Brett Evans: Three Poems

Argument for Devolved Media in Cymru

And we finish our tour of Conwy Castle
in the Cunt’s Tower; here’s Rod Liddle
tied to a chair. That bloodied rag now gags
a toothless mouth and broken nose –
we wear ours too, as protection
from our Covid spreading language
and beat his face with thick blue books,
shouting each count of the Welsh vowels.
There appears to be a blind spot.

You’ve noticed his hands. Right or left,
we had no choice but to work over both,
prevent him tapping at the keyboard.
The irony in their resembling red claws.

You say he’ll think it authoritarian. He should
try walking a mile in our… no, that’s right,
we forgot to tell you about his feet.

Pots of Paint on the Hoof
(and rewriting Outlaw Country for James May)

Another hit and run of painting a town red –
Cofiwch Dryweryn in white – we sit round
the campfire of our selves, tell stories:

family folklore, that boy who wore the hated
wooden plaque with pride, refused home-cosy
words to be Welsh-Notted out of him.

Nights beneath the stars are not for such sadness.
We pass a bottle between our pasty-faced,
ginger, separatist mob and laugh at Twp Gear

gobshites that scorn bilingual signs baffling
and dangerous. Mamas don’t let your babies
grow up to be car bores. The embers denied

during our cowboy lullaby, we look for a copy
of The Times; a poll to justify the purpose
of our language, the very thing to heat us up.

Bedding down, no need for a sentry – our hearing legendary;
creep up on us from outside any pub and we’ll know
to switch tongues. Iesu, to hear them talk
you’d think we were singing our last lonesome song.

Note: James May stated Welsh signs baffling and dangerous though he seems to have survived driving all over the world with signs in other languages.
He also described speakers of Cymraeg pasty-faced, ginger, separatists.

On Not Saddling Up

Sglyfath and Auntie Val never got
to Tombstone, that narrow lot the side
of C.S. Fly’s studio. Various hosts had laid
out their stalls: Fonda and Vic, Burt and Kirk,
Garner and Robards, Kurt and Kilmer.
So much cowshit corralled by myth.
Saving and saying, saying and saving.
Then Auntie Val bushwhacked
by the Dementia Boys.
Now 28 seconds can drag like a cattle drive
or fuck off swift as they say Wyatt cleared leather.