"Enderby sat, fully-dressed, on the seat of the W.C., swaying as on a father's rocking knee. [...] He had removed the toilet-roll from its holder and scratched away on panel after panel of paper with his inkpencil."
(Anthony Burgess, "Inside Mr Enderby 2:5," p. 44)
I sit – and shit – no holy ghost-wind comes;
I strain, hazarding to quell unconscious drums
Within the torpid zoo of Bordeaux add-
-led brain, thence snaring slug-ensilvered, mad-
-ly hash-spooked word-wraiths, deep within well-wrought
Linguistic cages; mould mute mud to thought.
But no, no: my mind, raclette upon a tren-
-dy grill-plate, wallows in rare juices, gen-
-erously absinthe arse-holed: If but soo-
-thing zen-spiced mantras riddle out a mu-
-coid poem, peristaltic, from intestinal den,
Explosive anal pleasure winning! – Then
– My Muse tight sphincter tickles with her rasp-
-ing tongue; enjoining rhythmic pulsings in the hasp,
And undercut percussions deep within
Chord-movements of my guts which next begin
To juxtapose harmonic context bass;
Tar-sticky glossed molasses speed the pace
At which rich sinuous verses grease their ten-
-der way, as muscled snake beyond swift ken
Rears swarthy bark-scrape bulk, extruding sli-
-thy oil, and chilli-spittled tongue, fire-dry;
Padana pizza primal, chocolate-burnt and chees-
-y goat-wrapped, ministrations magic squeeze,
From boggy garlic mulch of gastric moss
Whose rhizome depths gape vacant at the loss
Of log colossal, dumped in scrying bowl:
Proud bilirubin opus birthed, slick-clayed, but whole.
I loll and gurgle, tawdry creative oozings done;
Virgil's lofty gilded laurels swathe my lyrically sore bum.
[Many thanks to Dr Jeff Gibbs for recommending "Enderby" to me!]
I find you most repugnant
– overripe profane scum-scab
Loblolly, trollop, cockalorum, slag,
Bum-hole, blatherskite, barmy prat,
Airy-fairy hallanshaker, mollycoddled brat,
Bedswerving succubus, dodgy daft cow,
Cacafuego, tosser, lazy sod,
Harridan, mooncalf, tallowcatch, git,
Man-whore, poltroon, dog two-dicked;
White-trash whinger, ferret-bag-mad,
Tosser, pilgarlic, bootlicker, twat,
Pikey, crepehanger, gornless twit,
Piss-streak symphalist, full-wicket-batting not;
Chawbacon, lubberwort, wanker naff;
Bell-end, pettifogger, tosser, berk,
Dog-gone lickspittle, neck-up-dead;
Smellfungus, nutter, scrubber plot-lost;
Mumblecrust, quizby, rakefire, stampcrab,
Skiving snollygoster, ligging gannet, maggot,
Ninnyhammer, dorbel, minge-bag daft-as-brush:
Cumberworld, sorner, yaldson, raggabrash,
Arse-licking mumpsimus, pig-ugly knob-head;
Manky minging wazzock, pillock, milksop,
Plonker, muppet, driggle-draggle, shit-bird:
All these bastard fucking words
– I call you, vulgar bitch-face turd!
[Stephens, R (2017), The Conversation (2 February 2017):
Swearing is Actually a Sign of More Intelligence, Not Less, Say Scientists.
URL: http://bit.ly/swearbrain (Accessed 05/04/21)]
Those horny boys less frequently knock now
Your tight-closed shutters with repeated blows;
Nor do they drop you dreamy to the floor
Yet still the doorframe loves the easy door,
On hinges loose renowned to bang before;
But now this clamour hounds you less and less.
Must sleep evade you, darling become whore
Whose ego dies now, in nights’ lonely depths?
In turn, old spurnful fuck-buds’ names you moan
Alone up your back alley, silly crone,
As raving winds from Northern steppes blow down
So cold: a sickly new moon’s birthing groan.
Now’s the time when pulsing heat of passion,
Once wont to make a stallion’s mare go mad,
Your liver scorches in green scabby fashion:
Ejaculations vile drive off the bravest lad –
Because vag-hungry youths enjoy their games
With ivy plump not myrtle-wrinkled cheek,
So withered limbs, consigned now the flames
By East-wind tossed, but Winter’s comfort seek.
[Inspired by Horace, "Odes" I:25;
translation made for "Further Advanced Latin in the Park"
at Swansea University, Winter 2012]
O my dear boy, I abhor perfumed ponces;
Their preening and primping offend me!
So, cease dashing about in the garden
Where love’s last lonely rose may still linger.
This soft master has done all the mouth-work,
Saving honour after that one-off fumble;
Why, child, keep tugging an old dog’s bone,
As he naps, spent and dry,
Entranced yet – by the pendulous plums?
[Inspired, loosely, by Horace, "Odes" I:38;
as discussed in "Further Advanced Latin in the Park"
at Swansea University, Winter 2012]
"Swearing Is Good For You — And Chimps Do It, Too" (*)
“They fuck you up your mum and dad,” so Lar-
Kin wrote, except, o budding censors, please
Take note, he didn’t leave it there, the scrote,
Thought they too had been “fucked up in their turn.”
Thus swearing’s lyric pedigree he sealed,
In just three stanzas, vibrant bitter-sweet:
Profanity is handed man to man,
Vulgarity runs deep as coastal shelf.
E’en Good Book’s Two Kings Eighteen Twenty-sev’n,
Quotes Rabshakeh, a man who’s sent to threat’n,
Some reprobates the LORD God wants to smite,
“Their dung to eat, their piss to drink” – His might,
Does Yahweh heft in ways that don’t seem right;
His language cast down very far from Heav’n.
Now Chaucer’s Middle English lacks no class,
Through swearing – witness you the “Miller’s Tale”
Wherein perforce we find these lines writ hale:
“And at the window out she putte hir hole ...
But with his mouth he kiste hir naked ers.”
Ben Jonson cries “I fart at thee” – the boor,
Screams “Turdy teeth” – and “shity head,” and thence,
It should be no surprise to find the Bard
Bill Shakespeare “whoreson jacknapes” has supplied
The world – “God’s beard” as well, and “pox on’t” too,
And who’d have known that “Much Ado About
An O-Thing” really referenced pert cunt
Best hid by ladies – coyly – within pants?
His devil-porter Scottish doth hold forth
That alcoholic drink’s a mistress harsh:
Nose-painting, sleep-inducing; making letch –
And marring; setting-on and taking off;
Disheartening, persuading; standing-to –
Or not; carousing till the second cock!
I‘faith were we provoked – we piss’d-up sots?!
Sir Toby belches rudeness, citing head
Like distaff flaxen, taken housewife’s legs
Betwixt and spun, until the bugger come
Our cunning linguist’s hinting things unsaid!
And ‘midst the tale of lovers under-aged,
Dear Romeo, sweet Juliet, enflam’d,
Mercutio the bawdy bastard smiles,
His “prick of noon” embraced by hand – of dial!
“Love’s Labour’s Lost” calls for the archer’s mark
A prick to have within’t. The nearer must
He shoot or ne’er he’ll hit the clout – and rub
Hard lady wrong way up – or right? – so that
Upshoot she’ll get, and cleave the pin indeed,
As greasy foul-mouth’d owls do lick her bowl.
Ah, matron Mary Whitehouse CBE –
By sofa-censors fêted, all lip-pursed;
Those ranks of moralistic legions cursed
To gorge till surfeit on the TV's worst –
She sought to castigate the BBC.
Here Dennis Potter’s “Son of Man” conspired
The myth of god from minds of men to drive;
“Till Death’s Do Part’s” Alf Garnet’s such a foul-
Mouth’d fascist bastard, that he utters half
An hour in, “bloody” not one hundred times,
But that and twenty one-times more – God damn!
This coarsens life’s whole quality, harsh norm
It makes indecency – and more – despoils
Mankind’s communicative urge, she snarl’d!
Dave Allen’s shaggy comic tales she thought
Offensive, yes, indecent, yea, and more –
Embarrassing – and what of tit and arse
On "Benny Hill"? “A Clockwork Orange” too
Incurred her wrath, and so did "Doctor Who,"
That tots’ teatime brutality – “The Seeds
Of Doom” contained some scenes, of strangling
By hand, by claw, by obscene plant – and bombs
Were made to throw! Sir Hugh C Greene – the lout,
Conspired to propagate on air, take note:
A cult of dirt, and doubt, of disbelief,
Dread sex promiscuous, infidelity!
Boy George would rather have a lovely cup
Of tea – ah, he’s a gender-bending queen!
Gay News’ “The Love that Dares to Speak its Name”
With libel blasphemous Our Lord did shame;
To protect God sought Whited sepulchre –
Whose dread of homosex was visceral;
Her prejudice extraordinary deep –
Since queers come from abnormal parents’ sex
And being bent to acne she compared –
With treatment fags can get completely cured!
The British Romans roused again her ire
Although herself she’d never seen this filth –
A private prosecution she commenc’d
Because the soldier third did hold his thighs,
Whilst from stalls’ back row, ninety feet away
Another warrior, thumb stuck out from fist,
In stage illusion, seemed to bugger him!
Such penile magic could not stand erect –
The prosecuting barrister resigned;
Callooh Callay! -- The action was withdrawn!
-- (But still both sides claimed moral victory).
Those squalid Belsen films offend and shock;
Intrusions awful – putting-off to boot –
And coverage of Vietnam was made
Vile pacifistic tendencies to aid.
By this, along with nasty videos
And shops that deal in sex, society
Permissive morally pollutes itself –
For children childhood none there be – o woe!
Where art thou Dock-Green Dixon, snooker play,
-- Sweet bastions of safety in their way?
And yet when all the shouting’s o’er and done
And analysts and commentators write
The verdict is consensually reached
That Whitehouse and all others of that ilk,
Entirely out of touch the real world with,
Must be renounced, that art be free to speak
Else false assumptions prior are underwrit
Potentiating dang’rous censorship
– Whence creativity is barred from risk.
So Bowdler, rotting peaceful in your grave
At Oystermouth in Swansea by the waves,
To you I say: piss, shit, fuck, cunt, wank, cock!
You’re no more putting language in the dock!
[(*) Worrall, S (2018) National Geographic Online (27 January 2018).
URL: https://on.natgeo.com/3sQTopZ (Accessed 05/04/21)]
Sick morning chases bloody night,
Ice-shards of memory bite deep;
Feels like a pig’s shat in your head,
Hands crimson-stained: you sliced some creep.
He’d looked as if he’d spill your pint:
The cocky twat just asked for it;
You only had to clock the cunt:
Dressed like an arsehole; full of shit.
Distressed you lie low, retching bile;
Recalling wounds keen glass-blade found.
But then – thought-steel stabs your churned guts –
With siren’s Doppler-shifted sound.