Today I answered a burning literary question: Who, if I could, would I choose to be my literary parents. You know, the ones who would really fuck you up like Larkin intended.
And the answer is: Dylan Thomas and Angela Carter. Yes, I’d be more than happy to be the scion of these two progenitors of fantastical language.
But will they have me? Maybe they have enough offspring?
If I wasn’t such a pagan, I might be be persuaded to turn these two into my gods, with me sitting on their knees as the chosen son, but no the dutiful one.
And who would I pick as siblings? Or would I be the lone child crying in the dark for Carter’s dark nipple and Dylan’s sozzled finger to suck.
And what I’d give to fall asleep listening to old Captain Cat’s sweet and confusing lyrical voice. Or Fevvers with her Thames-soaked argot, a common angel with a gigantic heart.
Imagine supper time with them! Dylan admonishing: “Do not go gentle with that liver and onions, boyo.” Angela more sinister with: “Eat it up, or I’ll eat you up!”
And what fabulous morning we’d have, lying in late, Dylan snoring after another night of women, writing, and Wales. Angela snuggled up in her wolf pelt, scribbling with a claw soaked in blood.
And summer outings! The stuff of legends and myths. Dylan buried in the Llareggub sands, spitting out bits of fern hill, singing lewd songs to Myfanwy Price, and riding a donkey with the host of the French Symbolists riding behind him as he charged the waves like a Celtic bard. Angela would be lounging under her huge gothic umbrella, chewing on a unicorn leg, sipping her bloody Virgin Mary, her bucket and spade deep in the ribcage of an old Lothario with a hunger for virgin flesh, and gently pulling the nails from Christ and placing them at the feet of the new Eve, her red cape like a pool of blood around her.