Of culture, pop-culture and petri dishes. Keeping count while the clock strikes thirteen.
- About: Anna Chen
- On the radio
- Arts Reviews
- The Steampunk Opium Wars
- Foot and Mouth Campaign
- RSC The Orphan of Zhao controversy
- Reaching for my Gnu: poetry
- Anna Chen's Poetry
- Yellow Peril Orientalism
- Suzy Wrong Human Cannon
- Anna May Wong, Hollywood legend
- Shakedown: America's 21st Century War on China
Wednesday, 26 August 2015
Cat conversation on Jeremy Corbyn and the Labour leadership contest
Madam Miaow of Cats for Corbyn translates:
"Waddya think of this leadership contest?"
"It don't half exposes the contradictions in the bourgeois democracy."
"Just a bit!"
"They really don't want the one with the beard to win, do they?"
"The one with the eyelashes fancies his chances."
"I don't. He's deader than that mouse you found."
"At least the mouse didn't beg for his life the way eyelash boy did."
"The little one looks like she'd confiscate your bikkies given half a chance."
"And the other one would rub your nose in your own poo if you even looked at her funny."
"Better than rubbing it in her poo, for which I hear she has form."
"Beardie would give you the prawns off his own plate. 'Stroo!"
"Let's go and rub ourselves against his legs."
"Okay but try not to trip him up. No point doing their job for them."
"Race ya. Last one on his lap's got fleas!"
'C'mere. You need a wash first. You always show me up."
Monday, 24 August 2015
Poem for Jeremy Corbyn: Labour Pains by Anna Chen
Here's my poem about the current welcome rush to the heart and head. I guess that makes me a Poet for Jeremy Corbyn too.
We snapped on a light
and in the glare all was laid bare.
Suddenly Yvette Cooper wasn’t so super,
Kendall won’t mend anything at all
‘cause Liz fights tooth and claw for biz.
As for principles, Andy says burn ‘em.
But the latecomer nails jelly to the wall,
walks tall among the fallen,
cuts a swathe through those in thrall
to the false gods in the shopping maul.
Looking like Santa, cast as Satan,
working like a dynamo, everybody’s smitten.
Bottle what he’s made of, someone nab the patent,
before the bloody Blairites get their twisted knickers straightened.
Groping in the gloom we’d forgotten how to stand,
the air up here so fresh and clean, the view they tried to ban.
Blinking in the sunlight, nerves and sinews flex,
this is how hope feels, it’s betterer than sex.
A pole star restored, a fiery dawn,
this way something bright is born.
3rd August 2015
Anna Chen's collection of poetry, Reaching for my Gnu, is published by Aaaargh! Press
Margaret Thatcher Died at the Ritz (2013)
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