We take it as rote that belligerence is a natural state, the substrate that underpins, from the recesses of our chthonic dark, the upwelling synclines that, emergent, shape the geology of our form. We take it as given, therefore, that poetry is divided. Not by the old measures of genre or school or style or form; not by manifesto, ideology, sophistry or naiveté, nor by the purity of its aestheticism or the clarity of its purpose. These are all fine mortars by which to frag the spirit. Nor is it fragmented, irregardless of appearances, by these revenant, invasive demarcations; identity, class, affiliation. No, poetry is divided by whether it slumbers, or whether it roars. Whether it moves or is moved, whether it emerges from the achingly clenched fist or the dull-ly thumping heart. In short, poetry is divided by whether it is transcendent or amusement. Whether it is an inalienable compulsion, or a carnival game. The first is gravity, the second, desire. And while it is neither perfidy, avarice nor incredulity that is the root of evil – rather, as eminently demonstrated by our current milieu, it is amusement – when these two coincide, in that reunification, is poetry.
Here then are words with clipped wings and broken mouths. Poems that bleed. Poems written with one fist of gravel, one fist of glass. These poems are leashed dogs. These poems are recalcitrants, recidivists, wreckage. These poems howl, they tear, they scowl, they bite the hand that feeds them. They are the old scars on the new. The crack in the glass. They are the unconscionable affront. They are the hammering breath. The elbow jammed in the solar plexus. These poems are the scrap of light. The flights of birds. They will wrench you sideways, against the spasmodic heat of noonday’s corrugated iron, in the updraft, spit flecked in your face. These poems will haul you up again, when you thought you couldn’t. They will give you the shirt off their back, whether you want it or not. These poems will fill your throat with the shriving warmth of one last crooked smoke. Art no longer has merit, only identity. This is not a manifesto; no one writes manifestos anymore. This is rather, a declaration of hostilities. These poems are cannon fodder. They are black with the ash of winter. They will laugh, and drive you home through raucous night to encumbering morning, raw and barren blasphemies beating in your ears. These poems are our manias, our misdemeanours, our ransom notes, by which slights of image, symbol, metaphor and declaration we demand meaning. Whether we are recompensed or shot like dogs in the street is another matter. If we are guilty of anything, it is not ecstasies, but amusements. I see your crooked smile. There is no amusement here. Or rather, here amusement is only ever sidelong. It is the row of carnival clowns, agape in their unison refusal, faces turned away. Turn back; the lights are dazzling. Turn once more. Savour silence and shout. When you are almost done, it is poems that will console you.
We are Hooligan Street Poetry.
