thoughts on craig raine’s gatwick*


thoughts on craig raine’s gatwick

as if according to wiccan principles or

karma’s schoolyard tit for tat, old craig raine’s latest

hornéd spree of underworked verse in the LRB called forth the curse

of hissy twits from the red-sash brigade,  critiques of little greater wit

than raine’s parading of his need to word-fuck

every wrinkle-free chick within his neck-chained reading

glasses’  fucking range as if

the disparity in age is why

the pome bit. well

do old dogs still paw buried

memories of gnawing lust like

treasure bones? if yes who else

should write such pomes? or is lit’s report of lived experience

owned only by yoof’s sententious

remit? fuck orf

you kids with your rock-red abs and

puritanic fits. what we’d more better abhor is this:

for much too long the published poetaster’s pulpit

of bully has been an unreflected sniper’s nest, targets picked

off from which at the safely incredible

distance of cluelessness

(that is)

(when last the time lord raine caught glimpse)

(of an unforgiving surface with his own sad can)

(death-naked  in it?)



*this poem refers to THIS and THIS