Friday, 30 April 2010


Rusty sent me this:

He said it was the last picture he took of her before she ran off with the virtual snake oil seller from silicon valley.

Lula-mae... you've got a way with a gun.

The same way you got away with sticking a knife in my heart.

Under an assumed name.

I guess you'd been lying so long you forgot your real name.

but you didn't forget where you hid the knife. Or where my heart was.

Swimming for democracy.

Hey. You are bound by your fear of liberation.

You cannot let go because you cannot see the other side of the swimming pool.

And hey, you can't really swim

You have just been pretending, showing off to the girls

relying on us, the lifeguards, to rescue you

when you start drowning in ignorance

or laziness

and who needs the other side when this side will do

Just as well.

My inner woman looks something like this.

Election, X Factor and dictatorships.

The forthcoming election is not 'X Factor'.

One should be voting for the person who best represents you in your constituency.

Certainly not voting for 'celebrity' figureheads who care nothing for you and everything for their own ego's. This for them is nothing more than a stepping stone towards obscenely lucrative gigs when the politicking is done.

Whatever happened to career politicians who cared about the welfare of their constituents?

Depressing is it not that we shall have, once again, an elected (sort of) dictatorship rather than democracy.

Charity begins at home.

The current situation reminds me of an old folk tale:

John Albion was a woodsman. He worked hard for his living and then worked harder still to support his wife and six children. They were poor but fed and clothed; for that they were happy.

One day John came across a group of lost children in the woods, he took them home with him and instructed his wife to feed them and house them. She complained that they had barely enough to support themselves let alone newcomers.

'Let our children go without for a day or two. It will do them no harm'.

So the newcomers were fed and clothed at his own children's expense and months passed.

Eventually, out of despair, the wife departed, taking her children with her leaving behind a very unhappy John Albion surrounded by his waifs and strays who continued to eat him out of house and home.

I am not a member of the BNP nor do I support any of their policies. I have voted Green all my life. I have worked (as a volunteer) for charities supporting and helping the homeless and the disenfranchised. I have acted as peer advocate to a number of Immigrants and asylum seekers, taking on councils and government agencies on their behalf. I have always considered myself Liberal.

It is not the 'waifs and strays' that I am criticizing but John Albion's policies.

But enough is enough... This country has become the laughing stock of the world.

Am I being unreasonable? Be kind enough to let me know by commenting on this... You can do it anonymously.

Thursday, 29 April 2010

The deerhunter

Dead gorgeous

I found this on the Vintage Scans blog: I paticularly enjoy the strumpetry.

Postcard from Rusty No: 34

Rusty writes from Mountain View, California:

Damned if Lula Mae ain't left me for good. Packed up her pie tins and other baking stuff in a red gingham tablecloth and gone off with a virtual snake oil peddler from Silicon Valley.

I asked her did I make her that unhappy and she said no Rusty, you made me very happy a lot of the time but that just makes the unhappy times impossible to bear.


Norman Mailer wrote: Happiness and absolute sorrow flow from the same wound.

A poem for the muse.

I would like to say that you are enough
but that is never enough
and I end up writing a poem
with a gun held to my temple

your finger on the trigger
can you do it
without military backing

I would like to say that you are woman enough

Tuesday, 27 April 2010

Scallops.Botticelli and nurse Caz.

A difficult day.

Tristan's Event at the Tabernacle has been cancelled, a double booking fiasco. not his fault. He now has to go back to scratch and re-plan.

Nurse Caz left six scallop shells on his doorstep today.

I sense that the scallop shells are more important than the cancelled event.

Looking at him now I see disappointment as if he were looking at Botticelli's 'Birth of Venus' but seeing nothing but an empty shell.

I know Tristan. the Event will take place in it's own time and stuff will happen.

And nurse Caz will say hello... Probably.

Patti Smith - We're gonna have a real good time

Monday, 26 April 2010

Virginia the milliner.

Virginia the milliner makes a nice hat
in terms of accomplishment that's about that
A hat is a hat and a hat is a hat
There is nothing much else to Virginia than that.

Sunday, 25 April 2010

Neil Young - Harvest Moon (with lyrics)

Question answered.

Many years ago and I mean a long time ago (something over 4,000 years if the Old testament is to be believed) chickens (indeed all birds) did not lay eggs.

They, like mammals, gave birth to almost fully formed offspring. Not an easy thing for a chicken; you try pushing a broiler through your letterbox.

Until one day an incredibly stupid bird was born, a bird that could not distinguish between seed and grit. She would spend her days pecking at anything remotely seed shaped, much to the amusement of the other birds.

They mocked her something rotten, even the birds across the road would come over for a closer mock.

All to no avail, she carried on doggedly; she had true grit, that bird.

Until one day she met a mate. Or rather she became the victim of avian lust and (with grit between her teeth) she conceived.

21 days later, on her newly made nest, rather than forcing out a bird shaped thing with much grimace and cluck, she smiled, sighed, then eased out an egg. which out of ignorance she sat upon for a couple of weeks (A well earned bout of maternity leave) before the egg hatched to reveal the cutest thing imaginable.
The other birds looked on in disbelief and envy until, when hunger took them, the scuttled off to find some grit.

Yes! The chicken came first.

Saturday, 24 April 2010

London spring.

A beautiful London day. A blue sky that still constantly amazes after such greyness.

This evening I walked down Portobello Road without a coat without a care but with great attention to detail.

music squirting from the bars and hardly a word of English in earshot but many smiles.

the view from my window where I write is straight out of Blade Runner... Vehicle lights on the Westway, the trains and tubes below. The planes are back; they slide behind the tower blocks on Harrow Road.

Police sirens cut with precision. The busses roar as they turn into Chepstow Road.

London is a great place to be.

The unzipping of the sky

While it was all very pleasant having no aeroplanes overhead for a week I did enjoy watching the first arrival unzip a perfectly clear sky.

The excitement didn't last long though.

The poet at work

Friday, 23 April 2010

St Georges Day poem.

Why St George who was St George
a Roman legionnaire
Caught in the crossfire of sectarian bickering
sanctified by papal spin doctors of divinity
Brought here
A souvenier
By returning crusaders
Like some plastic Eiffel tower

To England's green and pleasant land

A rallying cry for Shakespeare or
A cry for god's sake
Engerland, Harry Redknap and Boy George.

Better the dragon
The undead, unspun dragon
The dragon alive in every English heart
Avoiding bad press
And 3 way debates

Finding Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land

Eyeing up the true symbol
Not for him the oak or the rose
The Cow

Rip it's horns off, wipe it's arse... And stick it on a plate.

Thursday, 22 April 2010


I spent much of today researching St George in order to write a poem to recite at a party tomorrow night (St Georges day).

I'm going to write about the dragon instead.

Meat Loaf and plagiarism

The theme of Meatloafs new album: is identical to Tristans Short story called 'Arc of a diver'. First published in May 2009:

Shame he couldn't give Tristan a credit.

He tells me he is taking legal advice.

Tuesday, 20 April 2010


Ashtrays and dead strawberries.

You can learn a lot about a man from the state of his ashtray
This is the ashtray of a man who kills strawberry plants even though they are on the kitchen windowsill. What on earth crossed his mind as he looked at them dying each time he washed up.

A friend suggested that he drank straight from the bottle or can and therefore never needed to wash anything.

The state of the ashtray confirms that.


Many years ago, after a divorce, well meaning friends would suggest 'suitable' new partners for me.

In order to avoid these embarrassing meetings I invented Ruby.

Some months later invention became reality and 'Ruby' entered my life.

Be very careful about what you wish for.

Clear skies.

Clear skies over England again.

On a normal day there would be a dozen planes in sight at any one time.

Where have they all gone?

I must buy a radio.

Thursday, 15 April 2010

Wednesday, 14 April 2010

Mary spanking Jesus.

Max Ernst

Lay-by picnic.

It always amazed me as a young man that most of my friends could find their 'niche' at such a tender age without exploring all the possibilities that life had to offer.

It's like picnicking in a lay-by just outside an enchanted wood.

I have been wandering that enchanted wood for the past 40 years.

I think I have found the place to sit for a while and feast.

Tuesday, 13 April 2010

When the bliss seed germinates and the next Event.

What a delicious day.

Took myself to Gusto in Westbourne Park Villas for breakfast. Surely the best almond croissants in London and the cannoli (?) are to die for; the most seductive things on the planet.

Now lunch next door at the Westbourne. A poets life is bloody tough sometimes.

We finally have a date confirmed for the next Event; it will be on the 18th of May at the Tabernacle, Notting Hill. I will post the flier when it is made. We have a fantastic line up.

Tristan promises to talk about love (or what love becomes when the bliss seed germinates) in dark places.

Can't wait.

Monday, 12 April 2010

Birthday Poem

I sit here at my loom
Penelope to my own Odysseus
unpicking life's tapestry by night
embroidering by day
Constantly on the lookout
for a white sail on the horizon.

Is he with Circe or Calypso tonight?

Sunday, 11 April 2010

Tristan and Isolde, Guinness and oysters.

A very strange incident on Friday night:

I was having a beer with Tristan at the Cow; listening to one of his monologues when he suddenly stopped mid story, approached a young woman who had just passed us and demanded 'Who are you?'

She replied. 'Isolde'

'Amazing'. Said Tristan. 'I've been waiting 55 years for this.

'Why? Who are you?' She asked


'Oh fuck off' She replied. walking off.

I guess she hears that all the time I said to Tristan in order to mollify the situation.

Tristan celebrates 55 years of picking at the loose threads of life's tapestry and remedial embroidery tomorrow...

We shall celebrate with Guinness and oysters.

Saturday, 10 April 2010

How it is.

I said: Tristan, that is how it is!

You hope for too much.

They hope for just enough.

But it is never enough really

And too much becomes too much.

I guess he can wait a little bit longer...

Wednesday, 7 April 2010

Beer, women and loss.

I met a friend yesterday. I say a friend but she is really a friend of an ex and therefore an ex friend.
She was on her bike in Portobello road but circled back to say hello and chat for a moment and she glowed and I said you look wonderful and she said yes I am falling in love then she wheeled off again in front of a police car she was glowing more than the lights on that car and her siren sound was more pressing. And she, on the whole was far more arresting. Aint love wonderful.

I went to have a beer to think about that...

I loved that beer while I missed the woman... We miss them when they are gone.

Fucked if I know whether they ever miss us.


Hopscotch, bunny boilers and Mondrian.

Easter leads me to think of bunny boilers.

I thought that frightening until tonight when a friend showed me the easter eggs lovingly ( and suspiciously) perfectly made by his girl friend; they had messages on them (exquisitely written in melted while chocolate; as good as if Mondrian had marked out your hopscotch squares on the pavement) which kind of spooked me.

The messages read(subliminally): Die you bastard!

But he is a chocoholic. I know he will ignore my warnings and fall in love.

One day he will fill the cracks in the pavement with alcohol.

Tuesday, 6 April 2010

The pitfalls of bearded snogging and Lucky 7.

I know I've been lazy. It has been easter and all that that entails; there has been no one on the streets and no observations to make. I did however have a fantastic lunch on Monday cooked by the woman who wears the trousers in Notting Hill. Fantastic for many reasons(as well as the food being brilliant) including the fact that no-one needed to introduce cocaine into the equation. Met some new friends there... Good.

I'm also trying to organise the next event; venues are tricky people to deal with, they think that they are the stars. I'm the promoter. I'm the fucking star; oi no brown m and n's babydoll.

I have however been considering the pitfalls of gay snogging among bearded men; specifically the velcroic nature of beards... What on earth do you tell your wife when you arrive home in the early hours of the morning (after a drunken snog in the alley behind Lucky 7) with a bearded scotsman stuck to your face?

Does a bucket of cold water work?

In my case I would say: Darling, I was snogging this Scotsman behind Lucky 7 and his beard got stuck to mine... Working on the assumption that none of my wives have ever believed a single word I say, they would dismiss this as poppycock and look for a thoroughly red blooded and heterosexual explanation involving booze, football, rock n roll and Russian tarts.

Lucky 7. Westbourne Park Road. London W2.

Hope I get a free portion of fries for this plug.

Somehow I doubt it.

Sunday, 4 April 2010

The muse is dead.

Long live the muse.

Something to talk about.

With converse you always have something to talk about.

Let's talk about Vans

Great American literature.

I've given up on Bukowski and given up on Kerouac too.

Gone back to Cormack McCarthy. Reading 'Child of god' and blown away by the way McCarthy's lyricism can convince me to feel compassion for the most despicable of human beings.

This man is the greatest living writer in America.

Friday, 2 April 2010

Sad things can be funny and funny things can be sad.

the other day I watched a blind man try to walk down the street with a disobedient guide dog. That dog was exploring every tangent, every smell, every piss smeared tree and every food stain on the pavement.

The blind guy was dragging at and cadjoling his seeing eye dog. And getting very pissed off in the process.

Is it fair to see humour in this.

Tonight I asked a very beautiful young woman what she would like to drink. she said she would like a pint of piss coloured beer.

I'd like you to think that I'm making this up... But I'm not.

There is a point to life and when you find it it is wonderful.

Thursday, 1 April 2010

Notting Hill bull shit.

I have truly had enough of the bullshit that surrounds me.

OK. I live in Notting Hill. That does not mean that I have to put up with the shit thrown my way.

Went to the Pelican tonight to hear some music. I'm sure the guys involved were well intentioned but it was crap.

I voiced my opinion, which I think is fair enough.

Then I got shit for being honest. One should never be honest at friends gigs, because if a mate is playing you tell the world it is good.

Hey like friends like being lied to. I don't think so.

It was appalling.

I enjoy immensely being told the truth... By people I respect.

Especially if they are buying the beer.

Happy Easter. I wish I had gone to see 'Tony' instead. Fuck I've plugged it again.

Milliners crossing

Gerard, who is a film maker; made a film called Tony (oh fuck, I've just plugged it again) said to me this evening that I should put the following on the blog:

You know that film called Millers crossing, It's got hats in every scene. If you CGI'd everything out of it save the hats and the dialogue you'd have a really cool film.

milliners crossing.

You bet we were drinking.