high with the lights on, quick like lightning, were a blast and fast and now past, but cast a fishing line from my mind back to the chats and the squats and the girls I had the hots for and the dim, dingy dealers’ pungent poky smoky flats, and Concorde 2 gigs, Komedia comics, cigs and all that. After work gorge at The Dorset and George, fall to the floors. Any takers for Basketmakers? And all the other lovely-jubbly bubbling pubs in the Lanes and all the subs. The entertaining drinks and grub. Getting high on doorsteps. Grooving up cool clubs.
**
See Arthouse World flicks at Duke of York’s. Tea at the caf, stirred with plastic forks. Get your copy of SchNEWS. Go to private views. Hear the beat of small bar blues. Hen party Valkyries. Art galleries. And geezers on good salaries, listening to Valerie, before it was Winehouse actually. And dub. Boy, down in Brighton, right on Brighton, the shakes were sure hot. Remember making it young, uncaring and alive, the guys and high fives, and the girls never got. The whirls, the mods, moody blues and bad moods. And self-proclaimed gods. Quirks, smirks and jerks. Jammers and jitters. Pints of bitter and carpet fitters. The protesters, anarchists, activists, the revellers, the Levellers, The Level, the lefties, the arties, house parties, the Commies, eco-friendlies, the cafs, the gift of the gabs, Alan’s friend Babs, Albion fans, albinos, fake tans, trans-genders on benders, drag queens on the scene, hang about at Tragic Roundabout and Eighties Matchbox concert bouts. The smokers, the jokers, midnight tokers, anti-voters and Attila The Stockbroker.
**
You’ll find more truth seekers there. Down in Blighty’s Brighton blimey seaside air. Right on Brighton. Nice one. Always a party. Everyone’s arty. Everyone’s vegan. Hm, fucking squawking, squealing, black bin bag ripping seagulls. Arseholes. Anyway, Brighton. Brighton. Right on Brighton. Nice one. Vegetarians, Vespas, hipsters, queens, has-beens, times good, Infinity Foods, Brighton rock and riots. Quiet. Smoke some weed, in our flat, playing board games and all that, with tunes and deep chat, people passing through, all knowing where it’s at. Chilling or standing up on our feet, dancing to The Streets, or some ska beats or Undertones, Stevie Wonder and The Ramones and Stones, and Bentley Rhythm Ace and Small Faces in haze. Smokes with The Strokes. Always broke. Not too much coke. The twirls and jokes, the girls and blokes who like boys to be girls who do boys in Blurred plagiarised quotes of rude boy shenanigans. Sing along again, high on hash with Johnny Cash, The Clash and Ash. De La Soul, maybe Ben Folds, and The Las, playing along with guitars. Billy Bragg. Arab Strap. Put on Dolly Parton, Frank Black, Jack White, Al Green, Patti Smith, Portishead, Grateful Dead, Hunky Dory, Gorky 5, Mogwai, The Pharcyde, The Hives, Derek and Clive, and Lee Scratch Perry, or watching the telly, filling our bellies with munchies, slow Brighton paced, can’t be arsed, watch Spaced, our flat adorned with post-student knickknacks and tatt you think you’re always gonna want to keep. Wrong. Back to the clubs and the pubs and the dub and the rub and rub-a-dub and rubber gloves and push and shoves and bars and ha-has and hoo-has. Brighton. Brighton. Right on. Yurt makers and yogis and Dolies and homeopathists and marches and artists and buskers and smugglers and jugglers and hustlers, down by the bright Brighton seaside.
**
Take a stroll on the pier. Smell some gear in the air. There’s a homeless man. Just there. Now here’re the festivals, Fat Boy on the beach, Pride in the park, passing joints in side streets, down in Brighton, right on Brighton. Seems so sweet. Those first fond years, the beers, the cheers, the chat, the bric-a-brac, the Snoopers Paradise fix, the politics, the lunatics, freethinkers, tinkers, smokers and in-jokers; ‘cos you know it’s Hove actually.
**
Cursed heavy hangovers cured like ham by noon snakebite hair of the dog. Cut to the night. Coming up drug. Getting around. Coming down. Buggery bollocks. Hug a tree. Free. Curling smoke. Always a joke. The dog’s bollocks. Top dogs. Peace frogs. Top Cat in the doghouse chat. Drinking down at Hector’s House. A wee dram. Am-dram plays above the pubs. Arches clubs. Archie’s bullshit and pitbull dogs. Full-of-shit prog-rocker dealers’ green door knockers, goddamn DJ gobshites and whities. Go down to the seafront at night-time in slippers and nighties. Alrighty.
**
Fist bumping mates popping round. Getting around, getting down in Kemp Town, with unkempt beds. Ashtrays surround. Getting high. Hello. Goodbye. Going out. Raucous and roaring in ferocious and precocious shouts. Round about. Down ‘ere, down there. Got an allotment under the stairs. Score a quick henry from Benny’s mate Claire. Rock stars and porn stars and born stars and writers and freedom fighters and cigarette lighters and the famous and nameless. Know-it-alls. Poets. Cools. And activists and actors, sculptors, producers, models, musicians, guitarists, Nick Cave, Paul McCartney, the bloke from The Fast Show (before he was the bloke from Harry Potter, but after he was the bloke from that advert who said, “We wanna be together.” What? You think I’m losing the non-UK and under thirty audience here? Who cares? I know what pants and sloppy joes are, don’t I? – the question is rhetorical, so let’s get back on topic, y’all.), Chris Eubank and his damn big dumb truck, the crusties, the skankers, the wankers, the skaters, the seekers, the shakers, Hare Krishnas and skins. Magpie bin men. The chancers, the dancers, the bouncers, half-ouncers, the anarchists, the taking the piss, the mates in a band, the parks, the punks, the drunks, junkies, joggers and rockers, the lazy, the crazy, the can’t be arsed, the mods and the mads and the off of their rockers. Try it on with a girl down the dark beach. Smashed up on mushrooms and head pumping beats. Walk back in late streets on two too tired feet. Whoosh! The West Pier is on fire. Best bang our drums then and get a bit higher, and take in the heat in laidback back seats.
**
Ashtrays overflowing with after-party cig butts. Freebutt gig band geezers eating banging All Day Breakfasts at the All Night Diner Dime Bar, smoking big cigars amongst ha-has, cha-chas, minds charred, strumming guitars and maybe sitars and drumming on tables on Mars, down in Brighton. Brighton. Right on Brighton. When the music was loud, as were the words of proud opinions, but it was also all bullshit. ‘Cos we love Brit cynicism. Down in hopping, bopping Brighton, right on Brighton, don’t be frightened, it’s more or less dangerous with the lights on, down in Brighton, right on Brighton. High times and nice times in right on Brighton. Right on, Brighton. Nice one.
***
An Ode To Theresa May
Hip hip hooray for Theresa May.
Another Thatcher is on the way.
Another P.M, without our say.
Hip hip hooray for Theresa May,
Who cuts police budgets and cleans up the mess
By giving the services to G4S,
Which her husband’s a major shareowner of.
Theresa May, yay! Such an Oxford top toff!
Praise her for her Investigatory Powers Bill,
Which lets them snoop our texts and emails at free will,
And congratulate her on how she handled
The bodge of the paedophile M.Ps scandal.
Pat her on the back for the half a mil loan
The government gave to a convicted felon.
Be thankful to her, because she wants to get rid
Of immigrants on less than 35,000 quid.
So clap and cheer and shout hooray
For new P.M Theresa May.
Hip hip hooray! Come on, let’s praise her,
Our new Mother Theresa.
Another Thatcher is on the way.
Another P.M, without our say.
Hip hip hooray for Theresa May,
Who cuts police budgets and cleans up the mess
By giving the services to G4S,
Which her husband’s a major shareowner of.
Theresa May, yay! Such an Oxford top toff!
Praise her for her Investigatory Powers Bill,
Which lets them snoop our texts and emails at free will,
And congratulate her on how she handled
The bodge of the paedophile M.Ps scandal.
Pat her on the back for the half a mil loan
The government gave to a convicted felon.
Be thankful to her, because she wants to get rid
Of immigrants on less than 35,000 quid.
So clap and cheer and shout hooray
For new P.M Theresa May.
Hip hip hooray! Come on, let’s praise her,
Our new Mother Theresa.
RHYME AND REBELLION - OUT NOW AND FREE ON KINDLE
My new poetry book Rhyme and Rebellion is now available and it's free on Kindle for the next five days (23rd Sep - 27th Sep) - see the links below.
Here's the blurb:
Swiping, biting, seething, pleading, fresh and funny, Whitewolf’s latest book of verse is a language sandwich filled with shit, shopping, poverty, war, Wi-Fi and wordplay.
Awaken your inner rebel for the modern era, with poems like: Equality For The Poor, You’re So Far Right, Ads, Abs And Apps, P.C. Pussies, Reality And T.V, Puppet Politician and The Google Boogie.
And here are three fun and quirky accompanying performance poetry vids:
BEAT BOMB BOOM: https://www.goodreads.com/videos/1093...
SHIT POLITICS: https://www.goodreads.com/videos/1088...
SHEEP SLEEP: https://www.goodreads.com/videos/1091...
Paperback and Kindle editions available.
FREE ON KINDLE:
Amazon.com: http://a.co/2qZ2ciO
Amazon.co.uk: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01LX8P3IB
Thanks to everyone for your support!
Peace, love and rebellion,
Harry.
FRACK OFF!
In light of yesterday's governmental decision that horizontal fracking can go ahead in Lancashire, in a landmark ruling for the UK shale gas industry (https://socialistworker.co.uk/art/434...), I thought I'd post this poem of mine from New Beat Newbie:
FRACK OFF
Fracking, fracking, fracking.
Fucking, fecking fracking.
Shattering the earth.
Damaging. Crack crack cracking.
Disturbing earth's stability
And its inner soul.
Fucking fecking fracking
It's fracking out of control.
No wonder the world's
In such a state,
With tearful floods
At her every gate,
When we keep fucking it up.
Fracking it up.
Cocking it up.
Cracking up.
Cracking the earth, making her roar,
Fucking, fecking fracking. What for?
For the crude of two words
That won't last anyway.
When we've burned all the oil
And are drowned in dismay,
I hope you fuckers
Remember the day,
When we said no to fracking.
No fucking way.
Fuck off
You frackers
With your
Ugly fracas.
Frack and frack,
Frack and frack,
Down and down,
Crude from a crack.
Fracking and fracking
And fracking. Fuck me,
When will people open
Their eyes up and see
What we're still doing
To our once paradise?
Fucking it up,
'Cos car parks are nice,
Just like the cars
That run on the oil,
So Shell will dig wells,
And BP will boil.
Fracking fuckers.
Frack off the lot.
Fuck fracking. Fuck fracking.
And those calling the shots.
Shattering the earth.
Damaging. Crack crack cracking.
Fracking, fracking, fracking.
Fucking, fecking fracking.
FRACK OFF
Fracking, fracking, fracking.
Fucking, fecking fracking.
Shattering the earth.
Damaging. Crack crack cracking.
Disturbing earth's stability
And its inner soul.
Fucking fecking fracking
It's fracking out of control.
No wonder the world's
In such a state,
With tearful floods
At her every gate,
When we keep fucking it up.
Fracking it up.
Cocking it up.
Cracking up.
Cracking the earth, making her roar,
Fucking, fecking fracking. What for?
For the crude of two words
That won't last anyway.
When we've burned all the oil
And are drowned in dismay,
I hope you fuckers
Remember the day,
When we said no to fracking.
No fucking way.
Fuck off
You frackers
With your
Ugly fracas.
Frack and frack,
Frack and frack,
Down and down,
Crude from a crack.
Fracking and fracking
And fracking. Fuck me,
When will people open
Their eyes up and see
What we're still doing
To our once paradise?
Fucking it up,
'Cos car parks are nice,
Just like the cars
That run on the oil,
So Shell will dig wells,
And BP will boil.
Fracking fuckers.
Frack off the lot.
Fuck fracking. Fuck fracking.
And those calling the shots.
Shattering the earth.
Damaging. Crack crack cracking.
Fracking, fracking, fracking.
Fucking, fecking fracking.
A brand new poem.
MINORITIES
Fascists always attack minorities,
Which is an irony,
‘Cos fascists are a minority.
Fascists always attack minorities,
Which is an irony,
‘Cos fascists are a minority.
Brexit Is Go!
Here's another new poem...
I DON’T FULLY SUPPORT THE E.U.,
BUT BREXIT WAS A REALLY BAD IDEA
The U.K. should begin with an F
And have a C after the U,
And it should end in E D
Now that we’ve left the E.U.
I DON’T FULLY SUPPORT THE E.U.,
BUT BREXIT WAS A REALLY BAD IDEA
The U.K. should begin with an F
And have a C after the U,
And it should end in E D
Now that we’ve left the E.U.
MY POETRY’S NOW ON SOUNDCLOUD!
I’ve been gradually uploading some new poetry performances to Soundcloud over the last month or so, and I now have a selection of 15 tracks for your listening pleasure or critical scrutiny!
If you like what you hear, then please do a Soundcloud newbie a favour and follow me. Thank you.
https://soundcloud.com/harry-whitewolf
If I’m allowed to have my own favourite performances, I guess they would be:
A new version of my poem Beat Elite.
The poem Old McDonald Had A Restaurant.
My ‘cover version’ of the Allen Ginsberg poem Hum Bom!
And the mini-epic Right On Brighton
Also on Soundcloud, you can check out an audio chapter from my book The Road To Purification: Hustlers, Hassles & Hash, complete with atmospheric background music, recorded by Book Narrator:
https://soundcloud.com/user-399564578...
And an interview with me on the Losing The Plot podcast:
https://soundcloud.com/losingtheplotp...
You can find more of my poetry performances on YouTube:
https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...
And I’ve recently started uploading my recordings to Vimeo too:
https://vimeo.com/harrywhitewolf
You can follow me on those ‘n all if you like. Nudge, nudge...
Thanks to you all for the continued support and indie lovin’.
If you like what you hear, then please do a Soundcloud newbie a favour and follow me. Thank you.
https://soundcloud.com/harry-whitewolf
If I’m allowed to have my own favourite performances, I guess they would be:
A new version of my poem Beat Elite.
The poem Old McDonald Had A Restaurant.
My ‘cover version’ of the Allen Ginsberg poem Hum Bom!
And the mini-epic Right On Brighton
Also on Soundcloud, you can check out an audio chapter from my book The Road To Purification: Hustlers, Hassles & Hash, complete with atmospheric background music, recorded by Book Narrator:
https://soundcloud.com/user-399564578...
And an interview with me on the Losing The Plot podcast:
https://soundcloud.com/losingtheplotp...
You can find more of my poetry performances on YouTube:
https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...
And I’ve recently started uploading my recordings to Vimeo too:
https://vimeo.com/harrywhitewolf
You can follow me on those ‘n all if you like. Nudge, nudge...
Thanks to you all for the continued support and indie lovin’.
