Wednesday, 30 September 2009

Ballerinas make unsuitable muses and trees rot.

Years ago, after I had known her a few weeks we walked on the heath.

I foolishly agreed to carve the words SHE and I and FOREVER on a tree.

I already had my doubts about her suitability as a muse, so spent the day searching out the tree nearest death. Just in case. I found and chose an old horse chestnut, it's leaves blighted and yellowing.

I carved 'she and I forever' on its elephant bark.

I returned to the tree alone this autumn and found the tree fallen and decaying. My carving obliterated by rot.

Sunday, 27 September 2009

The muse gone

The muse has gone back to her garden
she has put on her don't mess with me boots
She has put away her fuck me shoes
The muse has gone back to her roots


Cerebral grafitti

Tagging a train of thought.

Jim Carroll

Polanski, Orson Welles and cheese

So the Swiss have seen fit to arrest Roman Polanski on a 31 year old US warrant.

Would they be the same Swiss who have been protecting, and profiting from, Nazi war criminals as well as genocidal dictators for decades?

Orson gave me a swiss cuckoo clock when I helped him get over his vertigo for the big wheel scene in the Third Man. That bloody clock broke after three weeks.

Swiss cheese is tasteless drab and a waste of space.

Sums up the Swiss in general...

Bed bound with Ginsberg.

I am bed-bound.

My back, already twingeing for days, finally seized up in the night; it is too painful to move, or to cough, or to roll into another position.

Fortunately I have, beside the bed a bottle of Perrier water and a Kilo of dates. Unfortunately I have, beside the bed Allen Ginsberg's journals(1954-1958).

It is a perfect autumn day and the bed is perfectly still and I have all the time in the world to think of times past when the same bed would rock with laughter, with joy. Or would rock like a schooner at anchor in a long easy swell.

I have no muse here to nurse me or nurse here to bemuse me.

The perfect occasion to write an Haiku on stillness and calm.

I cannot reach pen and paper.

Monday, 21 September 2009

Lost shoes, Heads and penny loafers.

'Heads' writes:
Two shoes lost in the Herault, surely a pair!

Funnily enough one was a blue espadrille bought on impulse but much too large, the other a penny loafer, well polished, that I stole from a ships captain for the penny. In fact I didn'y lose the shoe, I threw it off the bridge to hide the evidence.

I gave the penny to a beggar with a bloodied and bandaged child... She had borrowed the child from an agency that specialised in that kind of thing.

She put the penny towards buying a shoe from her one legged husband.

I should have just given her the shoe.

I didn't Know.


I am being stalked by the coolhunter
How cool is that

She is good
she frightens death
and chills out hell

She can stalk in high summer
without working up a sweat
she can stalk on the ice pack
while casually clubbing seal cubs

She can stalk you at truck stops
at Soho house
she is just too cool to be noticed.

Except by Phil Spector

And she dealt with him.

Bridges I have lost shoes from. No.4


The muse has gone
Leaving me nothing but a tin opener
And a can of worms.

Opening the can
I take up the fattest, juiciest .
Snag it on my gaudy hook.

Trawl it.

Trawl it through the bars
Trawl it through the clubs
Trawl it through the pubs
Of Notting Hill
Trot it down Portobello road
Tesco disco
The Globe
Mau Mau
The Star
The Gold

Patiently angling for the muse.

Sunday, 20 September 2009

Smoothie for a lost weekend.and its side effects.

Rusty came round for a beer. We skirted the subject of nurse.

With nothing else in common we got to talking about food. Rusty mentioned the smoothie for a lost weekend.
I asked about that.
He replied that it contained 15 kinds of fruit, a pint of yogurt, a pint of milk, some honey as well as concentrated multivitamin powder. It makes about half a gallon; difficult to get down but once you got it inside it was your 'five a day' for three days.
Enough time to get lost.
Lost in what? I said.
Oh heck anything; Fishing for that fabled carp, learning tap dancing, a sexual binge or even getting drunk in bars.

And what do you do during the lost weekend. I asked.

I stay pretty close to the lavatory. He said.

Rusty, I said, Rusty I am too old for exciting bowel movements.

Clogs, Ronnie Hilton and Michaelangelo

I have been thinking about the phenomenon known as the CLOG (cult blog).

Who decides 'cult status'? Is there a points system?

Wanting attention is different from having something to say: Wanting attention is a streaker at a football game, Having something to say is Michaelangelo's David. That to me sums it up.

A clog is also a wooden shoe used solely (forgive the pun) for dancing on cobblestones to 'Old Amsterdam'.

Bukowski and the American nightmare

I met 'Chuck' bukowski back in the sixties; I had the apartment above his for a while and would occasionally have to go down to tell him too keep the noise down...
boy could those american women kick up a fuss,

I asked him one night if I should read his work. he said NO. You would be better off spending your time drinking and fornicating.

Having now read his work I can honestly say he was right!

He had a couple of good poems and a good short story in him (in that little space not filled with booze) but that is about all. He suffered from the malaise of most mid 20th century Americanliterature, especially the 'beats'.

Saturday, 19 September 2009

Washington State

Did you know that Washington State is known as the evergreen state.

It is named after a Barbara Streisand song.

You don't get cheesier than that.

Osmosis between blogs.

I find that this directly references one of my early blogs; 'Milking a goat in a thunderstorm'. I think Tristan might be nicking my material. But hey, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Is'nt it?
It is from:

Why the middle child?

When I was a child we had a goat
The goat was called Pumkin
We had a goat called Pumkin because my sister had ecsema
And couldn’t have dairy products
One of my jobs was to milk that goat
So my sister could have goats milk
And avoid dairy products
And avoid the humiliation of the betnavate
She is cursed by the memory of betnavate
A storm tormented Shropshire that summer
Lashed about Pumkin’s shed
Thunder boomed, like Nabokov’s dinner gong, bronzily
Lightning lit up my fear
As I attempted to milk that damn goat
How I shudder still at the memory of those distended teats
How Pumkin shuddered with fear and with loathing
At my amateurish tugging of her dugs.
The milk squirting into the timid pail
And I thought why the middle boy
Why me
Surely we could just plug my sister onto those teats
And let her suckle like Remus and Romulus like

And I imagine the unknown and unfabled
Older brother of those Italian twins
Who bravely milked the she wolves in their lairs
To feed his baby siblings from a bottle fashioned from bull horn and pigs bladder
And who vanished one night
The night that the twins were weaned from milk to meat
And tasted their first morsel of human flesh.
Flesh tenderized by lupine jaws in a darkly mountainside cave.
Lit occasionally by a flash of lightening and called to dinner
By Nabokov’s dinner gong.


Thursday, 17 September 2009

the times when we, as a nation are at the greatest peace with ourselves is at times of war.

In the land of the learned the autodidact is king.

Listening to paint dry.

I met her at a party. she asked me if I was the hosts brother.

I laughed and said no! I'm his father.

She said you dont look old enough

I told her that I had impregnated his mother when I was 15 years old.

She looked concerned.

I said it's all right, we get on well and he gives me a cupboard to sleep in upstairs and feeds me scraps from the kitchen.

she looked concerned.

I told her it was alright. I was lying.

She said why do you lie.

I said it is what I do for a living. I am a poet.

she then held my hands and quoted strindberg in swedish.

I have had more fun listening to paint dry.

Paragliding between peaks.

He came over for a beer this evening, he was depressed and listless; post event blues he called it.

I said why do you do it.

he said it is not a matter of choice any more. I have to do it. but each time it gets easier.

How is that I asked.

He said: Each event is like a hill. at first a small hill, steep but not very high. you climb to the top and it is a struggle. you spend a couple of hours at the top of that hill and then fall, tumbling down the other side. Landing with a bump. you look behind you and all you see is the wall you have fallen down, you look ahead and all you see is an endless plain but there is no option other than to start walking.

eventually after a few days you see in the distance a purple haze which in time makes itself known as another hill; larger this time and more challenging but your pace quickens and you relish the challenge of climbing it.

But again, after a couple of hours on the peak you fall to the plain on the other side and the long trudge repeats itself.

After a number of ascents and falls you learn to take a paraglider with you and instead of falling to the plain below after an ascent you glide towards the next peak landing closer and closer with each flight. Eventually you soar from peak to peak making good use of the thermals that rise from the plain below.

As long as you refrain from soaring, Icarus like, too close to the sun you can maintain this momentum... A series of ecstatic flights between heights, your ears filled with your own whoops of joy.

Nothing gets better than that.

Tuesday, 15 September 2009

An imaginary overheard conversation

"She never uses my name. I will phone her and she will never use my name. she will call me darling or sweetheart or love but never my name. it is as if she cnnot be bothered to use my name or she has forgotten my name."

"Thank god we have never spent a Christmas together; imagine the horror of recieving a gift with a tag that says: whatshisname or the bloke I live with. Imagine your lover ringing your friends to ask the name of the man she sleeps with. Imagine her phoning your mum to ask her the name of her son.

I would love her to use my name just once.

but she won't

She hasn't forgotten it... She just didn't learn it in the first place."

The reason perhaps for shoes lost from bridges.

the lonliness of the long distance blogger.

In blogging regularly one creates a rod for ones own back. one becomes a slave to the blog.

It is a lonely, thankless task (occasionally brightened by the odd comment from a reader).

However it is encouraging to note that this is read in far flung corners of the planet and that people return to it regularly.
Feel free to comment or even email.

The most difficult question

This morning at 8.27 my telephone rang, waking me. I could not get to it in time. I missed the call. I did not recognise the number.

At 10.00 I redialed the number and before I had time to speak a childs voice said: "Daddy". That was all, nothing more, just "Daddy".

I was thrown into confusion, I was thrown back in time. My mind filled with the image of a four year old child, walking through a meadow high above the river Dart. A four year old child who asked: "Are you my daddy?" The easiest question to answer but hardest question to be asked.

This morning all I could say to that child was "I'm sorry".

"I'm not your daddy. I'm sorry."

Essential listening

Don Letts on Notting Hill/Ladbroke Grove. check it out.

Sunday, 13 September 2009

I slid into the party like a well oiled houseboy

holiday romance

Baltimore, Ireland. 1970

We talked of red roses
we talked of sorrento
while the other kids drank to their pledge

We walked to the beacon
then out at the beacon
held hands and then
went to the edge

she told me she loved me
I told her my fears
we talked of red roses
we talked of Sorrento

Her name was Penelope
the same as my sister
which smacked of incest
each time that I kissed her

On the well rounded bottom
of an overturned inflatable
and all was in reach
but how far was debatable
down there
down on the beach

Under a mans checked shirt

we talked of red roses
we talked of sorrento
we parted agreeing no contact was best

On a postcard weeks later
she wrote of red roses
she wrote of sorrento
she wrote of red roses on a card from sorrento

Without a return address.

Saturday, 12 September 2009

Another Event

It doesn't seem like ten minutes since the last one but we are at it again.

Tabernacle, Notting Hill this time, tomorrow night. come and see. should be interesting.

I think tristan is going to be in a bright place.

Lee scratch perry

faith, hope and grace

Roughler TV and Jan Nieupjur present
Tristan Hazell
Orlando Seale
Clea Myers
Plus a screening of The Amen Break
By Nate Harrison
The Tabernacle
Powis Square
London W11 2AY
Sunday 13th September
Doors open 7.00
Stuff happens 7.45
Entrance free
Part of Portobello Film Festival

Thursday, 10 September 2009

Lyric for a punk jesus christ superstar

Gabba gabba ho sanna
gabba gabba hey sanna

Gabba gabba sannah sannah ho
Gabba gabba sanna hey sanna
Gabba gabba hosanna
Is it true nancy
that you died for me
Gabba hey
Gabba ho superstar.

Tell the clash to be quiet
I anticipate white riot
this common crowd
Is far too loud...etc

gosh thats hard work. Tim Rice really earned his squillions.

Memories of Bob Marley

A delightful young lady has just planted on my right wrist, via her 'john bull printing kit' a little black mark that will allow me to check out Lee Scratch Perry later this evening.

The black mark burns.

I and I are delighted.

Viagra and the photographer

I tend to wear a lot of blue these days. I think that i am being subliminally driven to this by the colour of my Viagra which i am encouraged to take by my various muses.
I am particularly pleased with this jacket and converse ensemble.
As i was sitting in the gutter outside the Portobello Gold my old mate Daevid Baley came along.
Hello I said, any chance you would take me photo Dave?
He said: 'No problem matey'. he took my camera, fiddled with the settings for affect and took the above.
A particularly fine example of his work. I think you will agree.

Wednesday, 9 September 2009

Hastings with Warhol

Back in the sixties andy came over to britain; he needed to get away from the lime-light and assassination attempts ('these fifteen minutes of hell' he would call it).

I took him down to Hasting to get away from the pendulum that London had become.

Andy always enjoyed going some place where he could take his wig off and not be recognised.

We often walked on the beach, photographing the fishing boats and talking about shit. One day I said: 'Andy, why don't we do some screen prints in strange colours?'

And he said: 'Yeah cool'

So we did... That is what it was like back then.

A very contented kitchen

jim Morrison, modigliani and Patti Smith

Babs calls from Coeurd'Alanes Idaho, I think she has the wrong number, I think she thinks she is talking to Rusty.

She says; I read this in the paper today, listen to this...

PATTI SMITH SAID: Actually, the first time I visited Pere Lachaise cemetery was when Jim Morrison was still alive. It was in 1969 and I was 23. I went to honor the painter Amadeo Modigliani and his tragic lover Jeanne H├ębuterne, who lies in the grave right next to his. Back then I wanted so much to look like the models in Modigliani's paintings...

Then Babs says; Didn't that old bastard Nieupjur Know someone called Hebuterne?

I am lost for words, I hang up trembling, thinking of a muse long lost.

Sunday, 6 September 2009


the pedant of Canada questions my use of punctuation or sometimes non-use of same.

Let me tell you, my little pedant, punctuation is the the spawn of the printer and and did not exist before Caxton.

Therefore I feel entitled to use it where and how I fancy?"

What is so hot about DJ's

In the 70's the DJ was the sad bloke turning the records over at parties because he didn't have a bird to snog.

Saturday, 5 September 2009

I faked my own death and then helped cover it up!

My last words

I am dying, I can feel it in my bones. I lie. I cannot feel it anymore.

Tristan says he will take over and manage the farm so to speak. He has my memoirs (such as they are) and promises to put them in some kind of order.

I am reminded of Aldous Huxleys last words: 'LSD intravenous', or something like that.

Gin intravenous... Thats more like it.
Gin; memories of my father I never knew before I killed him, my mother who self medicated on the stuff, the men who bribed me or drugged me with it when I was a teenager. Gin; oblivion for the women who needed it before that.

And of course the gin-trap that is life.

I cannot extricate myself from this trap and rather than gnaw my leg off to free myself I will quietly drift away in order to sleep that most peaceful and dreamless of sleeps where not even a muse can wake me.

I cannot be bothered anymore.

Friday, 4 September 2009

The most beautiful woman in the clap clinic

Happiness and absolute sorrow flow from the same wound.

I have, as usual been witholding information from myself.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009

Milk, Bukowski and Laughter

A friend calls from canada and asks: 'What are you doing?'
and I say I am drinking milk and reading Bukowski
and she laughs and it is that laugh, you know,
the laugh of someone you really like
and straight away you want to make her laugh again
not to make her happy so much
as to make her laugh again
so you can listen to it.

And when she hangs up I think of poetry
and what defines poetry
and the word metaphor screams
'As if writing a shopping list of metaphors is enough

to make a poem!'

Tuesday, 1 September 2009

the ghosts of spoons

I said to mona: How anyone can have an intellectual conversation about spray painting spoons beats me. but we seem to manage it.