He's So Masc - Softcover

Tse, Chris

Softcover

ISBN 10: 186940887X ISBN 13: 9781869408879

Verlag: AUCKLAND UNIV PR, 2018

Inhaltsangabe

In How to be Dead in a Year of Snakes, Chris Tse took readers back to a shocking 1905 murder. Now he brings the reader much closer to home. He’s So MASC confronts a contemporary world of self-loathing poets and compulsive liars, of youth and sexual identity, and of the author as character—pop star, actor, hitman, and much more. These are poems that delve into worlds of hyper-masculine romanticism and dancing alone in night clubs. With its many modes and influences, He’s So MASC is an acerbic, acid-bright, yet unapologetically sentimental and personal reflection on what it means to perform and dissect identity, as a poet and a person.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Chris Tse was born and raised in Lower Hutt. He studied English literature and film at Victoria University of Wellington, where he also completed an MA in Creative Writing at the IIML. Tse was one of three poets featured in AUP New Poets 4 and his work has appeared in publications in New Zealand and overseas. His first collection, How to be Dead in a Year of Snakes, won the Jessie Mackay Award for Best First Book of Poetry in 2016.

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He's so MASC

By Chris Tse

Auckland University Press

Copyright © 2018 Chris Tse
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-86940-887-9

Contents

Intro, 
Belated backstory, 
Heavy lifting, 
Punctum, 
Tonight, Matthew, 
Chris Tse and His Imaginary Band, 
Artist's impression of the poet is not drawn to scale, 
Like a queen, 
I was a self-loathing poet, 
Selfie with landscape, 
MASC, 
This house, 
Summer nights with knife fights, 
Performance — Part 2, 
The compulsive liar's autobiography, 
Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!, 
Thunder's soul clap, 
I.R.L., 
The saddest song in the world, 
Present tension, 
New mythology, 
I want things that won't make me happy, 
Lupine, 
I made it through the wilderness, 
Fast track, 
Desire, 
Boy meets wolf, 
Choose your own adventure, 
A star like no other, 
Distance getting close, 
Release, 
Astronaut, 
The opposite of music, 
MacGuffin, 
Still — the boys, 
Notes for Taylor Swift, should she ever write a song about me, 
Sweetheartbreaker, 
Next year's colours, 
Spot the difference — Answers, 
Crying at the disco, 
Ends, actually, 
Spanner — A toast, 
Wolf spirit — Fade out, 
Notes and acknowledgements, 

CHAPTER 1

Intro


Shut the fuck up.

Can you hear that?

Listen.

Wolves!

Wolves with roses in their teeth.
Roses with blood dripping
from their petals. Petals skimming
across a ballroom floor in an '80s music video.

Lightning crashes — their bright eyes
lock on — very, very frightening indeed.

The wolves are closing in
on the ballroom while the band members
look out and brace themselves
for the conflict to come. Shit just got real.
They pick up their instruments
and clear their throats.

1 and 2 and 3 and —


Belated backstory

There were animals. They came to me
with their bloodstained murmurs

choking the night, the weight of misery
a gloom in their throats. Beasts of all

shapes and mythologies scratching
at the soil around my grave, each one

driven by its own unique hunger
but all intent on writing my end.

I can almost run my fingers through
the sun-streaked strands of those days

when I was nothing but a silhouette
disappearing into fog — just a sketch.

I could step into a crowd and never
resurface. No one would suspect a thing.


Heavy lifting

Once, I climbed a tree
too tall for climbing
and threw my voice out
into the world. I screamed.
I hollered. I snapped
innocent branches. I took the view
as a vivid but painful truth gifted
to me, but did not think to lay down
my own sight in recompense.
All I wanted was someone to say
they could hear me, but the tree said
that in order to be heard I must
first let silence do the heavy lifting
and clear my mind of any
questions and anxieties
such as contemplating whether
I am the favourite son. If I am not,
I am open to being a favourite uncle
or an ex-lover whose hands still cover
the former half's eyes. I'll probably never
have children of my own to disappoint
so I'll settle for being famous instead
with my mouth forced open on TV like
a Venus fly-trap lip-synching for its life.
The first and the last of everything
are always connected by
the dotted line of choice.
If there is an order to such things,
then surely I should resist it.


Punctum

This is my blood oath with myself: the only
dead Chinese person I'll write about from now on
is me. I know I know

it'll do me no good to drag my body
through the town square
to prove that it wasn't me

who set fire to the school to avoid my maths exam
who shot the prince in the bushes behind the barn
where the queers get together to talk

nor was it me
who leaked those emails about which All Black
the Prime Minister would bottom for. But

I hope my name and track record with unsolved crimes
will finally be cleared so I can get on with my new life
as a Chinese girl

behind the counter being bullied into saying 'fried rice'
by the gwai lo in the cheap suit. In between scoops
of sweet and sour pork I curse the heavens

for saddling me with a mediocre work ethic
which has kept me here for five years despite knowing
there is no career progression unless I

marry my boss's son, who is studying to be
a capitalist like all good Chinese boys. He's got a small dick
and no sense of rhythm but our children

will likely be pleasant-looking enough
to be background extras in a re-enactment
of Helen Clark's apology for the poll tax — that is,

if their father allows them to have the arts in their lives.
I'll be their proud stage mother and encourage them
to audition for awards-bait roles — for example,

the unapologetic sex addict still burying porn
in his parents' backyard

the pregnant teen goth who must decide whether to keep
her subscription to Evanescence's monthly fan club newsletter

the paraplegic hooker with a heart of gold
made from melted-down Oscars

the proud gay man pretending to be straight
to be made partner at his father's law firm in 1940s Austria

the racist spiritual healer about to inherit
a hand sanitiser empire in Birmingham, Alabama.

But in all likelihood my children will have only
moderately humble acting careers playing
accountants, taxi drivers and restaurateurs

to supplement their primary incomes as
accountants, taxi drivers and restaurateurs.
I'll go to my next grave wondering

whether I pushed them hard enough to never settle
for being the token Asian in a crowd scene or
the Asian acquaintance in an ethnically diverse television series

set in New York City, who is only mentioned and never seen
unless you pause at 12.29 of season 4 episode 6
and carefully inspect the photographs on the wall —

there, that's my youngest standing in the back row
of a wedding group shot. Can you see her?
  Can you see her?


Tonight, Matthew

Thirty-something and — shit! —
  Windows is shutting down —
    again with the lag and tidings.

If I don't have a name for it, how do I recover?
  Maybe I should push more.

  But then I see the riverbank
sluiced in red from the sacrificial high season.

  I can't get on board with that, no siree!
Artistic men standing by with their motivations and fashionable
facial hair. Me? I prefer an 'I grew up like this' aesthetic
for my unsuccessful auditions.

  Thirty-something and —
what's that crash scene up over the horizon?
When I grow up, I'll impress the world
  with how calmly I can walk away
    from exploding cars/buildings/spaceships.
      My life story will fill pages of
        Google search results — instant proof
...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: AUCKLAND UNIV PR
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2018
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 186940887X
• ISBN 13: 9781869408879
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 92
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: preigu GmbH & Co. KG; mail@preigu.de; ; Lengericher Landstr. 19; Osnabrück; Niedersachsen; 49078; Deutschland