Long-Toothed White Wolf Harry!
www.harrywhitewolf.com
Who the hell’s Harry Whitewolf?
Harry Whitewolf is a writer doing his own thing.
He’s the author of two ragamuffin traveling tales: Route Number 11 (about Harry’s five-month drunken journey around Argentina; and across the borders to Paraguay, Chile, and Brazil) and The Road To Purification (which describes his mad-as-fuck pot-smoking trip around Egypt). Harry has also written nine collections of distinctive contemporary poetry, including Underdogs Unite, New Beat Newbie, Two Beat Newbie, and the award-winning Rhyme and Rebellion.
Over the years, Harry has performed his poetry at the Portobello Festival, the Winchester literature fringe festival, and numerous open mic nights and gigs. These days, however, he prefers making fun and quirky performance vids from the comfort of his smoky flat. You can find his performances on this website.
Harry’s poetry has also appeared in five anthologies and you can find his wacky fiction in the unique book ReejecttIIon — a number two, which Harry co-authored with Daniel Clausen.
On top of all that, Harry somehow finds time for his day job as an article writer and illustrator.
Harry Whitewolf was born in England in 1976. He hopes to see world peace in his lifetime, and yes, Harry believes miracles are possible.
HARRY WHITEWOLF — THE GULAG VILLAGE GREEN — 2020
Let’s have a walk in this jungle of exuberant overgrowth of all sorts of weeds in the flowerbeds of this Gulag in the East End, Whitechapel with Bradford as its suburban extension. Street market banned and Mela Festival postponed. I am going to pick a few flowers from this jungle, and I do not guarantee there won’t be a wasp from time to time in the heart of them bathing in their pollen. Let’s hope it is not some mosquitos — or is it moskitoes? — carrying some deadly disease.
Burb herb verbs bubbling with Burberry verse.
Clinging to sins of the nursery curse.
Clearing our heads.
Nearing our beds.
[…]
Apply alliteration an awful lot.
Strange play on sounds that reflects a total exploded nature of the inner self reduced to particles, beads, pellets of consonants, and vowels attacking you like a school of mosquitos and gnats trying to have a banquet on your tender flesh. The meaning of words is secondary. The meaning of the discourse is simple: total disorganization of the self into a scattered and exploded field of gravel. Language has been replaced by or reduced to unarticulated sound patterns. So that the words that keep some meaning are isolated one from the others and they resonate via their vowels and consonants into a network of concatenated fragments. Insanity for sure but the neurotic type for which everything is nothing but nothing else.
They already made us beg like dogs,
And heel like dogs,
And be loyal like dogs.
Now they’re muzzling us,
Like dogs.
The absolute perdition of the west. The impossibility to capture that in some situations there is only one thing to do: isolate people from people, protect yourselves and others, and abide by strict sanitary rules, like it or not. No secret there and Asia will win and in Asia, those who can best abide by some sanitary and safety rules will survive more than the others. They will dance on our bones and the west will be the restful cemetery playing crazy between pets and among gravestones à la Stephen King grafted on the Winchesters, somewhere in Sioux Falls in South Dakota. Let me drop a postcard in the mailbox.
Boris in his face mask,
Looks like a letterbox.
But this one is a letterbox that cannot receive no mail and dispatch no letters. An illiterate letterbox or a profane malebox whose every message is carried by a bat that cannot play no Jiminy cricket… or baseball as for that.
“So, let me get this right,” I replied.
“You’re saying black slave traders wanted slavery?”
Poor dear me, what have I done to the Lord to be confronted with such a lase idea? A totally false idea: the BLACK SLAVE TRADE had existed for at least six or seven thousand years, maybe one or two millennia more, when the Europeans started getting interested in it in the 15th century, and Europe (the Roman Empire or the Hellenistic Empire), and the Indo-European Persians were the main actors, dealers, and beneficiaries of black slavery, including for their military forces, with some competition from the Semitic Pharaohs, and their eunuchs castrated level to the abdomen, not to mention the strange development of white slavery with the Ottomans who liked their slaves, male and female alike, blond and blue-eyed.
And don’t tell me I don’t understand because I’m a white heterosexual man.
Because that has nothing to do with rationality.
Finally, a confession of his crimes, the crimes of a non-entity that has no real identity, no real picture or image who wants to go unrecognized in the street. The vanity of a persona that does not have the courage to show his ass instead of his face. You know, as far as I can imagine, he might be black and a female transgender male practicing onanism on public benches somewhere around Covent Garden, humming La Traviata in her fancy fairy attire with a magic wand and all. Come on let us see your bellybutton that might very well be Jimi Hendrix’s windows.
But I will not agree that Trans Women Are Women.
I don’t see what’s the problem. It sure is not for any gardener in the Garden of Eden which is also a nursery for all sorts of snakes and serpents, and they even add a few dragons from time to time. Think of all the genetic transmutations like Nectaplum (nectarines and plums), Pluot (plum and apricot), Tangelo (citrus and tangerine), Orangequat (mandarine and kumquat). If transwomen are not women, then you have to invent a name that will be agreed upon by them. And why on earth don’t you consider the case of transmen? Are you a genderistic female chauvinistic sow? Technically, a female pig is a gilt when she’s born. When she’s given birth to two litters of piglets, then she becomes a sow. So, you should know better. Two litters are nearly half a gallon. Or maybe you only practice your half-gallons in claret.
But the term woman no longer exists as any definitive definition,
Because a woman is now either a transgender woman or a cisgender woman,
Totally sexist to only consider the case of transgender women and refuse the case of transgender men. Check https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trans_man like Thomas Beatie at Stockholm Pride 2011, known in the media as the Pregnant Man who is a transman who gave birth to three children. This obsessive reduction of the trans-case to female individuals is typical of monolithic heterosexual male obsessive mentality. You should find transmen more disturbing for your malehood or maleness if women can become men now. How can you be sure that the individual that is pissing next to you in the pub’s toilet really is a man or a transman, hence a woman in physiological disguise? I find this impossibility to step beyond the fact that sex is not an unchangeable given but is nothing but a parameter on which anyone has the right to play if so they wish, I find it frankly unhealthy, and J.K. Rowling’s supporting someone who is that genetically narrow-physiological is plainly unwise. Everyone is supposed to be the only person controlling their own bodies, or then in no time, abortion will be a crime, sorry a plain simple murder.
Black White Men Are Black Men.
White Asian Women Are White Women.
Dog Men Are Dogs.
Cat Women Are Cats.
Martian Earthlings Are Martians.
People Who Believe They Are Jesus Are Jesus.
But every single statement is true in this declaration if the concerned individuals want it. If I want to be black then I am black with white skin, as if the skin was the only element of a Black man. You can be an uncircumcised Jew, and yet you are still a Jew. You can also be an uncircumcised Muslim, and yet you are still a Muslim. And if I want to be Jesus, I am Jesus in any Virtual Reality universe, and in any Mental Real universe. Stop beating about the bush, in fact beating about your flesh. You can open a page on Facebook with any skin color, any gender you favor, any language you want which will be at least or at best gibberish with Google Translate. My Romanian self tells you: “Bună dimineața, Harry, sunt sigur că ai putea fi femeie dacă ai încerca puțin mai mult.” And it means “Good morning, Harry, I am sure you could be a woman if you tried a little bit harder.” As for me, no problem. It is all in the mind. And with my initials, I have no problem being Jesus Christ. And I can get re-crucified every day, even several times every day on some graphic 3D phantasmagoric site. One is what one believes one is, hence, they can develop paranoia, neurosis, psychosis, and schizophrenia. But as Jacques Lacan said in his Ph.D. a long time ago (in the 1930s) to survive in our modern world we need to be schizophrenic and control it entirely.
But I will always speak my truth.
And I will always come from a place of goodness.
Like all children who always tell the truth — for themselves — even when what they say is false, because all children say is their truth entirely. All psychologists know that. But it is not enough to be good. You need to be respectful of others. To draw a caricature of any Prophet of any religion is one’s freedom, but if it hurts other people it is their freedom to request not to be hurt, and it is one’s shame to go on hurting someone or some people despite their suffering: they call that moral or cultural torture: a specialty in Guantanamo. It is not freedom, to hurt other people. It is terrorism, even if it is the caricature of the Prophet or Jesus or Buddha or whoever is an existential character for some people, not to mention the millions of people who are concerned by this hurtful suffering one imposes onto them with a simple pen and pencil. Abu Ghraib revisited.
Now, equality Seems to be About making our differences matter.
And you can bet that is fundamental. We are supposed to be equal including our differences. A man and a woman are equal because they are both human and because, on this common basis, they are different. Otherwise, they would not be equal, they would be identical, which is absurd, don’t you think? All men would be transwomen and all women would be transmen. There is better to do than waste time on identicalizing equality. I am for differencializing equality. You’re my equal because you’re not me.
My maleness isn’t important to me. It’s just the body I’m in.
Disembodied spirit and yet absolutely obsessed and dominated by body issues. If your maleness is not important, then the womanhood of the next-door transwoman should not be important, and you should accept HER as equal to you because of the identicality SHE managed to transcend into differentiation. That’s a major character of Harry Whitewolf: he is systematically full of contradictions, basic contradictions. Saying Y now and then further on saying the absolute contrary NON-Y, not seeing that reality is not between these two positions, but it is a palette of all sorts of entities. Y, NON-Y, ANTI-Y, DIS-Y, PRO-Y, DYS-Y (the strangest case: the Y who has some inner dysfunctioning), etc. And add to this the possession of a dick, a prick, or three tits and you might have even more categories.
My country is about as important to me,
As my maleness and white skin.
That’s one of the deepest patterns or Gestalten of the author: he is systematically referring and using a trinity, a ternary structure, a triad, a triadic architecture. But the present triad is more than funny: “country — maleness — white skin.” It is funny because it is the negation of identifying elements, and yet he just said some time ago that transwomen are not women, hence that sex cannot be changed, supporting Rowling’s support to an eccentric woman who wanted to defend in the business of her employer the opposite of one of the objectives of this business struggling to help trans people be recognized as plain human beings. Can you be responsible for the commercial communication of a business producing diesel cars and be absolutely and resolutely against diesel cars? As they would say in Bordeaux “Ça daille!” In plain English “That bothers me!” In colloquial English, a reference to some urination would be added bringing one’s prick in one’s hand to shake yours — hand or prick or both?
Ya hear me?
There’s no fucking need.
There is no need for anything, according to Harry Whitewolf, but there are so many needs in this world that everything turns needy, needful, needless, and first of all the life of the needy and their need-full minds in a need-empty survival that leads to their needless death of a needless life that is wasting its time while waiting for this expected death trying to quench their needs, which is plain vain since they are needy, meaning they have no resources to satisfy these needs.
I’m the outlaw of poetry.
The outsider of life.
My words are my Winchester guns,
And my subject is strife.
Sam or Dean? Winchester of course.
I am a one-off.
Through seas of words I will surf.
Lonely I may be,
But maybe my words have worth.
Too bad he is alone. No brother, even for wincest which is better than monocest, or handcest, or fistcest, or selfcest. But surprise ô surprise.
Harry f***ing Whitewolf.
He hides it very well his gayness deep behind his proclaimed heterosexuality, but Harry f***s Whitewolf in a totally incestuous narcissistic libidinous act. Bad boy, really. Harry f***s Whitewolf and since they are both personae, a persona f***s another persona. It sounds like Trump in the atomic shelter under the White House tweeting some ?#£@*µ$€ insane text to some fake newsagent. Come on! Come out of the cupboard, cabinet, or wardrobe, man. The world outside is full of surprises.
Everything Is Owned
Imagine the world we’d have
If we’d never invented ownership.
And that ownership is the most important thing in life. In most languages I know, including Sanskrit and Indo-European, BE and HAVE were the same verb, meaning that you WERE what you HAD, and you HAD what you WERE. We are not by what we own, but we are because we can own something, including a simple thought which is intellectual property and has to be copyrighted or patented. We can decide to get rid of that and then we are nothing and we have nothing, and we just need to vanish in thin air since we have no materiality. Our here-poet should learn some African languages like Lingala, or Pāli in order to understand Buddhism that condemns “attachment” (tanha) which is precisely giving more value to HAVE than to BE, more value to material or mental possession or essence than to “kamma,” all the good and bad things you have “done” in your life in the widest possible meaning of this verb, and it is going to dictate your “nibbana”, your enlightenment. Sorry, I use the Pāli words rather than the Sanskrit ones.
“Power, control, and profit,”
The trinity of human folly, the trial of human vanity, the triplet of human dumbness.
I only appear online wearing masks.
And now I’m an anti-masker.
Oh, the irony!
Not irony, just plain contradiction and you are anti-mask in the name of your individual freedom which is the most obnoxious concept that makes you stand against everyone else. It might be time to change your aiming shoulder and trigger-hand. How can you be an anti-masker? You sound like an HIV person developing AIDS and refusing to use condoms, French letters, rubbers, or whatever you may call them, just plain rooster mask, a mask for your private rooster, or maybe it is a parrot or a parakeet.
But they don’t close all the roads and ban motor vehicles.
Because it is not the roads or the vehicles that are at fault in car accidents, at least most of the time, but the human drivers. Same thing about the pandemic. We cannot stop it because people do not accept to stop it. Only Merkel had the courage to say it: “Now we have enjoyed the summer it is time to come back to some reality check.”
Every year, 1.2 million people die from drinking unsafe water,
And 9 million people die from hunger,
And around 450,000 people die from malaria.
Even though cures are available.
Cures? Available? You’re kidding and you’re wrong. Unsafe water is in some countries and regions where there is no water security, no clean water available (including Flint, USA, check Michael Moore). Hunger is in countries and areas where there is no food or where the people are too poor to get food (the Salvation Army and their distribution of food, including in the USA, UK, EU). As Reagan would say, distributing food is not the solution. the solution is to enable these people to grow their food next to where they live. Difficult next to a refugee camp in Syria or Turkey. But that is another problem, and it may take twenty years to teach people how to cultivate their gardens, here and there. Even the Chinese take ten years to bring a backward province to some level of development: reforestation, after shifting the region to natural gas and electricity instead of wood for the cooking fire, etc. Ask the Mongolians, in both Mongolias what they think about that. Ask the Sahel people who created their own curse by cutting down all their trees and vegetation as a result of underdevelopment imposed by colonialism, neocolonialism, and all forms of imposed dependency. A solution? Oh yes, but who is going to do it and pay for it? Malaria is even more complex. A vaccine for malaria? Which malaria anyway? Exterminate all mosquitos? Funny. It took several decades for France and Italy to control their malaria or paludism problem in some regions, and in Italy it required Mussolini to do it.
Put public health before capitalism,
Wrong word. Capitalism means nothing. It is one way of managing — the bad way I would admit — the market economy without which nothing can be done. If you want to have public health for everyone, why should it be public and why should not health coverage be first compulsory and second regulated by parliamentary authorities. Hospitals can be private, but they have to live within the same social security system for all as the public ones. And this health system has to be paid for. By whom? How? How much in our GNP, or GDP if you prefer? Or do we want to live with millions to pay every month in interest on the money we borrowed to pay for the bills? I have just borrowed 39,000 euros to work on my own house. But I will have to pay and foot the interest as well as the capital. Money does not grow on trees, except if we go back to the Maya civilization that used cocoa beans as currency.
What happened to everyone panicking and thinking it was Armageddon?
Oh yeah, they got used to it.
My wife had a cancer examination and surgery postponed three months because of the hospital jam because in our hospital they had to take care of a trainful of patients coming from the northeast. That’s the difference between us and the Chinese or even more generally Extreme-Orientals. They really mobilize themselves and obey the decisions of scientists implemented by their politicians.
…The results were not perfect… (But) Sweden’s death rate is still lower than those in Belgium… Spain… Britain… and Italy… — all of which did go into lockdown.”
But compare with Norway and Denmark, their comparable countries. You get another picture then and compare it with Germany and Switzerland.
They can’t read our minds,
But they can write our minds,
And occupy our minds,
And overtire our minds,
And oversaturate our minds,
And override our minds,
And oppress our minds,
And obliterate our minds.
But Harry you wrote some pages before: “But the closer I get / To the pinnacle, / The more I remember my mind is free.” But you seem to have forgotten it yourself. And that brings us to the end of this trip in this dense jungle of all sorts of ideas and protesting shouts, yells, and screams. Remain peaceful but do not forget you have been endowed with vocal cords and a language. Harry Whitewolf uses the vocal cords too much to claim his unalienable liberty, freedom, and self-centered truth.
And yet there is here a picture of our world. I do not give a damn about the author who is a persona anyway. But the book reflects the great fall of the western world that is going to collapse if they do not react fast and come back to some collective thinking and collective action instead of individualistic initiative and anarchical selfishness. I am going to go out for my unique outing today and run and do gymnastics for one hour in the sports complex next to the river in my village and I will not travel as long as we do not have a vaccine and I will only for some time travel only for professional reasons duly proved and certified, and I will wear a mask all the time, at least as they say, when necessary, which means practically everywhere. Not because I am a well tamed and trained dog, but because there is no future for others if I do not do what I can do to protect them against the danger I might be.
During that time, the Extreme Orient is moving, and we will have a serious hangover if we do not come to some serious shared thinking. Right now, our “kamma” is close to very low and not far from zero. We will not reach “nibbana” in such a situation and many of us are going to die declared as COVID-19 or not: just check the extra number of death for any monthly period of time this year with the average of the five years before COVID-19 and you will have a real idea of the cost of COVID-19 including the suicides, the overdoses, the opioid addiction of many, etc., Including cancer, heart attacks, brain hemorrhages or just dying due to lack of care or company. We are saving lives on one side and causing deaths on another side. All roads in this pandemic world are dual carriageways.
Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU
“L’AI-JE BIEN DESCENDU?”
HARRY WHITEWOLF & DANIEL CLAUSEN — THEY’RE MAKING IT UP AS THEY GO ALONG — 2020
You may survive this story, not a novel, at most a novella, of no science fiction at all but of the corrugated exploration of the mental states and realms of two gentlemen who are anything in life but gentlemen and whose writing has nothing to compete with the grossest tabloids. It is just gross, and it has to be just gross. Grossness is the first quality of this story, and the authors just throw one or two grosses of sharp nails on the road for no one to be able to follow them. The two of them have a private trip to their deepest anal characterized misbehavior you can imagine, and if you enter the story, you will then have all the details, and details there are galore.
The central character is of course the only member of the male body that has any value for them, either attached to the body or detached from it and transportable in your pocket or better in your hands. You must not touch it too much, your o-chinchin, otherwise, being erectile it stands up and starts dancing some fish slapping dance, then it gets detached and plays the dildo, which means it can open doors, see through walls, call for the past or the future, create events in any form and under any identity. In other words, it is the most glorious and divine artifact of the human body of flesh, bones, and blood. I dare not use the words they use. It would make my own sheet of paper blush, flush and redden like a poppy in a cornfield.
When you have been able to step over and beyond this gay picnic in the shadow of some penile trees, you can maybe wonder what this world made up of several universes piled up one onto the others represents, and in it, you can navigate like a draft in a corridor. You can maybe wonder if these characters — all except maybe one or perhaps two are males — have an aim in life, a target in the world, a purpose in death, and a scheme in their heads that contain a brain as big as a pea and hardly more. And the best thing this pea of a mind can do is splinting peas to make a neuronic purée of splint peas to be spread on the stale bread of the sushi bar where everything or nearly everything happens.
And this is only the torso and hips, undetached one from the other, of the story. The legs are running, the arms are flipping, and the soul is flying. Is it really flying or is it actually diving and delving, soaking itself in the seminal fluids of the various climaxing reproductive limbs that will reproduce nothing because they are as sterile as the two guides that self-declared themselves competent?
And the whole thing will end with an assessment from a teacher from a world we cannot know. Which world in this universe, or which universe in this world? But she — the teacher — because the teacher is a “she” of course — let’s remain post-modern please — will declare that this novel is pure heretical ranting.
“And I won’t mention your obvious erotic fantasies about me and some homegrown incest issues. […]
Despite all explanations from the two authors Harry and Daniel. “In fact, [Merb] had disguised himself as a folded-up American called Harrison W. Hitewolf, who you may remember from the elevator. Anyway, to cut a long story short… When Merb disappeared in the narrative of the plot, he actually went off wandering in Japan. One day, he found a [penile object] on a riverbank. Being the expert scientist that he is, Merb was able to mutate the [penile object] over several years until it became artificially intelligent. Over time, Merb raised an army of [erectile] Johnsons. And to cut a long story even shorter… […] Merb and his army of cutthroat [penile objects] have created their own inciting incident box and are following us through space and time, destroying everything in their way.”
And the end is a real dysenteric flux of a diabolical diarrhea that drowns everyone on the spot. That is an ending worth millions of films by Andy Warhol when his factory was working full time. And the Merb of this army of penile and erectile objects can order them to finally shoot. “’Ready… Aim… Fire!’ cried Merb, and an explosive concoction of urine and sperm covered Mibble, Mucilla, Harry, and Daniel.”
These two authors should stop mutually playing with their family jewels. That could maybe pacify them a little, and if they don’t, we will go on playing to and fro with their words.
Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU
