Sunday, 28 February 2010

changing the face of hippychick philosophy.

Years ago in Paris I did a great deal of drinking and talking with a guy called Antoine. He was a good looking man, an aviator, philosopher and writer.

He showed me the rough draft for a book he was working on, provisionally called the little prince. He asked me to read it and give him my opinion.

I found the book a little twee and the philosophy simplistic.

when we next met I told him this ( I am a straight talking man ) and went on to suggest a few modifications.

I remember suggesting that the little prince, when lost in the desert, uses his remaining bullet to shoot down Jonathan Livingstone seagull. Later, after eating the bird, the prince dies of food poisoning, putting a generation of hippychick thinkers boyfriends out of their misery.

Antoine did not like that idea to much.

I did not tamper with his aeroplane whatever anyone says.

Saturday, 27 February 2010

Abomination and Art

A friend asks me: 'Have you been to Westfield yet?'

I'm a bloody poet, what on earth would I want to go to that place for.


Lyin' to me was the only honest thing she done.

The one advantage of having a tooth knocked out by an angry woman is that one is able to get much bigger lies out between ones teeth.

The gaps in my teeth were never big enough for the kind of lies I had been cooking up.

Hey if you have lies inside you, let them go, exorcise them, go to liars anonymous if you have to but let them go

Freed Lies, unlike sheep, will not come home wagging their tails behind them. they just keep on moving on.

they finally come to rest in a country and western song.

If that's resting in peace then I'm a Dutchman!

Uncomfortable moments, candour, nudity and irony

Jolyon my erstwhile studio assistant came round today for a bit of advice.

I sat beside him on the sofa and patted him on the knee saying; 'Jolyon, what is the most embarrassing moment in your life?'

'Right now' He said.

Maybe I should have got dressed before he arrived but sometimes you just don't know when you are going to be surprised.

sometimes stuff happens that you have to deal with, naked or not, and nakedness, like truth, never hurt anyone except clothed prudes and liars.

I hate ironing, never do it, waste of time and always reminds me of an airline pilot i know who irons his y-fronts.

Rock and Roll, read into that what you like.but Ironing y-fronts can lead to scorch marks and scorch marks on underwear can be easily misconstrued, especially in a poorly lit room...

See where I'm going with this?

I can't.

Friday, 26 February 2010

The things we do for love

Before I left I painted Moll the bag lady's toenails.

I painted them red while thinking of Titian..

I have no idea what Moll was thinking.

I guess I'll never know.

Wednesday, 24 February 2010


'A spooky feeling is creeping up my spine.'

These were the words rusty used to begin another strand of his story. He went on:

'Years ago, maybe ten or so, my mother called me up and asked if I knew of a man called Tom North. I said no and asked why.

She told me that 'Tom' was my half brother, he had been the child of my fathers, born before he had met my mother. He had been put up for adoption and my father mentioned him to no-one.

Until a letter arrived, a letter which my mother opened, Asking my father if he would meet him. My father refused. Denying all knowledge.

My sisters met the guy a couple of times, knew of his whereabouts. I asked one of them for his details but she refused to give them to me.

She told me that our family was far too dysfunctional and introducing him would do him no favours.

Later she told me that his details had been destroyed in a house fire.

That was the last I heard of Tom North'.

Tuesday, 23 February 2010

As best we could

Rusty arrived in London out of the blue yesterday. We met for a beer in the Cow. Meeting for beer in a pub is a British habit I am adapting to well.

We got to talking about our childhood; Rusty told me this tale:

'I never did have a successful childhood. I never had a successful relationship with my father. He was a bully and a tyrant. I could never be good enough, I always let him down, I underachieved, I rebelled.

I walked away in my teens. I survived as best could.

Until, in my 40's I visited him with my sons. We made attempts at conversation. As best we could.

Then, one sunbright afternoon, as we sat in the garden watching my young sons play he said: "I envy you son. You have a relationship with your children that I never had with mine".

He died shortly after that.

But we had made our peace.

As best we could'.

Monday, 22 February 2010

Meeting Mr Bounce

In the light of recent events I felt it neccessary to take legal advice.

At a reading a few months ago a man had sidled up to me in the lavatory, Whispered: 'If you ever need legal advice' and handed me his card.

Time to pay Mr Bounce a visit, I think.

Confusing reality with fiction

Someone has been interfering with my blog, deleting stuff and adding material. I have got rid of the offending items and I hope this will be the end of it!

I never name real people in the blog unless it is to promote a film, artist, musician or writer. I do not put up photographs without express permission.

All my characters are fictitious and invariably some characteristic of a person known to me will creep into my fiction. My muses (of whom I write often) are nothing more than figments of my imagination and often are inspired by Muses of the past; Jeanne Hebuterne, Dora Maar etc.

As I am a figment of Tristans imagination it makes sense to me that all of my characters are based on him; Rusty and Flluente are obviously alter egos, Moll, Mona, Babs, Lula Mae, Ruby and the ballerina are his fantasy women all of whom could not possibly exist.

I sincerely apologise to anyone who has been offended.

Sunday, 21 February 2010

Tony and old friends.

Yesterday was an excellent day, a rare thing this year.

The film I saw last night at a BAFTA screening 'Tony' (by Gerard Johnson) was great; proof that something fine can be made on an almost non existent budget. It is a real British film that does not rely on the gangsta genra guy ritchie porn. It is a surprising take on the serial killer thriller. Peter Ferdinando was especially good in the lead role.

Go and see this film if you can or buy the DVD from HMV.

I very rarely push anything but I think this is worth it.

Yesterday I spoke (for the first time in over 40 years) to an old friend. Worth getting old for!

Saturday, 20 February 2010

BAFTA schmoozing.

This evening I am off to BAFTA headquarters in Piccadilli to watch a movie made by a young film-maker Gerard Johnson (score by his brother Matt of The The). I intend to schmooze like buggery in order to improve my standing in the film industry.

I'll let you know about the film tomorrow.

Wish me luck.


Good advice and lightning.

If you really love something let it go.

If it aint come home in a couple of months track it down and kill it.

Rusty left that on my voicemail. He said he saw it on a bumper sticker in New Mexico.

He'd been visiting the lightning field.

He added: Tremendous electrical storm here last night; dramatic lightening echoing around the amphitheater of the mountains, a spectator sport with thunderous interludes but not much rain.

Keep on sparking.

Killing happy things

I am told that I should be eating free range chickens, they live happier lives apparently; get lots of exercise and fresh air.

Surely we should be killing and eating the unhappy battery chickens, putting them out of their misery leaving the free range birds to continue their blissful existence.

Killing happy things seems cruel.

Thursday, 18 February 2010

Palatial memories, Patti Smith and Make-up.

Dinner last night with the professor and his wife.

How offensive of me. I should have just as rightly written: dinner last night with the editor and her husband.

The meal punctuated an evening which had started with me filling their bath with sulfuric acid. The acid was something of a success as was the dinner.

I insisted tthey listen to Patti Smith's cover of Smells like teen spirit; another success.

On the walk home I mused on the fact that to the Muse make-up was a weapon, make-up was a lie; it was all made up.

Wednesday, 17 February 2010

Rust in peace.

Rusty called this morning.
He is giving up show business he said. What he meant by that was that he was giving up hanging around burlesque stage doors waiting for Babs.
He is moving to New Mexico with Lula-Mae in order to write that novel.
'Which novel?' I asked him.
'You know Jan'. He replied. 'That novel I ain't never going to get round to finishing'.
'I've got one of those'. I told him. 'Yup' He said. 'That's where I got the Idea from'.

Accessing poetry.

I am concerned that younger generations find Classical poetry inaccessible. To that end I have taken liberties with ' La belle dame sans merci'.

The merciless bitch

Hey dude, why so down
and you're looking fucking white man
things are cool
stuffs happening.

I met a chick, hot as hell
mix of goth and EMO
she took me to her grotty flat
did MDMA and vodka
she spiked my drink
I think we fucked
I really can't remember

Then I woke up here man
in the gutter
I've lost my wallet
and my Bloc Party ticket


Art, lies, nothing.

Boy did it rain yesterday. I haven't seen rain like that since I last read a Somerset Maugham story.

Maugham was a shit but a great story teller. Whenever I think of that man It confirms in me the need to separate the artist from his work.

I have the same issue with a muse; she was a great muse but not a great human being. Every word she spoke was a lie but such was her own self belief that her lies were utterly convincing.

Her beauty was so great that even when her lies were exposed she was forgiven especially by those people living simillar sorts of lies.

I thought I could cure her of her lying by letting her see that she was loved for what she really was. 'I'll try to stop lying'. She lied.

That muse caused me to produce some of my greatest work. But after she had gone (she got fed up with the truth; it wasn't comfortable) I went to the canvases and notebooks to review my work.

There was nothing there.

Sunday, 14 February 2010

Lost things and loved.

I lost a cat yesterday.

The black and white one. It was not here in the morning, clamouring to be fed alongside the brown one and the grey one.

I phoned a friend to ask what I should do. She said there is nothing you can do, just wait and she will return. Cats are like that.

Sure enough the black and white cat was here this morning, looking a bit tired but well enough.

How I wish a lost, well loved friend could be returned to me as easily.

Friday, 12 February 2010

Missing the muse.

Sitting in the Westbourne surrounded by Meeja types talking about scandinavian golf clubs by the sound of it; Norwegian woods.

Missing my muse but not missing the human being that my muse used as avatar this most recent time. My inner therapist is pushing me to turn to my inner woman for inspiration but she is such a slut that I fear that she could only inspire filth.

I am 'house sitting' for friends for a couple of days; feeding the livestock (3 cats, 1 chicken) and warding off burglars. The chicken eyes the feedbag hungrily not noticing how I eye the chicken hungrily. However such is my frailty I fear that I would come off worse if it came to a fight.

Wednesday, 10 February 2010

Another string to Fluentes' bow.

Fluente Maiales writes from mexico; he's had enough of the pig factory and is reinventing himself as a rock musician. He tells me he is fusing electronic sounds with traditional Mexican folk music.

He calls it Tech Mex!

Tuesday, 9 February 2010

Brian Patten, the Stranglers and the Roundhouse.

Years ago, it must have been the70's, I, along with friends now long forgotten came down to London to see the Stranglers at the Roundhouse in Camden. On the way in I noticed a flyer advertising a reading Brian was doing downstairs that same night, To my friends horror I went to hear Brian Patten while they pogo'd upstairs.

A year or so ago I had a beer with Hugh Cornwell of the Stranglers; I told him of that night and of my decision.

'You made the right choice'. He said.


Poetry, George Best and Rock n Roll.

They say that poetry is the new rock n roll.


Poetry has been around since Man's earliest grunts while Rock arrived with Bill Hailey and others in the 1950's.

Rock has for a while rather flashily stolen the ball and monopolized the pitch (like George Best crashing a sunday game in the park) But rock will burn itself out from decadent excess; the poets will kick the ball into touch for a moments silence before getting on with the game.

Once again a Nightingale will dazzle on the wing.

Sunday, 7 February 2010

They say that poetry is the new rock n roll.

Write about a rock star
write about his vices
write about his fall from grace
his mid life crisis
write about a rock star
dress him up in sequins
rock n roll ain't a world
in which Joe Meek wins

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll
write another poem buddy go buddy go

Write about the cocaine
do a line of cocaine
talk about the cocaine
talk about the cocaine
talk abou... Oh buddy
push the needle on
and write about a rock star
sing it when you're done
sing it to a techno beat
badum badum badum

(guitar solo)

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll
write another poem buddy go buddy go

Write about a rock star
fuck about with rhythm
rip your verses into strips
then mess about with em
write about beat writers
take it out on the road
sing about street fighters
and unpack your heavy load

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll
write another poem buddy go buddy go
sing another poem buddy go buddy go
kill another poem buddy go buddy go

It's all write muse. I'm only dissin' my ho for attention.

Out of control

I spent the day yesterday having the longest lunch imaginable discussing Bono's role in Irish future heritage (there's a thought) and afterwards renewing old friendships, rebuilding bridges and extinguishing burning boats.
I did find time to write down (really on the back of an envelope) the chorus for a song:
Lying to me was the only honest thing she done
Lyings with me she aint doing now she's gone
After a night in watching romcoms
She went out to buy some condoms
Now it's 10 past 12 at the 7/11 of love

Saturday, 6 February 2010

Tin Pan Alley

Tristan will be reading some of what he calls his 'stuff' at BEAT on Tuesday night. It starts at 9.00 pm

He promises me that he will keep it lighthearted.

I shall of course be going to lend my support.

This weekly event is organized by Andreas Grant and is Where it is at as another generation might have put it.

Friday, 5 February 2010


Talking with a friend the other day we pondered upon the possibility of Returning after death in order to haunt someone.

It occured to me that I have already returned here from a previous life in order to haunt myself...

I certainly seem to know how to scare myself witless.

Monday, 1 February 2010

Metaphors and venison pie in the Cow Notting Hill

What the hell. I'm going to take a cavalier attitude to puctuation today. The Italian girl wont like it but there we go.

The other thing we got talking about last night was 'the bullet in the balls' as a film metaphor for homosexuality or for a man being dominated by a woman.

We ate very good venison pie and drank too much beer and it was one of those nights when everyone turned up and the Cow became a party and I soon forgot all the stuff I was going to write so I'm having to make do with writing about the stuff i forgot to remember..

The Cow

book on a pub table and Lula Mae.

I had forgotten what a catalyst a book on a pub table can be.

I'm reading Cormac McCarthy's Cities of the plain at the moment and last night in the Cow it got us onto a whole raft of topics including Hemingways sexuality and how hollywood addressed 'the love that could not be named' in the old days. Rock Hudson of course appeared in the conversation as did Heathcliffe and sad old M Bovary.

No mention of Brokeback Mountain though.

The book also got me thinking of Lula Mae in her gingham chaps... I hear she is on her way to Tucson Arizona.

A woman from chicago picked up the book and asked questions about McCarthy, whom she had never read. I of course waxed lyrical.

Friends and the bag woman.

The desire to write is back... but what to write about is a problem. I could write about the fraudulent Moll but that wouldn't be fair... Yet.

I will however mention all my good friends who have helped in this time of need. Thank you.

And 'Heads'... I'm back.