Punk Poem on Travel… Majorca by John Cooper Clarke
John Cooper Clarke
Poetry has taken a turn.
It’s been punked. It’s been slammed
And the result is performance poetry which may not be everyone’s cuppa but it certainly is a bit of fun.
Today’s travel poem is a departure (if you will) from poems I’ve published in the past. Instead of treating travel with reverence, this poem offers another truth about travel which is not quite, well, reverential. As Clarke says in his intro, it’s about holiday packages. Love them or hate them, most of you will relate to this poem in one way or another.
Clarke was known as the punk rock poet in the late 1970s. He released several albums including Snap, Crackle & Bop
Now, here are the words. Don’t miss hearing Clarke perform this piece himself by scrolling to the bottom for a Youtube version.
Majorca
fasten your seatbelts says a voice
inside the plane you can’t hear no noise
engines made by rolls royce
take your choice
…make mine majorca
check out the parachutes
can’t be found
alert those passengers
they’ll be drowned
a friendly mug says “settle down”
when i came round i was gagged and bound
…for Majorca
and the eyes caress
the neat hostess
her unapproachable flip finesse
i found the meaning of the word excess
they’ve got little bags if you wanna make a mess
i fancied Cuba but it cost me less
…to Majorca
(Whose blonde sand fondly kisses the cool fathoms of the blue mediteranean)
they packed us into the white hotel
you could still smell the polycell
wet white paint in the air-conditioned cells
the waiter smelled of fake Chanel
Gaulois… Garlic as well
says if i like… i can call him “Miguel”
…well really
i got drunk with another fella
who’d just brought up a previous paella
he wanted a fight but said they were yella’
…in Majorca
the guitars rang and the castinets clicked
the dancer’s stamped and the dancer’s kicked
it’s likely if you sang in the street you’d be nicked
the double diamond flowed like sick
mother’s pride, tortilla and chips
pneumatic drills when you try to kip
…in Majorca
a stomach infection put me in the shade
must have been something in the lemonade
but by the balls of franco i paid
had to pawn my bucket and spade
next year I’ll take the international brigade
…to Majorca
