Or, Were Goebbels around today, he'd have a MacBook Pro.
As Charlie Brooker once pointed out, BNP publicity will always look (and feel – horrid, horrid paper) like primary-coloured diarrhoea because MegaRightWing gifted graphic-designers don’t exist. Gifted graphic-designers are too sensitive and intelligent to be MegaRightWing. Fuckers’ll have to teach themselves Photoshop, bless their (ironically, black) little hearts.
(It’s true, Goebbels might have something to say about this assertion, were he around today. It can’t be emphasised enough, were Goebbels around today, he’d have a MacBook Pro. Goebbels would go mad for apple. Go mad… Hohohohohoho! Goebbels had a Ph.D., having written his doctoral thesis on 18th Century romantic drama, would you believe...)
The same, it seems, can be said for internet poetry. Yes, there is a tradition of batshit crazy artistic fascism coexisting with once-in-a-generation poetic genius (hello Ezra, you mad old bastard) but as a rule, MegaRightWing internet poetry is gloriously shite. Take the following IT’S SARCASTIC, GET IT?! example from the comment-feed what lies beneath Melanie Phillips’ just fucking frightening Spectator blog:
What’s Left?
I envy the moral perfection
Of the folks on the cultural left;
Surrounded by such a collection
Of saints I feel lost and bereft.
Of the folks on the cultural left;
Surrounded by such a collection
Of saints I feel lost and bereft.
There isn’t an issue to mention
They haven’t a remedy for,
And they’re positive all global tension
Is due to our actions before.
They haven’t a remedy for,
And they’re positive all global tension
Is due to our actions before.
For the West is the world’s only evil
And nothing’s as wicked as we,
And they’re certain that every upheaval
Is the fault of white bastards like me.
And nothing’s as wicked as we,
And they’re certain that every upheaval
Is the fault of white bastards like me.
But when you examine it closer
You might be surprised what you find,
For the issues that make them verboser
Are the ones buried deep in their mind:
You might be surprised what you find,
For the issues that make them verboser
Are the ones buried deep in their mind:
All the violent rant against warfare,
All resentful remembrance of race,
All repeated insistence they do care
As they purple and spit in your face
All resentful remembrance of race,
All repeated insistence they do care
As they purple and spit in your face
You can see is the angry denial
Of thoughts they can only admit
By projecting and putting on trial
The stench of their own disowned shit.
Of thoughts they can only admit
By projecting and putting on trial
The stench of their own disowned shit.
By Mark Allinson. ‘WB’ responds:
Mark Allinson @ 12:22 a.m.
Did see your ballad and thought it a clever reflection of Maelanie's poster. Enjoyed :-)
I wonder, Melanie, how it feels to know that the only people commenting on your blog are fucking retards. ‘WB’ sounds like a dyslexic Yoda. And yet Mark Allinson appears positively Eliotic (the loveliest of all the poet-name-coinages) in comparison to the following man-of-letters. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Lee John Barnes, the man Nick Griffin describes as ‘a strange and complex character.’
(It seems MegaRightWing folk aren’t very fly with the ol’ video-editing software either. How weird, par exomplur, is this…)
(Before I post an actual poem, here’s a blogpost entitled, no joke, ‘Thor and Electro-Magnetism – UPDATE.’ There are no words.)
Right. Let’s call the below Lee John Barnes does a Hopkins
The Hunting Hawk.
This is my sky, his cry seemed to say,
And I am the master of all I survey,
As upon the highest crag he perched,
The sky itself seemed his church,
For atop that simple throne of stone,
He committed no crimes to atone,
For what need of he for laws and gods,
Those chains that tie us to the sod,
For he is free as lightning, fleet as fire,
Blessed as he rode the rain rushed gyres.
The whistling winds beneath those wings,
Will never condemn or shame with sins,
The savage desires that fill his soul,
For only we tarnish, whilst he is gold,
The simple sorcery of his ascensions,
Were a magic beyond my comprehension,
And the blood that ran into that beak,
As precious as a sermon for the weak,
And as he crucified his prey upon those talons,
God was joyous, and adored him in his vision.
