Harry Whitewolf's Blog - Posts Tagged "england"
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.
***
The Gulag Village Green - NEW BOOK OUT NOW!
The village green’s bandstand and benches are wrapped in black-and-yellow police tape. Joggers and dog walkers are only allowed out twice a day. Schools are closed down. People wear masks and stay separated every time they leave their homes, while others are locked inside buildings. Curfews are in place. Marshals patrol the streets. Cops break up wedding parties. The government encourages people to snitch on their neighbours. And new draconian laws are introduced at the drop of a hat so the police can control everyone more, while the army is on stand-by and the media attempts to incite a race war. Sounds like the blurb for a bad Hollywood movie, right?Well, as we all know, it’s actually the reality of 2020.
The virus and the lockdowns are here, during a year of censorship, protests and division, and British poet Harry Whitewolf has never felt so conflicted. You see, he cares deeply about people’s health, but he also cares deeply about human rights; which seem to have died overnight with hardly anyone protesting against it. And Harry vehemently believes in standing up against racism and transphobia, but he also believes in standing up against the calls for censorship and word-control coming from some in the BLM and trans communities. The right and the left are becoming indistinguishable, capitalism and democracy are crumbling to pave the way for a technocratic future, free speech is dying, people are calling for more and more tyrannical laws to be introduced, mandatory vaccinations are on the way, and Harry’s had enough of it all.
There’s a lot of anger amongst the poems and prose of The Gulag Village Green, but there’s also the usual Whitewolf wit, wordplay, and call for peace, amongst a number of other writings on worldly and personal themes.
It’s time to stop dividing, see through the bullshit, and come out on the other side in a better, more caring, and more loving place, before the village green bunting is permanently replaced with barbed wire.
Amazon.com: https://www.amazon.com/Gulag-Village-...
Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Gulag-Villag...
Many thanks for your interest.
Peace and blessings to you all.
Harry.
UPDATE: The Gulag Village Green is number one in British poetry on Amazon.com. Thanks to everyone who's grabbed a copy!
