To Those of You Nodding Along With Christopher Golden

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I’ve heard some rather ‘interesting’ comments about CG this week, for standin’ up and shoutin’ out. Who does he think he is? He’s virtue signalling, he’s making it about him, he’s playing White *Saviour… *yawn, yawn, fuckin’ yawn*

*Savior, for those of you across the pond.

The scene: come with me, if you will, to a blog post that’s been doing the rounds over the last few days. (It’s here, for ease of ref): https://www.christophergolden.com/post/to-those-of-you-nodding-along-with-tom-monteleone

It’s Golden’s response to the latest rant from the extraordinary (and not in a good way) Tom Monteleone. I’m not going to include a link to TM’s hateful horseshit here, as his own particular brand of blogwank doesn’t deserve any more traffic. And yeah, I use ‘hateful’ on purpose. It’s that quiet, posh, all-singing, all-dancing racism that’s been swept under many a rug for decades. Monteleone has (or had) a black friend, don’t ya know? (Linda Addison is “a very nice, congenial and smart lady I always considered a friend…”) And for that, read: I’d better state how lovely she is, right before I say something racist and douchebaggy, just so I can’t be called a racist douchebag.

That’s racism 101, pal. Black friend, and lovely-person disclaimer. Quiet racism, almost to the point of silence. But here’s the thing: the quieter the racism, the louder we must shout.

Suffice t’say, ol’ Tom has it covered. All of it. Sussed. Not content with being your common-or-garden bigot, he’s really gone to town this time, covering all bases. Rampant misogyny? Check. Homophobia? Check. White Privilege? Check. I think he must be after a frickin’ medal or something, for Most Boxes Ticked in a Single Sesh. Not that he would be in with a chance of winning, though, what with fragile white dudes being, like, so oppressed ‘n’ shit. (Poor loves.)

This is something he makes sure to point out, by the way, in case you were in any doubt. Only two—TWO—straight, white guys were nominated for whatever the fuckever’s got on his tits this time:

‘I think the recent history of the LAA speaks for itself—a definite DEI agenda, which got me excoriated for merely pointing it out in an aside in my nominating letter. Indeed the push lately to nominate three winners in a given year seems to be an obvious effort to balance the scales even a little bit. I know I don’t need to state the obvious, but I will: for the last six years, Straight, White Guys: two; Women: eight; “Writer of Color”: five.  I rest my case.’ (Spoiler alert: does he bollocks rest his case.)

He doubles down, too: according to him, Linda isn’t a writer of horror poetry, but a writer of “horror poetry.” Ah, those scathing quote marks that say so much. About him.

‘Her body of work is mostly poems and a handful of collections, but hardly what any student of the field would deem a lifetime of work that “significantly influenced and contributed to the field.” To me (and lots of others who kept their mouths shut, the selection was somewhat of a surprise)—especially after many mentions of the Addison award prefaced it with the proclamation that she was the first black recipient of the award (as if skin color should be a reason for accomplishment to be recognized).’

Tom, U ok, hun? [insert worry-face emoji here]

(But enough about him. There’s plenty of online commentary out there, should you care to go down that hole of rabbits.)

So what, by contrast, do we have in Christopher Golden? An author, supporting other authors. Shocking!

Supporting friends. HOW DARE!

Supporting the oppressed, the underrepresented, the marginalised. What a terrible person. Sheesh.

‘Linda Addison does not need you to acknowledge her worth to be worthy. She doesn’t need to have been embraced by readers who are not interested in poetry for her contributions to be significant. You don’t need to have felt her influence or even observed it for her to be influential.’ – Christopher Golden.

Standing up for People of Colour does not make you a white saviour. It makes you human. It makes you a decent person. It’s the right thing to do. And I’m kind of at a loss as to why more people aren’t doing it. Allies are precious. Being that it’s usually we white folks doin’ the perpetratin’, isn’t it up to us to call out the bullshit everywhere we smell it?

So, yeah. To those of you nodding along with Christopher Golden, and to the man himself: thank you.

Micro-Thoughts on “Old Molly Metcalfe”

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Jake Thackray—what is a songwriter if not a poet?—is one of the finest wordsmiths ever to grace both page and stage; and, indeed, one of the finest horror writers, though he might not be commonly acknowledged as such. With an unbridled passion for words (and all the hoops through which he could get them to jump), Jake would weave entire worlds from the threads of language, producing the silken, impenetrable fabric of verse. Via the odd—in every sense—little ditty, assisted in no small part by the relentlessness of the slant rhymes that one imagines came to him as naturally as breathing, he could convey an atmosphere of dread, of doom, of death, all of which are rife in Old Molly Metcalfe, published in Jake’s Progress, Star Publishing, 1977.

When performing the piece, Thackray would introduce the tale thus: “In Swaledale, North Riding of Yorkshire, sheep farmers used to—and some of them still do—count their sheep in a curious fashion: Yan, tan, tether-mether-pip…” and explains that Molly Metcalfe was a shepherdess on a moor, sent to mind sheep at the age of eight. “She was found rotting with her ghastly sheep at about the age of twenty-eight. This is a song for her.”

The repetition of “Yan, tan, tether…” (is the girl really counting sheep, or is she counting down to her own demise?) conveys methodically the cold, cold atmosphere of both the Yorkshire moors and the dreary situation. But for me, it’s the beautiful, delicious assonance that hammers home the horror of the tale, particularly “…steep and bleak,” and “In her back in the bracken…” These two fleeting phrases top-and-tail the narrative, summarising the history of Molly’s short life rather nicely. Or, to be more accurate, rather horrifically.

Creation Fail

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His god made him simultaneously strong and weak, I was told

Odd, wrong, meek, the surviving spouse at a funeral

Humourless as the miscellaneous bereaved

Stealing joy with an assortment of self-imposed rivalry.

Back in the day, he would frequent the library: determined, bold

Where, with dread, he would flick through the science he never bought

And as stars aligned

He continued to vacuum happiness

Buying only into the inexplicable biblical things

reserved for his kind.

I observed as I was ought:

Pretending not to read him

Pretending not to need him

Keeping quiet

In case of argument or riot

And because light was at a premium

His eager, bohemian child learned what to cherish

And as he perished, he knew he’d been had.

My father was the dullest dying star at the funeral for his universe

And with me as his nurse

There was no god to see that he was bad.

Tellin’ it to Ella

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I’d have the worst schoolday ever
But I’d come home —and it wasn’t as now, where I will cry into a poem, but then, back then, I’d tell it to Ella.
I’d be eternally battered and beaten, my fists filled with fight, bullied blood frightened out of me, a parent who shouted and screamed and paternally doubted me and drew words from the air whenever he could—and he’d cast them and throw them as he yanked out my hair—there’d be tears; there’d be blood—
Then I’d tell it to Ella.

And she’d listen, y’know? No matter which way I’d go, how far I’d take it, and to where—
She’d sing coz she cared.
For her voice became ears
And endowed me with crowns and sceptres and swords
And I collected my thoughts
So that I might face fear with rhyme and rhythm
And allow my own words a reason for living.

This is how it’s been since.
Since that first day
I pressed play
When everything changed:
When my thoughts rearranged, ceaselessly.
Self-hatred is overrated, after all, no matter how hard I fall.
And I did—I fell. Frequently.
But Ella was always there to tell.

Through listening, she saw it all.
But no—it’s more:
She still does.
We make a right pair, the two of us.
One on a tape, on a disc, or a chip
The other a chick with a history, brief, quick
It’s a lie that she died—an existence persisting via song can’t be wrong.

She proves it to me
All the time, every day
Especially during those moments
When I have to press play.

HOUNDS

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And so begins another cold day

Filled with mishaps —everything’s

Going wrong, as always

How can a person be so clumsy

And stupid? I broke a

Nail, smashed my damn

I-phone screen,

Spilled coffee all down my front

Then the cat threw up

And the car wouldn’t start—

Never does, when it’s cold.

Photo: Republic Of Korea Air Force/EPA

Seeing Red – by CM Franklyn

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‘It’s Dad,’ says Freddie.

Bobby’s going to take some convincing, being far from the sharpest knife in the drawer ’n’ all. Hell—he’s not even in the drawer (neither is the knife, but we’ll get to that). ‘But… all them prezzies we got last year—how would Dad have managed that on his own?’

‘Duh. Mum helps. And it’s “Those prezzies.”’

‘I posit that you included an explanatory-yet-altogether-humourless faux-correction lest the reader considers my clumsy vernacular a reflection upon the self-indulgent author’s grasp of grammar.’ Bobby’s only six, but talks like a fifty-year-old woman. Funny, that. ‘And if it is him, why does he dress up? We’re not supposed to see him.’

‘Maybe coz if he catches us watching, he can just go “Ho-ho-ho!” or whatever. Didn’t ya notice the cushions missing off the sofa? They’re under his costume.’ (Why is the dude always on the porky side? Why not have Slender-Claus for a change? –Ed.)

There’s rustling, next. And crinkling: the paper-wrapped packages are being de-sacked and placed by the fire. Even though they don’t have a fire. And if they did, it wouldn’t be advisable to put the presents anywhere near it, what with it being a BIG BURNY DEATHFLAME HAZARD ’n’ shit. Under the tree would make more sense. Doombrain. (Me, not you. Although…*)

*Depends who’s reading.

Twigging on to the shuffling boy-feet upstairs, Dad plonks the presents by the fire under the tree, shushes himself like a gilded pisshead, and scurries behind the living room door.

‘That’s it!’ says Fred, who’s just this minute shortened his name. ‘What’s it?’ asks Bob, in italics.

‘I’m going downstairs for proof. Stay hidden, but open our door a crack, watch from under the blankets.’

‘What if he gets past you and heads up here? It’s dark! I won’t be able to see!’

‘You’ll at least see a flash of red, even from bed,’ says Fred, coz I do like a triumvirate of shitty rhymes. ‘In which case, pretend to be asleep. Just keep your eyes peeled.’

            Fred takes the stairs three-at-a-time owing to his rather lengthy legs, which I probably should have mentioned earlier, but there’s no sign of Dad, so he heads back up.

            A scream comes next, followed by some unintelligible babbling, which I cannot even begin to spell. Bob’s at the bedroom door, bloodied and eyelidless, along with a telegraphed ending. The peelings are on the floor—somewhere. It’s impossible to make them out amongst all the gooey, fleshy splats coating the discarded blade.

Next comes the Santa Dash as Dad legs it upstairs. Mum’s already on the scene, because she does love a good Police Squad! reference.

           Bob whimpers. ‘Y-you told me to k-keep my eyes p-peeled. But it’s okay, bruh. I believe you, now. I saw the red.’

           ‘It’s a good job I didn’t tell him to keep his ear to the ground!’ says Fred, with a giggle.

‘LOL,’ says Mum, who speaks in lazy, contrived initialisms.

‘Ho-ho-ho!’ laughs Dad.

The Nork Corps (or: not)

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This warning, please heed: if you’re hoping to read a nice poem wot’s sweetness and light

Then please bugger off (*winky-wink, polite cough*) because this one’s all saucy (and shite).

You put up with my rants and my rambles all day and you know my position on celery

And a film I adore (might have said so before—  ‘sgot a cop who’s a tad Peter Wellery)

I could waffle away, go all Joyce, Hemingway—sit reflecting, respecting the muse

But the posts that you buggers engage with the most? Whenever there’s mention of boobs

I’ve been known to immerse in the beauty of verse but I want all DEM LIKEYS, godfuckit

So forget all the beats and the metery treats and the rhymes ’bout the guy from Nantucket

Me, I love the profound but you want big and round—or just perfectly pert in your palmie

Whether perky or droopy, you’re truly boob-groupies—my titular orb-lovin’ army

But I’m sorry to say: I must put them away, coz I bring a new thing to the table

And although it ain’t boobies, it’s still rather rude— full of sauce (well, of course) for appraisal:

It is better, I s’pose, than the complexest prose, or yakkin’ all day ’bout the weather

I should like to discuss why we kick up a fuss about waxing (or not) regions nether.

So what can I say about hairy va-jays—or clean-shaven, if that is your thang?

Come on, let us know: are you raring to go with a baldy or bushy poontang?

Do you like ’em all neat, those wee curtains of meat—or straight out of a seventies porno?

For maybe your ex had the bushiest sex (because shaving would leave her all raw, no?)

(At this point I digress, for I have to confess that I just used my pettiest hate

When I called it a ‘sex’ which is truly pathecks: yucky yoof-misms I do not rate

But when crowbarring rhymes into quest’nable lines, the bar is already quite low

So dear reader, acquit: forgive werds-wot-are-shit; ‘ave a fag, ‘ave a laff, let it go)

Back to flaps: if you’re ginge, do you have a red minge—or d’ya whizz off the hairs as they sprout?

If you have a blonde head but yer pyabs are bright red, you must dye one or t’other, no doubt?

Once de-furred, d’ya partake of a merkin while werkin’ cold rooms in the nude, unattired?

If you grow back the fluff does it warm up yer muff? Do ya suffer hairs on the inside?

There is no way of knowin’ a hair is ingrowin’ until it presents as a spot

Oh, it’s terrible, that, when there’s lumps on yer twat (so I’ve heard – not a problem I’ve got)

But be sure not to blunder your wonder down under, just keep it the way you prefer:

Matching collars and cuffs, fuss your puss till you must; go for satin or covered with fur

Just listen up, girls: many virtues have curls on yer beautiful vertical smiles;

Although bald is good too; you do YOU with yer foo — coz vaginas are always in style.

You might think me disgustin’ but I’m only discussin’ — I loves me some natural pewbs . . .

. . . And believe it or not this all started up top with a thought that I had about bewbs.

Beautiful Fruit

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The ancient trees we once were shown
Have taken root again
New matter grows where hate be sown:
A type of fruit that’s strange

The fruit it has no time to breathe
Enslaved by blue and white
A lynching starts as justice leaves:
Shoot first and then indict

Fruits swing as they have swung before
Their skin a foreign land
And from the branches of the law
The innocent still hang

Now executions breed with hate
In jogging neighborhoods
Where fruit is left to cultivate:
Chased down on roads of blood

The soil is fertilised with white
Fragility the noose
Strange fruit still swings; the death of life
And drips with human juice.

 

If a Book…

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If a book can drive people to build gold-dripping brick palaces in honour of an imperceptible sky-dweller
Or to melt wax and drape hatred over glistening, Christening altars
Then consider the power of fiction.
If a book can create and nurture mass hysteria for thousands of years, then consider the power of fiction.

If a book can drive people to kill or to keep:
To keep and punish and sacrifice
To sacrifice and ostracise and bully and excommunicate
If a book can invent such fantastic characters that even the inconceivable becomes believable
Then consider the power of fiction.

There, saints on pages say women must be silent
There, invented words would have you devote yourself to destruction
where wives and slaves submit to men
—Men who must not love one another—
Here, sacrifice your children unto this scripture:
And they saw that it was blood.

And still, its readers read—feeding hate
And still, they root for its main character
Through an aperture of death
Death masquerading as life
And still, its readers explain away horror as metaphor

And interpret and manipulate evil into excuses:

Free will and mysterious ways.
So today, embrace the power of fiction.
Embrace the power of fiction and keep writing.
Keep writing your own book
And perhaps one day
Writers shall unwrite The Bible.

Thanks, Dad

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B40CC9D0-79A6-4DA7-BEF7-FFD1F8333A7B.jpegAs an impressionable kid, susceptible to the same crippling doubt that would continue to affect me as an unimpressive teen and self-loathing adult, I had to contend with my father as well as myself. He had scattered the confetti of neglect in my direction along with the force-feeding of his malnourishing religion. I was the goose, trapped in a man-made device whose restraints’ primary purpose was to engorge me on godfulness from throat to liver, until I became a honed, conditioned pâté, ripe for the spreading.
But there was a thing, and the thing was this: my wings had never wung. They didn’t know how. Everything I did was wrong; nothing was right. And the few aspects of my existence in which I did take pride, however fleetingly, were —of course— unworthy of his unmatchable achievements. He’d always received higher grades than me, and earned better wages. His spelling was better than mine, as were his enunciation, pronunciation, and inflexion. I knew this because he would tell me so. A hundred times a day.
He’d criticise my accent, despite his responsibility for the geography of my birth, wishing to ensure I knew how to speak properly —lest people thought me dense. That was his worst nightmare: that an unworthy, unclever child might cast her reflection on him. Nobody wanted a stupid child, least of all him —especially when I considered that almost biblical, yet perpetually unspoken chant of his: idiot begets idiot, begets idiot. He didn’t have to say it, but I knew it was there, in the voice behind his sight. I could hear the cogs of his brain whirring and churning the mantra every time he turned his pedantry on me and his blatant displeasure in my direction.
I turned to atheism, comedy, and romance, so that the last laugh —and love— would be mine. And they are. Oh, how they are.

Hear me laughing, Pater.
See me write.

And watch how I love —the right way.

Love begets love, begets love.