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    He's So MASC
    He's So MASC
    He's So MASC
    Ebook104 pages45 minutes

    He's So MASC

    By Chris Tse

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    About this ebook

    This is my blood oath with myself: the onlydead Chinese person I'll write about from now onis me. Punctum'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.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherIndependent Publishers Group
    Release dateMar 8, 2018
    ISBN9781775589754
    He's So MASC
    Author

    Chris Tse

    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 (Auckland University Press, 2011) and his work has appeared in publications in New Zealand and overseas. His first collection, How to be Dead in a Year of Snakes (AUP, 2014) won the Jessie Mackay Award for Best First Book of Poetry in 2016.

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      Book preview

      He's So MASC - Chris Tse

      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

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