Harry Whitewolf's Blog - Posts Tagged "poetry"
My new New Beat Newbie book!
My new book of unique beat driven poetry is ready to orgasmically burst out into the world... so you'd better watch out! Whitewolf's about.
Come on cats, let's go.
Let's teach those old dog cheap trick beatniks some new kicks and bottle up and blow.
Explode, like helter skelter moon dogs in the night.
Overdose with bebop prose bent towards the ears of no fear's generation.
A new razzmatazz jazz jerking sensation.
-From 'The Beats Go On'.
NEW BEAT NEWBIE.
Written in a frantic blur of inspiration over the first two months of 2015, this short collection of contemporary neo-beat poetry by spiritual travel writer Harry Whitewolf is a passionately delivered, in your face dose of pop prose for the digital, conspiratorial, twenty first century world.
Political poems like Kissinger Can Kiss My Ass and Frack Off ride alongside conspiracy themed odes like Illuminate Me Illuminati and Fly Your False Flags. There are beat homages (Cider With Snyder, The New Beat Newbies), mystical musings (Bye Bye Bao Bao, Mystic Prison), poems mimicking and mocking the modern age (#Smiley Face, Googling Goo), as well as tales of timeless hedonism (Legless Pub Crawls, Malbec Green Bottle Neck).
Both comic and tragic, angry and compassionate, this collection of new poems is ultimately Whitewolf's howling for a peaceful revolution. Beginning with rhythmic baby new beats.
NEW BEAT NEWBIE FREEBIES!
You can read a lot of my book New Beat Newbie here:
https://www.goodreads.com/reader/6745...
And if you ask nicely, I might send you a pdf or epub copy- just message me!
Available on Amazon Unlimited for
£/$0.00!
Kindle edition:
$1.48 including VAT (U.S)/£0.99 (U.K)
http://www.amazon.com/New-Beat-Newbie...
http://www.amazon.co.uk/New-Beat-Newb...
Paperback edition:
$5.38 (U.S)/£2.99 (U.K)
http://www.amazon.com/New-Beat-Newbie...
http://www.amazon.co.uk/New-Beat-Newb...
Thanks for your interest!
Harry.
I would also like to thank Mat Kondo, not only for his liberal allowance of my stealing the term 'neo-beat' from him, but also for his book First Harvest: Collected Poems, 2003-2013 for igniting the poetic flame.
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!
TWO BEAT NEWBIE IS COMING...
It won't be out until March, but here's a sneaky peak at my sequel to New Beat Newbie
TWO BEAT NEWBIE:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s7YM_...
TWO BEAT NEWBIE:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s7YM_...
TWO BEAT NEWBIE - OUT NOW!
A New Beat Newbie number twobie? Ooby dooby! Yes indeedy, we’re back in the slams of British wry wit verse jams. A lyrical, satirical, unequalled sequel with words like hot treacle. A call to be peaceful. Set to the beats, y’all. Find poems and prose full of politics, lunatics, rhythmic kicks, digital ticks, hedonistic highs and desperate fights, alongside conspiracy facts, plastic bags and modern age mockery, mixed with spoonfuls of sage-full top-notchery. Phew! Stop by, do. Don’t be averse. Sample some unique new wonders of wicked Whitewolf verse!
Including: Postman Pot, Bilderbergers And Fries, 100 Channels Of Crap, Gimme Medication, The Newtopia Newbies, Dig It All Digital, F*** You GCHQ, Tridentity, Yawn Porn, and the rollicking ride of Right On Brighton.
So come on, don’t be loopy- read Two Beat Newbie!
Two Beat Newbie is now available in Kindle and paperback editions.
FREE ON KINDLE: 4th February - 8th February.
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Two-Beat-Newbie...
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Two-Beat-Newb...
Paperback: http://www.amazon.com/Two-Beat-Newbie...
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Two-Beat-Newb...
Many thanks to everybody's support. Love to you all.
:)
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.
***
MATRIX VISIONS - The New Book - Out Now!
My new book Matrix Visions is now available, and it's free on Kindle for 5 whole days: 5th May - 9th May.Amazon.com: http://amzn.com/B01F2LPVE6
Amazon.co.uk: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01F2LPVE6
Paperback editions are also available.
So, what's Matrix Visions all about? Here's the blurb:
From the strange dark side of visionary spiritual conspiracy secrets, this poetic book of enigmas and brand new discoveries is much more than a collection of curious verse concoctions - Matrix Visions is a sneaky glimpse into the hypnotising matrix itself.
You’ll come across cryptic but plain poems like: The Malicious Magicians, Red Snake Rules, The Devil’s In The Detail, Alien Acupuncture and The 11:11. And you can discover hitherto untold secrets in: The Pentagon’s Hidden Half, Dollar Bill Devils And Dogs, The Secret Art History, The QR Code Code, How To Get A Face In Advertising and The Secret Sphinx, with plenty of picture examples along the way.
The red matrix is staring you right in the face. You just haven’t seen it yet.
Thanks!
Harry
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.
SHIT POLITICS
My new poetry book Rhyme and Rebellion will be available soon. In the meantime, you might like to check out this fun performance video to accompany it (the first of three, so keep an eye out for the others!):SHIT POLITICS: https://www.goodreads.com/videos/1088...
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.
