by P.C. Evans
Whether writhing on a dormitory bed
In this cheap hotel
With a Medusan flapper
With her pubic lice
And a quarter of cocaine
Or staggering through the gutter
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P.C. Evans is from South Wales. After graduating, he settled in the red light district of Amsterdam, where he got a job in a Hell’s Angels bar while writing poetry. After getting involved in a turf war, and his boss being beaten to death with hammers, he decided to leave the red light and now earns a living as a freelance writer and translator.
He has published poetry in Britain and Holland and translations of Dutch poetry, fiction and drama with Faber and Seren. He co-edited the European literary magazine The Amsterdam Review from 2005-2008 and writes and translates for Dutch theatre companies, his work being performed at The Old Vie (London), The Edinburgh Festival, and La MaMa theatre and The Guggenheim (New York).
P.C. Evans was awarded a Literature Wales Bursary in 2008 to write the collection, Cadaver Dog Cantos. He is currently working on a novel about the Hell’s Angels.