First, a short essay he wrote upon his arrival in Australia:
In the toilets of the new south wales state library some graffiti on the door admonished me to 'castrate all faggots'. sitting there procuring a shit, i turned the idea around in my head. hmmm. castrate them? why? for fear that they might overbreed a super media-literate race, with a highly evolved aesthetic toward fashion and interior decor?
shit out, and arse wiped i thought i might write a little essay beneath the graffiti - an instructive plan as to how one might eradicate faggotry, beginning where it all does: with the mother. at it like rabbits, they very well might be - but unlike the bunnies - their litters are duds. because faggots don't beget faggots - we are the offspring of dominant women. so really perhaps the graffitti should be asking to castrate the tough biatches. well in as much as we are able to. in africa they would sew up their vaginas, i believe.
but my biro wouldn't mark the wood. it couldn't cum in the bogs, you might say. and even if it could, the puny spidery scrawl it would make on the door, under the bold dominant letters of black marker would render it redundant. so i just scrawled an ironic swasika over it, and went to the sinks to wash my hands.
That final gesture really made me laugh, and I thought of it as I sat on a bog in Williamsburg yesterday, reading ironic hipster graffiti.
Anyhow, as an inspirational companion piece, a funny poem JCF wrote upon his return to Blighty:
i asked god if it was alright to be jealous
and she said yes.
and to have silvery rings round my eyes?
can i lie like litter in my bed, in the middle of the day
with the blinds drawn black,
making cigarette cemeteries of the cups and the bowls,
pissing pepsi back into bottles?
she said babbie - she calls me that sometimes -
you can do what you want.
thanks god, i said.
but is it okay to be so very very proud?
and so bitter - sometimes bitter - that my tongue
tastes like fishguts.
sweetness, god said, what i'm telling you is
yes yes yes.