He's So MASC - Softcover

Tse, Chris

Softcover

ISBN 10: 186940887X ISBN 13: 9781869408879

Publisher: Auckland University Press, 2018

Synopsis

In How to be Dead in a Year of Snakes, Chris Tse took readers back to a shocking 1905 murder. Now he brings the reader much closer to home. He’s So MASC confronts a contemporary world of self-loathing poets and compulsive liars, of youth and sexual identity, and of the author as character—pop star, actor, hitman, and much more. These are poems that delve into worlds of hyper-masculine romanticism and dancing alone in night clubs. With its many modes and influences, He’s So MASC is an acerbic, acid-bright, yet unapologetically sentimental and personal reflection on what it means to perform and dissect identity, as a poet and a person.

About this title

About the Author

Chris Tse was born and raised in Lower Hutt. He studied English literature and film at Victoria University of Wellington, where he also completed an MA in Creative Writing at the IIML. Tse was one of three poets featured in AUP New Poets 4 and his work has appeared in publications in New Zealand and overseas. His first collection, How to be Dead in a Year of Snakes, won the Jessie Mackay Award for Best First Book of Poetry in 2016.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

He's so MASC

By Chris Tse

Auckland University Press

Copyright © 2018 Chris Tse
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-86940-887-9

Contents

Intro, 
Belated backstory, 
Heavy lifting, 
Punctum, 
Tonight, Matthew, 
Chris Tse and His Imaginary Band, 
Artist's impression of the poet is not drawn to scale, 
Like a queen, 
I was a self-loathing poet, 
Selfie with landscape, 
MASC, 
This house, 
Summer nights with knife fights, 
Performance — Part 2, 
The compulsive liar's autobiography, 
Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!, 
Thunder's soul clap, 
I.R.L., 
The saddest song in the world, 
Present tension, 
New mythology, 
I want things that won't make me happy, 
Lupine, 
I made it through the wilderness, 
Fast track, 
Desire, 
Boy meets wolf, 
Choose your own adventure, 
A star like no other, 
Distance getting close, 
Release, 
Astronaut, 
The opposite of music, 
MacGuffin, 
Still — the boys, 
Notes for Taylor Swift, should she ever write a song about me, 
Sweetheartbreaker, 
Next year's colours, 
Spot the difference — Answers, 
Crying at the disco, 
Ends, actually, 
Spanner — A toast, 
Wolf spirit — Fade out, 
Notes and acknowledgements, 

CHAPTER 1

Intro


Shut the fuck up.

Can you hear that?

Listen.

Wolves!

Wolves with roses in their teeth.
Roses with blood dripping
from their petals. Petals skimming
across a ballroom floor in an '80s music video.

Lightning crashes — their bright eyes
lock on — very, very frightening indeed.

The wolves are closing in
on the ballroom while the band members
look out and brace themselves
for the conflict to come. Shit just got real.
They pick up their instruments
and clear their throats.

1 and 2 and 3 and —


Belated backstory

There were animals. They came to me
with their bloodstained murmurs

choking the night, the weight of misery
a gloom in their throats. Beasts of all

shapes and mythologies scratching
at the soil around my grave, each one

driven by its own unique hunger
but all intent on writing my end.

I can almost run my fingers through
the sun-streaked strands of those days

when I was nothing but a silhouette
disappearing into fog — just a sketch.

I could step into a crowd and never
resurface. No one would suspect a thing.


Heavy lifting

Once, I climbed a tree
too tall for climbing
and threw my voice out
into the world. I screamed.
I hollered. I snapped
innocent branches. I took the view
as a vivid but painful truth gifted
to me, but did not think to lay down
my own sight in recompense.
All I wanted was someone to say
they could hear me, but the tree said
that in order to be heard I must
first let silence do the heavy lifting
and clear my mind of any
questions and anxieties
such as contemplating whether
I am the favourite son. If I am not,
I am open to being a favourite uncle
or an ex-lover whose hands still cover
the former half's eyes. I'll probably never
have children of my own to disappoint
so I'll settle for being famous instead
with my mouth forced open on TV like
a Venus fly-trap lip-synching for its life.
The first and the last of everything
are always connected by
the dotted line of choice.
If there is an order to such things,
then surely I should resist it.


Punctum

This is my blood oath with myself: the only
dead Chinese person I'll write about from now on
is me. I know I know

it'll do me no good to drag my body
through the town square
to prove that it wasn't me

who set fire to the school to avoid my maths exam
who shot the prince in the bushes behind the barn
where the queers get together to talk

nor was it me
who leaked those emails about which All Black
the Prime Minister would bottom for. But

I hope my name and track record with unsolved crimes
will finally be cleared so I can get on with my new life
as a Chinese girl

behind the counter being bullied into saying 'fried rice'
by the gwai lo in the cheap suit. In between scoops
of sweet and sour pork I curse the heavens

for saddling me with a mediocre work ethic
which has kept me here for five years despite knowing
there is no career progression unless I

marry my boss's son, who is studying to be
a capitalist like all good Chinese boys. He's got a small dick
and no sense of rhythm but our children

will likely be pleasant-looking enough
to be background extras in a re-enactment
of Helen Clark's apology for the poll tax — that is,

if their father allows them to have the arts in their lives.
I'll be their proud stage mother and encourage them
to audition for awards-bait roles — for example,

the unapologetic sex addict still burying porn
in his parents' backyard

the pregnant teen goth who must decide whether to keep
her subscription to Evanescence's monthly fan club newsletter

the paraplegic hooker with a heart of gold
made from melted-down Oscars

the proud gay man pretending to be straight
to be made partner at his father's law firm in 1940s Austria

the racist spiritual healer about to inherit
a hand sanitiser empire in Birmingham, Alabama.

But in all likelihood my children will have only
moderately humble acting careers playing
accountants, taxi drivers and restaurateurs

to supplement their primary incomes as
accountants, taxi drivers and restaurateurs.
I'll go to my next grave wondering

whether I pushed them hard enough to never settle
for being the token Asian in a crowd scene or
the Asian acquaintance in an ethnically diverse television series

set in New York City, who is only mentioned and never seen
unless you pause at 12.29 of season 4 episode 6
and carefully inspect the photographs on the wall —

there, that's my youngest standing in the back row
of a wedding group shot. Can you see her?
  Can you see her?


Tonight, Matthew

Thirty-something and — shit! —
  Windows is shutting down —
    again with the lag and tidings.

If I don't have a name for it, how do I recover?
  Maybe I should push more.

  But then I see the riverbank
sluiced in red from the sacrificial high season.

  I can't get on board with that, no siree!
Artistic men standing by with their motivations and fashionable
facial hair. Me? I prefer an 'I grew up like this' aesthetic
for my unsuccessful auditions.

  Thirty-something and —
what's that crash scene up over the horizon?
When I grow up, I'll impress the world
  with how calmly I can walk away
    from exploding cars/buildings/spaceships.
      My life story will fill pages of
        Google search results — instant proof
          I'll neither confirm nor deny
      when the time comes to sell out.
    Instead, I suggest you hunt through
  second-hand stores looking for
    my obscure inspirations and give new life
    to Goosebumps® reading lights.

I'm going to
fuck it up. (Don't fuck it up.)

  I guess I'll sit here silently
in the name of art until someone dares
  to tell me it's my fault
    they know too much about me.
  Has someone written a book about that?
    Thirty-something and
Ivy adding class to ambition, where the walls
are fit for purpose, but the sky is not.

  Tonight, Matthew, I'm going to
disappear into the dark side
  of the stage. Tonight, I'll just watch.


Chris Tse and His Imaginary Band

We were brighter when the world didn't know
about us or our rock 'n' roll dreams. Now
we dress in black, but we're not depressed —
we're just backlit, per record label instructions.
Fans come and go, but true fans stick with you
through the stigma of rib removal and that feud
with Jem and the Holograms. Nobody can win.
Nowadays, the world is made of oysters and
everyone's had a taste. Can I just say that I think
I've done too many drugs. (Or maybe it's gout?)
The bloggers won't stop reading into our
matching tattoos. Yes, they're of each other's wives,
but what's that got to do with the music?
Everyone has forgotten we're an imaginary band.
A suggested path back to relevancy: nip slip — rehab
ten-trip — a greatest hits. It'll take an untimely death
to seal our legend. No veins for overdose,
no doomed flight. Buried by a mountain
of french fries — that's how I want us all to go.


Artist's impression of the poet is not drawn to scale

This is the poet behind the mask
  of a matinée idol
who has no emergency contact
and whose love songs are built
with gender-neutral pronouns.

Many are surprised that the poet is shorter
in real life, yet is still as susceptible
to mythology as the rest of us.


* * *

There are points
in the poet's life that cannot be accurately
rendered by any artist
or the poet himself.

Well, you're obviously a crap painter,
said the art teacher to the poet.

What stress, if any, to place
on the young poet's arm
caught in a clothing recycling bin
or his hand thrown
through the glass of his front door?


* * *

This is the poet masquerading
  as a rock star
  as a local celebrity
  and in this piece:
    as a rugby player
    as a straight man
  cutting through the pack
  to score the winning try
  while the crowd cheers
    PO-ET! PO-ET!

  He doesn't bother looking out
  towards the stands for that special someone
  or something.
    The mud caking his face
  gives way to tear tracks and a flash of guilt:
  to play this championship game
  he left a poem to walk home alone.
  This is the poet as neglectful father.


Like a queen

I should be king
I should be torn from your stuffy pages

    I should be monster
  I should be undeterred by scars on shoulder blades

I should be tempted
I should be blackened, cum-stained and bleeding from love

    I should be everything
  I should be twenty-something with no heel

I should be wanton
I should be leaning over ledges with my fortune

    I should be happy
  I should be a bottle that never empties

I should be cruel
I should be crime scene bathed in unforgiving flash

    I should be looking
  I should be Maria on a hilltop desperate for reception

I should be mirrored
I should be blanketed in folds of rolling silk

    I should be child
  I should be tender at their protests

I should be ready
I should be volume up on open roads

    I should be paper
  I should be leading you all into war

I should be visible
I should be on every street corner as is

    I should be bold
  I should be the reason you know my name

I should be spill
I should be more than enough

    I should be queen
  I should be your closing credits

I was a self-loathing poet

There's an app that lets you see other poets in your vicinity. Some of these poets are 'non-scene' and promise discretion (they usually have headless author photos, or blurry, suggestive close-ups of their pens), while others proudly state that they are published and gladly share their literary CV. Some even write non-fiction! There are those who will chat only if you've published a minimum of eight poems, whereas others are open to accommodating poetry-curious prose writers. The profiles that state 'I'm not racist, but no haikus' really irk me and leave me feeling inadequate. Once, the app said there was a poet about five metres away from me. I didn't instigate a chat session, but I'm sure I heard faint tapping coming from the other side of my bedroom wall.

* * *

I spy poets in the streets — some of them I recognise from the app. They clutch their open Moleskines, pens poised with an air of intent: I am capturing this moment. Their choice of writing instrument is a code, signalling formal preferences (for example, biros for free verse; fountain pens for sonnets; blood-tipped quills for responses to dead white male poets). Sometimes our eyes will catch and we exchange a loaded look before pulling away. Although seeing another poet in the flesh — sharing that illicit gaze — moves me to recognise I'm not alone, I'm simultaneously repulsed. And yet I will spend many hours after these encounters aggressively dissecting those shy, flirty holds. As a young man this wreaks havoc on my journey to self-discovery. Why can't I write prose like everybody else? Will I ever afford avocado on toast? How am I so different?

* * *

A few years ago I became involved with another poet. He was a friend of a friend who asked for my number after spotting me loitering at the back of a book launch. He'd been published in Deep Odes and Pun Ghazellers and had strong views about publishing equality for poets. We spent hours sharing lines from our favourite collections and he impressed me with gossip about acclaimed novelists who were secretly writing poems on the down-low. About two weeks after we met he wrote a sonnet about me. My first instinct was to bolt, but I didn't, telling myself to stick with what was promising to be a good thing. Besides, the sonnet was really quite lovely and no one had ever shown such an interest in my writing before. Then he started talking about finding a writing studio together and introducing me to his writing group. I went into panic mode again. He said I needed to tell my parents I was a poet. (I was pretty sure my mother already suspected, as mothers tend to. She would ask me whether I was reading any good novels and I would respond with something vague, like, 'I don't have time to read novels at the moment'.) It turns out this was the make-or-break, so I cut all contact with him. I simply stopped calling him, and he gave up attempting to reach me after a week. I'm not proud of how I called it off. Perhaps if I had been braver back then — ready to admit to myself that I was a poet — things might be different now.

* * *

Older poets take a liking to me, but I politely decline their advances. One invited me to accompany him on a trip to a literary festival in Sydney, which was tempting (a free trip to Sydney!), but I suspected he wanted something in return like feedback on the third draft of his new collection or someone to create a master index of his first lines. Many of these poets assume that all young Asian poets want an older European poet to shower them with attention and constructive criticism. I've had enough of these encounters to realise that many of them are in shaky relationships with their publishers and never got the chance to experiment with poetry in their youth. It's hard to explain to them that their persistence, at first flattering, creeps me out. 'Know your niche', a poet friend says to me, 'and play the field that way'. But I just want to find a poet my age, preferably one open to using unconventional line breaks. I've come to realise that the poets I lust after in my head tend to be, as they say, out of my league.

* * *

There's no such thing as the perfect time or the best way to tell loved ones about your poetic inclinations. You need to muster up every ounce of courage in your being and just say it: I'm a poet. You could say 'I write poetry', but there's something non-committal about that phrasing, like you only dabble now and then and would prefer not to attach labels to your preferences. Prepare yourself for a full spectrum of emotional reactions, from 'You're still the same person to me' to 'I can't be friends with a poet'. And it's true — some people do think poets lead immoral lifestyles, and that enjambment is the slippery slope to the decay of civilisation. The night I finally told my parents, I had returned home from a book launch, tears streaming down my face, my body attempting to reject the awful chardonnay I'd been drinking all night. At the launch, I was overcome with a sudden need to come clean, no longer willing to hide my drafts in shoeboxes under my bed or a labyrinthine folder structure on our shared family computer that my brother later told me wasn't as effective as I thought it was. Perhaps it was the emotionally charged poem the poet had read about her relationship with her parents, or maybe I just can't process white wine like I used to. Whatever the catalyst, it all came out: the creative writing workshop I'd secretly taken at university; the poems I'd published in a handful of journals; and the poet who had urged me to tell them everything. My mother sobbed, her body slumped over our dining table. 'What will other people think? Our son — a poet! You won't be able to make a living!'. My father kept his distance, not knowing what to say or do. I can't imagine he's personally known any poets in his lifetime, nor had friends whose children turned out to be poets.

* * *

I'm ready to settle down with another poet, one who is also over getting drunk at readings and launches, and waking up next to a different stranger every morning during Writers Week. I see poet couples sharing copies of The World Doesn't End on park benches and I think to myself: that's what I want. Someone who helps me with my titles and tells me when I have too much white space showing, a voice of reason who lets me know when what I've written has gone too far, or hasn't gone far enough. Someone who makes me want to be a better poet — who won't be jealous that none of these poems are about them.

Selfie with landscape

Let's unpick what you think you know
about me — what I've revealed, what I've left
at the door of my favourite wolf, to force
eye contact the next time we pass
in the street. These stories all had emergency exits,
just like the rules adhered to by poets and liars
that we've never thought to record
for consistency's sake. Sometimes
I look at my face in a mirror and
all I see is a bruised blanket of dusk settling
on an increasingly unfamiliar terrain. I'm a man
who lets trouble back into his life
even though I have razed every highway
to and from that particular story. I'm both
a short breath and an age expanding into
minutes and days to be recycled as fact
by other writers in 100 years. Will they give
weight to my failed desires? Tell them I am
no vessel for their designs — sticky nights
forged into a vigil. Here's a true story:
I cut my wolf out of my night scenes
with a dull knife. He did not protest, and
therein lies the pathos. Here's a status update:
I cut my nails and now I can't scratch at the dust
caking over my eyes. I'll take a picture and
show the world what I'm too scared to keep
private. I just want them to like what I'm not.


MASC

Another poet's book is launched into the world
as being 'masculine' — Coltrane, oil change, accidentally
brushing a breast.

This book — Madonna, selfies, inability
to grow a beard.


* * *

I launch myself into dating apps
  as a type — geek, guy
    next door, jock (ha!).

I have a type, but I am not that type

so when my eye is caught
I know I'm looking
for edges on a white wall
like placing my optimism
  into the path of oncoming traffic.

And still I wish, and still I play,
handicapped for not being
born with a full set of the desired teeth.

But
I am very many
  and I have a thirst for multiplication.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from He's so MASC by Chris Tse. Copyright © 2018 Chris Tse. Excerpted by permission of Auckland University Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Edition details

• Publisher: Auckland University Press
• Publication date: 2018
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 186940887X
• ISBN 13: 9781869408879
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 92