Tristan Hazell lives and works in the shadow of the Westway on Portobello Road. What follows is a collection of observations, reviews, social comment, fiction, poetry, art criticism and more. Much of it is fiction and some of it will offend someone somewhere, I hope.

Thursday, June 22, 2017

Inflammatory. Theresa May.

Theresa May Clinging on to power with the tenacity of the Grenfell Tower cladding and equally as flammable. Or do I mean Inflammatory.

Grenfell Tower. The latest post from Grenfell Action Group.

Please follow the link below and read. Grenfell Action Group to my mind is one of the few reliable sources of truth right now. They are the people who have been trying to warn RBKC that the tragedy would happen. they have been vilified and suppressed and threatened with legal action should they continue their actions.

They are not loony radicals, not trouble makers, just the voice of a community desperate to make themselves and their serious concerns heard and understood.

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Grenfell Tower. Those who need to keep away.

This is far from a comprehensive list but these are examples of what this community does not need:

  • The tabloid press.
  • Tory politicians blaming the victims.
  • The disaster tourists.

Never miss a selfie opportunity.
  • The scientologists and all the other fake Shamen, emotional snake oil salesmen and spiritual con merchants.

Church of Scientology tent set up under the west way.
  • The Anarchists and activists attempting to hijack the disaster for the furtherment of their own agenda.
  • The conspiracy theorists
  • The leaders of RBKC until they hand themselves in to the police.
  • The well heeled beneficiaries of the 'Gentrification' of the area who wander down to take a look.
  • The 'young Lions' demanding a riot.
  • Anyone who is not directly affected by this tragedy but feels it is all about themselves.
  • The Just giving web site making a fortune out of misfortune. Boycott them now.
  • Those people attempting to turn this into some kind of ghoulish Carnival.
  • The fake 'documentary' makers.

Sunday, June 18, 2017

Fielding Mellen: Partying as Grenfell Tower burned.

A very reliable source informs me that, on Friday evening while Grenfell still smouldered and the fire fighters were continuing their work Rock Fielding Mellen, Deputy Head of RBKC and head of housing held a lavish champagne and coke party at his family pile Stanway House in Gloucestershire.

Stanway House.

Grenfell Tower.

Whether Feilding Mellen was in attendance cannot be confirmed at this time.

I do know however that a number of his wealthy set found the concept of a party more than  even they could stomach. It seems that he is being deserted. I wonder why?

Rock Feilding Mellen.

Douglas Stoneman: A truly vile man voicing the opinions of the Right regarding the Grenfell Tower fire.

This is Douglas Stoneman. Douglas is a charming man; a Tory voting, anti immigration expat living in Rio. Douglas is so wrapped up in his bigoted, shameful ideology that he feels it is his job to make the following comments on social media regarding the Grenfell Tower disaster.

I'll leave you to form your own opinion.

Grenfell Tower. BBC should be ashamed.

Shortly after the fire started a helicopter appeared. Naturally I assumed it was there to attempt rescue of the residents who had somehow made it to the roof.


It was the BBC gawking. Shame on them.

How many trapped residents heard hope in that helicopters rotors?

Saturday, June 17, 2017

Grenfell Tower fire. Some truths.

I was not going to write about this yet, it is all too much but in the light of some people criticising me for naming the Council leaders many feel responsible for the disaster it now becomes necessary.

I live, temporarily, within metres of the tower, it looms over the garden in which I have a small cabin. I was woken on Wednesday morning at 1.00 am by a neighbour screaming 'get out of the building'. From the garden I saw the fire beginning to creep and then rocket vertically up the entire tower. The fire was external and it was evident that it was the cladding that was burning. As the fire reached windows they popped and the fire entered the building on every single floor simultaneously. The fire then raced around the tower, engulfing it.

I sat and watched in helpless horror. I listened to the cries of those trapped inside. I watched them waving and flashing lights from every floor. People jumped.

What is worse, far worse, is that I sat with the 13 year old daughter of the house who had friends in the building.

We watched this for the entirety of the horror. The screaming went on until daybreak and beyond, the figures in the windows disappeared one by one as the fire engulfed them. How does one comfort a child in that situation?


1. RBKC had been warned about the likelihood of this happening for some time but chose to ignore the warnings.

2. RBKC threatened legal action when the Grenfell Action Group published their concerns about the buildings safety.

3. The cladding, non fireproofed to save money, was there to prettify the building for the incoming gentry. It had nothing to do with the needs or benefit of the residents.

4. It is well know that the same cladding was implicated in similar disasters around the world. It should never have been installed. Had the building not been clad the likelihood is that the fire would have been contained to one apartment and none of this would have occurred.

4. There are grave concerns over other 'renovation' issues regarding the integrity of the building.

5. RBKC have current plans to redevelop the entire estate and gentrify it.

6. Both Fielding Mellen, head of housing and Paget Brown, council leader are culpable and should be brought to book. Fielding Mellen owns a house in the shadow of the tower yet he refuses to show his face. In his one televised interview he looked dry mouthed and scared. He could answer no questions coherently.

All of the above are true facts with evidence to back them up. It is not gossip and rumour. I have previously published the RBKC legal threat to the action group on this blog and am happy to share other evidence.

Is there any wonder that there is anger here.

As things stand. We have been warned that the house may have to be evacuated. The tube trains have been stopped out of fear of the tower collapsing. We are behind the no-go cordon and getting in and out is a nightmare. The area is full of gawking disaster tourists who have no place here and most importantly of all the authorities are so scared of the public reaction that they will not release the true death toll. IT IS MASSIVE.There is the constant threat of a full scale riot. Van lots of riot police dot the area.

And a gutless Theresa May is demonstrating that this government has no care for these people because they are the poorest of the poor in the wealthiest borough in the UK.

so shoot me for naming names.

I know this post is a rambling mess but that is how it is at present.

UPDATE. Sunday: Community notices being posted stating that the true death toll is 150 - 200. Something the authorities will not admit, fearing the reaction.

Grenfell Tower. MISSING.


This is Rock Fielding Mellen, Deputy leader of RBKC and head of housing. He has been conspicuously missing since the tragedy occurred. The community would very much like to find him.

Grenfell Tower, the guilty. Rock Fielding Mellen and Nick Paget Brown.

Nick Paget Brown. Leader of RBKC.

Rock Fielding Mellen, Deputy leader and head of housing.

These two individuals are directly responsible for the deaths. they should be in custody now. If they had any sense of decency they would have handed themselves in.

Fielding Mellen is in hiding... Fucking  coward.

I eagerly await the threatening letter from their solicitors.

Thursday, June 15, 2017

Grenfell Tower fire. Ghosts in the windows.

I will not be posting images of the fire, there are enough of those already.

This is the image I now live with constantly. The tower is perhaps 100 metre away, it looms over the area and will now be a constant reminder of the horrors that created it. The garden is still being showered with charred remnants of cladding and insulation; what many of us believe to be the fatal factor in the inferno. The air is corrupt.

I cannot help but relive Wednesdays events each time I look at the blackened tower. I see ghosts waving lights in the window openings, I hear the screams of those poor trapped souls. I sat  watching the fire, unable to do a thing as it ripped through the building. A nightmare made real.

For the families of the victims this must be an awful sight and there is no escaping it. My heart bleeds for them.

The fatality numbers, presently 17, will rise dramatically and only when that is known will the full horror of the disaster be realised.

The community is devastated but in that devastation is coming together to do whatever it can to help in the aftermath.

No one will forget this. Let us hope that the Government will act upon it.

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

My daughter.

I've run out of things to write, not only that but I am suffering one almighty block.

From now onwards I shall be containing myself to writing about the ongoing fight to see my daughter whom I have had no proper contact with since October of last year. I am allowed a weekly FaceTime call which is always disastrous.

The child is too young to understand what is happening and I doubt if she will ever be told the truth by her mother therefore I shall document the whole sordid mess here in order that she can read it when older.

My fear is that she will feel deserted by me.  She needs to know otherwise.

It is all too sad.

Thursday, June 8, 2017


It appears that this blog has been hacked. Emails are being sent maliciously by others purporting to be me.

Please ignore all emails from this site and unsubscribe. I had closed the email facility on the blog some days ago.

sorry about this.

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

Manon Morris. Harpist. An apology.

When I first posted this I described Manon Morris as evil. I now see that that was unfair but I was frustrated and exhausted after months of wrangling just to spend some time with my daughter which the harpist is refusing.

She is not evil but simply behaving wickedly. I apologise for the slur.

I have edited the post:

This is Manon Morris.

Manon Morris is a harpist, you will probably see her at the proms again this year, she is regularly used as a stand in when no-one else is available. 

There is a lot more to Manon Morris than meets the eye.

I met Manon in 2011 and was captivated. In 2013 we had a child together and I was happy to look after that child as well as her other children while she pursued her career. Things were fine at first but, as sometimes happens, shit got in the way.

We decided to separate in 2016 and in order to move on I needed to claim ESA due to my lung disease and I needed help with housing. It was when I tried to apply for help that Manon Morris admitted that she had been fraudulently claiming benefits, posing as a 'single parent' for the duration of our relationship.

She asked me to declare that I had been homeless for 4 years in order to maintain her lies, when I refused she threatened me with accusations of domestic violence.

Since then she has made accusations, dismissed by the police and the CPS, in order to hide her frauds. She has stopped my daughter from seeing her father as punishment for her frauds coming to light.

As things stand Manon Morris's council tax 'irregularities' have been proven. Her benefit fraud is currently being investigated and her mortgage fraud has been pointed out to her mortgage provider.

At present Manon Morris hides behind a 'non molestation order' gained on spurious grounds.

Manon Morris will do anything to protect her reputation. That is all she cares about.

My heart bleeds for our child.

Manon morris is a harpist.

Thursday, April 27, 2017

The end of the local. Gentrification and social cleansing in West London and empty speech bubbles.

Further to my last post.

QED: On an evening stroll to the KPH for a well earned pint I notice that the gentrified boozers on the manor are all empty. The KPH, although not rammed, had  local customers and was welcoming. UKAI (once the Market Bar) and the Italian Job (once the Pelican/Red Lemon) were completely empty and soulless.

The photo is of the Italian Job on All Saint's Road, taken through the window at 9.30 pm on a Thursday night.. The white orbs in the photograph the empty speech bubbles of a non existent clientele. This neighbourhood was once vibrant, varied and multicultural. It is now being sedated into morbidity by the 'pills' pushing gentrification and social cleansing..

All Saint's Road is, to many, the heart of the community. RBKC seem determined to replace that heart with a wind up toy that the locals are financially excluded from and the wealthy incomers are bored with already.

I suspect that it is hoped that All Saint's Road will become another Kensington Park Road, appealing to and catering for the wealthy alone.

Theresa May and the last remnant of democracy.

Oh dear. 
The tories will not be defeated by posting slogans on Facebook to be read by the like minded. The people who could possibly make a difference are the ill informed self disenfranchised who have been bullied and cowed into believing that it is not worth voting; the delusional working class conned into aspirations that are pure fantasy fuelled by the snake oil purveyed by Tory tub thumpers and the press and those who simply cannot be arsed to register to vote let alone vote.
Sheep have no free will, they abide by the law of the dog. The mandarins of Mormon are the shepherds whistling to the dogs. Theresa May is the Alpha bitch among those dogs. At the end of the day you will find her lying at the feet of her Masters gnawing on the bone she has been thrown.
That bone is the last remnant of democracy.

Saturday, April 22, 2017

Fencing off the 'Village pump'. 'DOG in the MANGER'. Why the KPH is important and Why I won't be reviewing the 'Italian Job'.

Years ago before the arrival mains water and domestic plumbing the village pump or well was a hub within the community. It is where ordinary people met on a daily basis; where the lonely found some company, where gossip or news was shared. It was where linen, both dirty and clean, was aired. It was where 'Care in the community' existed before the term was hijacked by politicians in order to justify a lack of care or concern or an unwillingness to spend taxpayers money on the needs of the taxpayers.

After the plumbing arrived the pump or well, although still symbolic, ceased to be that hub. What was left was the village pub which served the same purpose.

Not only was the pub a hub, the good pub landlord was a marriage counsellor, a referee, a psychotherapist, a keeper of the peace, a short term loan provider and a friend. Very little violence occurs within the walls of a well run pub. To be barred from the village pub was a fate to be feared, it was exclusion from the community, it was ostracism.

The wealthy landowners and gentry did not need the village pub save for occasional visits for purposes of condescension, a leer and a grope at a pretty barmaid or to buy a secret bottle.

In this part of West London these hubs are vanishing to be replaced by hipster gastro pubs, Vodka breweries, estate agents offices and expensive apartments. The local working class community is being deprived of one of its focal points and is being offered no alternative. All the 'gentrifiers' see is a need to make a profit and a need to, in order to make themselves feel comfortable with their consciences, remove hoi polo from sight.

By 'gentrifying' the last remaining pub, the working class local community is in essence being told that their needs are in no way to be considered... Fuck off!

The re-imagination of the 'Red Lemon' on All Saints Road as an expensive Italian, hipster, artisanal, craft beer 'pub'/restaurant is a perfect example of this.

Red Lemon before and after being turned into a hipster fish shop

RBKC do not help in any way by allowing this sort of thing to take place because RBKC decision makers aspire to the same elevated personal Utopia as the gentrifiers themselves. No consideration is given to the discrimination against and displacement of the local community.

The only place for a reasonably priced beer now is either at home or on the street. Gone is the only refuge for the working class man wanting a beer or two on his way home or an escape from a potential domestic crisis.  No one cares, just 'KEEP OFF MY LAND'.

Gentrification often wraps itself in terms such as: 'Exclusive'.... To exclude; 'Discriminating'..... To discriminate against,  'Artisan'..... Pretentiously expensive in order to exclude poor people.

The village pump has been fenced off by people who only drink bottled water and champagne.

All the Gastro pubs and hipster bars should be forced to call themselves: The DOG in the MANGER'.

All of the above is why the KPH on Ladbroke Grove should remain an honest local boozer.

 It is the last one. If RBKC had any sense, care or imagination they would tax the gentrifiers a bit more and spend the money on buying the KPH freehold and giving it to the community to ensure the continuing existence of our village pump.

Saturday, April 1, 2017

Lowkey Silcherster Estate development protest.

Popped in to look at the Silchester Estate development proposal exhibition this morning. Residents were out to protest the proposals.

I'll be writing about the development plans at length at a later time.

Got to say hello to 'Lowkey', someone previously not on my radar, an interesting man. Check out the video below.

And then read this:

Friday, March 31, 2017

Vinyl Cafe reopens on Portobello Road.

Like 'Coffee Plant' down the road Vinyl Cafe has as its origin a market stall.  This is the kind of thing we need to retain the identity of the road. Not Starbucks nor any of its ilk.

Saturday, March 25, 2017

Westway Development Trust, yurts and RBKC.

From my mole in Portobello Green.

Many of us have wondered at the small yurts appearing in Portobello Green.

Perhaps this snippet of a conversation ( between a blonde woman in heels and a curly haired man of elfin grace ) overheard today in the spring sunshine will help explain:

Him; What's with the yurts?
Her: We are preparing accommodation for the refugees who will be arriving soon.
Him: Where from, Syria?
Her: No! The Silchester estate when you turf the residents out in order to gentrify it.
Him: Now now, no need to be sarky. we are simply improving the quality of opportunities for some local residents to make some real improvements to their bank balances.
Her. That is what I thought. To that end I felt that by assisting with the temporary re-housing of what you call scum before you renege on your promises (in order to facilitate the lining of crony pockets) I hoped you might turn a blind eye to our similar plans for the Portobello Green area when it comes to planning consent.
Him: I love it when you talk dirty.

Editors note: This is obviously fake news and should be treated as such. The use of 'fake news' in satire is as old as the hills. The use of satire to take a poke at abusers of position or wealth is even older.

There are plans afoot however to 'socially cleanse' and 'gentrify' the Silchester Estate area. More on that another day.

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Sex education in the sixties. A red herring.

As a six year old my entire knowledge of things sexual was obtained from eight year old boys in the school playground, they having been informed at six years old themselves. In the same fashion this information had been passed down, year on year, since Edward first confessed in 1066. This information was of course to be believed because it came with the declaration: It's true. Cross my heart and hope to die in a cellar full of rats'.

At age 11 my mother tried to disabuse me of my illicitly gained knowledge by placing on my pillow  a booklet on the reproductive cycle of fruit flies ,which I assumed, was where she got her knowledge from.

How on earth, I wondered, could a grown woman with six children (there was nothing in the publication about contraception.) think that fruit flies were anything to do with sex stuff. And furthermore the booklet did not contain the declaration: Cross my heart and hope to die.....

It could only be a lie or a red herring at best.

Monday, March 13, 2017

Arc of a diver

This is from the archives. first posted on the poetry blog in 2009.

I am aware that I am being most horribly punished for my actions and there is nothing I can do because I have already gone too far. This is unequivocal.

My assumption was; when my life flashed through my minds eye as I fell to my death, that it would contain itself to my past!

Such is the speed at which the human brain can work when pressed that I am allowed the luxury of this consideration as I watch both the wall of the multistory slip by and my future (or what future I would have had, had I not decided to take this final action) flash forward.

So now I know! For one nano-second I am enlightened and it has taken my own snuffing of the candle to illuminate me; what a paradox and surely one that only people such as me have ever been aware of… For if one dies a natural death at the moment specified in our timelines there would be no future life left to taunt us!

In this split second as I plummet headlong to the concrete below I am allowed the horror of seeing the Cancer misdiagnosed and good health regained. I witness the love and patience of my wife as she supports me through the trials of becoming successful as an artist, as she bears me a beautiful daughter who burgeons into an even more beautiful woman who brings two delightful grandchildren into my no longer possible life. I witness the retrospective at the Tate and the accolades that that itself would bring. I kneel before the King and humbly accept my Knighthood. I die peacefully at home, aged 92, surrounded by the people I would have loved!

It occurs to me that my punishment, though harsh, ends now.

Sunday, March 12, 2017

A stolen kiss.

I stole my first kiss
I did not know but
a kiss given freely

A kiss signalled by a
clumsily assembled pout
from carelessly painted lips
in a country bus shelter

Sheltered from buses perhaps
but not from a determined girl

nor from

the public transportation
of that first stolen kiss.

A short poem about longevity.

The older I get
the farther I go back
into memory

I imagine that

with my last breath
I will reach back to my first

and set eyes upon my mother again.

The 1940 'Leave the Allies' Referendum plan.

Neville Chamberlain delivering Fake News.

By September 1940, 2 months into the blitz it was feared that the RAF and and British air defenses could not cope with the relentless bombing. Things looked bad for this beleaguered island but Chamberlain had a plan.

The prime minister informed his cabinet that Britain was to hold a referendum on the question 'Should we leave the Allies and join the Axis union?' "It is a win, win situation". He told them. "If we win we become masters of the Planet once more and relive our days of Empire. If we lose we will benefit from massive reparation which will enable us to grow into the most powerful nation in Europe".

"On top of that". He added. "The 350,000.00 we are currently spending on air defence can be spent on cottage hospitals and stuff like that".

When asked about German atrocities he replied: "We have been turning a blind eye to Russian atrocities quite happily up until now I can see no problem in simply changing the direction in which we cast that blind eye".

"We'll be slaughtered by the Americans". Another cabinet member opined.

"Au contraire". Chamberlain retorted. "I have been reliably informed by my cleaning lady that Japan is about to piss off the Americans greatly by attacking Pearl Harbour which will embroil America in a war of it's own along with a new found obsession with building it's 'Pacific Wall'.

A muttering of: 'Who is Pearl Harbour?". Chinese whispered it's way around the Cabinet table.

At this point Churchill stood up, necked his tumbled of brandy and bellowed: "This is bollocks. We shall defend our right to fight, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never stop fighting among ourselves. How on earth can we agree on a referendum result".

The rest is not history.

Thursday, February 9, 2017


In triggering article 50
she shot herself in the foot
he had custody of the first aid kit
and the orthopaedic boot.

Saturday, January 28, 2017

Theresa May's political clitoris.

As Winston Smith dies.

In neo-totalitarian America
May walks hand in hand with Trump
stroking Churchill's pate
for a photo op.

May; an uncertain
politically horny woman
of a certain age
Chasing the bad boy the mad boy
in hope of a trade shag
beneath the bleachers.

A shag he will deny but crow about
with a smirk
on the bleachers.

For all Churchill's shortcomings
he fought for Britain
not for himself.

Churchill stroked no-ones head
for appeasement.

For all of Theresa's longcomings
she fights for her self
her ego
her political mojo
She has no idea who we are
or what we want
She has no idea who she is
what she wants

Other than Trump
tickling her political clitoris.

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Fake news

How do we know that the news about fake news is not fake?
If the fake news is real
and the news about fake news is fake
what should we do about the fake news
about real (albeit fake) news
about fake news
about fake real news?...

No news is good news.

Real or fake.

Tuesday, January 10, 2017


She asked: 'Do you have anything dark to wash?'
I could not admit to my longings
but brought down some history
that might benefit from 60 degrees.

She is asleep now as I empty the machine
drape history on radiators
dark things are still dark

clean but dark

She is asleep now


Friday, December 30, 2016

Portobello fog.

Its foggy in Portobello
the dealers are getting quite lost
they can't find their way to E&O
they are selling their wares at cost
I bought a gram for a plastic fiver
then sold it on to a young skip diver
who sold it on to a mate
who sold it on to a mate
then a mate of a mate of a mate of a mate
who eventually snorted the lot.
Without consideration for rhyme.
Now the mate of a mate of a mate of a mate
of a mate of a mate of a mate
is fucking pissed off at having bought a gram of petrol infused talc
and nothing rhymes with that.

Self inflicted cancer for housing purposes.

A true story. Not written looking for sympathy but as anyone who knows what I write finding humour in the darkest of places.

Two months ago I found myself about to be homeless. I phoned RBKC (my local authority) asking for emergency housing help.

They asked for details and I explained my medical condition (chronic but manageable) and was told that unless I had dementia or cancer I did not merit housing support. As far as they were concerned I was not their responsibility.

Fast forward 6 weeks: As a result of a consultation with my GP I was referred to St Marys Hospital for tests on a lump (one of four) that might be cancerous. I will know on the 11th of January.

Should it be cancerous will |I be accused of contracting a cancer in order to obtain housing and benefits? Should it be cancer will they then provide me with housing in order that I might 'die peacefully' at home.

Is there a greater power at work here within my framework that has created this potential cancer in order to meet the body's needs.

I am determined that I shall not bow to either RBKC's nor cancers demands and carry on living my way.

It is all a little ironic though. Or is it paradox.

Don't blame 2016.

It really isn't 2016's fault. Blame 1967 and the summer of love. Blame drug fuelled 'rock n roll' lifestyles. blame anything but don't blame something as abstract as a period of time in a modern calendar. Oh, and 200 years ago all those who died in 2016, had they lived then would have been dead long before anyway (except Bowie who was from another planet). Thank modern medicine for keeping the rest of us alive beyond our natural expectancy.

Drugs either kill you or keep you alive.

Saturday, December 10, 2016


Death is a punctuation mark.
A full stop.
Death states the obvious.

A full stop.
The full stop defines nothing, 

it is merely a printers device.
Let us not dwell on punctuation, 

on the full stop
but let us celebrate that which precedes it...

Celebrate the life.

Memory has no punctuation.
No full stop.

Monday, December 5, 2016


Pig fat on the turkey
goose fat on the spuds
suet in the mince pies
brandy butter on the puds
lard on the sausages
bacon on the lard
butter in the stuffing
butter on the chard
cream on the yule log
cream on the lot
and grandma's full of baileys
octogenarian drunken sot

Brandy in pater
port and lemon in my mum
and kinky cousin Tarquin
injecting vodka up his bum
Dinner now partaken
napkins mashed and soiled
things going very smoothly thanks
now that every-ones well oiled.

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

polishing silver with a barrister's sock.

A poem to commemorate 'National Cod Latin Day'.

Sitting in the kitchen
underneath the clock
polishing silver with
a barristers sock

Citing habeas corpus
weeping into legal hose
Shouting: "This is cruelty,
as everybody knows.
Her lordship muttered sternly
"Sedebat in lecto cat.
Just polish the bloody fishknives
Sic biscuittus disintegrat".

Monday, November 21, 2016

A divorcees prayer

You will hate me when this is over
But not as much as I will hate you
Yet I will hate you with affection
While you will hate me with spite
Because you really hate yourself
For once loving me

Any chance of a shag?

Tuesday, October 11, 2016

Regarding the Killer clown craze, I first posted this on my poetry blog in 2009:: The secrets of magic

The secrets of magic

Things started getting out of hand when the dog got run down in the street out side our window. She had watched it happen and when I got in from work she was standing there in tears. I held her for a while then took her to bed.

I’d first seen her in Stanley Park one afternoon when a bunch of us were sitting around with guitars, playing whatever came into our heads and generally fooling about. A number of kids had congregated to catch the mood and catch the sun, she sat away from the others under the shade of a tree; long thick hair the color of new pennies burning against almost white skin. She wore a green summer dress and red Converse.

I knew she was there but not really there until Gus came along in a daze, stood among us and announced Kurt Cobain was dead. For real! Shot himself in the head and was dead! I looked at her then, alone under that tree; tears running black from her eyeliner. I told myself she needed comfort only really it was me who needed her. So I went to her and held her. She sobbed into my white t-shirt.

We practically stayed like that for the rest of the day, talking about Kurt and singing his songs. Then somebody played ‘In Memory of a Free Festival’ on his boom box and after that the only thing to do was go home or someplace else.

She came back to my place.

We ate pizza and listened to Nirvana CD’s while she cried some more. She laughed when I told her she looked like a clown with her make-up running. We kissed before she left me knowing I would see her again.

Soon we were living together and making plans. Sex wasn’t that great but I put that down to anything I could think of except the truth. I wasn’t going anywhere near the truth back then.

After the dog I started to find more ways to make her cry so I could comfort her. During the day I would make up sad stories to tell her at night. And I would buy her eyeliner and mascara, the cheap stuff that ran, and encourage her to use it.
But I should never have told her about the clown.
They found her on the sidewalk, crumpled and broken, except for her face, which, undamaged by the 30 foot fall from the window, she’d made up like a clown’s. Bright red mouth – I’d never known her to wear lipstick - and thick black weep lines running from her eyes. She had cropped her hair. Gelled it so it stood up like a fright wig.

Just like Bepo the clown who at my 8th birthday party led me into the cellar to show me the secrets of magic.

Monday, October 3, 2016

The Notting Hill Promise

They primp and preen like birds of paradise
mimic the sounds of endeavour and success
only to lead me to a bower
lined with tinfoil bindles
coloured straws
and bottle tops.
they talk of synopses and story boards
and wish upon a shooting script

sniff and blow into a napkin from e and o or the electric

they talk of dialogue in monologue
they talk of accents gravely and acutely
and the real star is always 'ME'.

Their body of work buried under a drift of new blown snow.

A raddled would be rock chick
on hands and knees
in the ladies loo
hoovering up cocaine
a piss stained floor remarks:

'I despise you losers who have to work for a living'
as she mentally remortgages 
daddies inheritance
to reinvest in her habit
and somewhere nearby
an imaginary cameraman smears
a pound of vaseline
on an already forgiving lens.

In the bars they tell me
'it will never happen
you are one of us
and we never succeed.'

And that woman
somewhere between the Priory and oblivion
quotes Raymond Carver and the things we talk about 
when we talk about love
and I misinterpret self interest
for interest
in a real world that for her
no longer exists.

And i gently humiliate myself
through the floorboards of embarrasment
and then despair
and get drunk
and do a line
and join in, start the rotting process

'Material all' I tell myself
in that padded place called denial.

And life has become nothing more than material
for my obituary.

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Urinal song.

I love the sound of piss on zinc

Donna's sleepy tales
of rain on Trinidad tin roofs
that she told me as we lay
in a Gloucester park how
she reeked of passion
and coconut oil
The downpour
on the corrugated school bike shed
where Mandy and I
traded tobacco smoke laden kisses
and held our own geography lessons
discovering America
The rusty dutch barn
in which we made hay
and then hasty crop circles
in that hay
and planned al fresco escapades
in the ripening wheat
Come the sun
Of the beach girl
dancing naked
save a transparent plastic mac
the deluge
drumming on the upturned boats
as I drowned in her exclusive proximity
Before realisation that
it was the breaking of our 'summer'
30 years have leached out all but
the salty memory of those monsoon kisses
that creeps up my spine
At the sound of piss on zinc.

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

Dreaming of tigers. Daddy what's it like to die?

Daddy what's it like to grow old and die?

It is like going to see the tigers.

Imagine it is a lovely sunny day and you say Daddy I want to see the tigers.

We get into the car and drive to the zoo and you say Daddy I want to see the tigers.

We get our tickets, you are half price and you say Daddy I want to see the tigers.

Daddy I want to see the tigers.

I tell you that the tigers are at the other side of the zoo but we will get to them eventually.

But on the way we see giraffes and eland
springboks and hippos
chimpanzees and wallabys
sad bears.

And you forget about the tigers.

We see seals and penguins
aardvarks and zebras
macaws and owls.

And you forget about the tigers.

In the insect house a butterfly lands on your arm momentarily and you forget about the tigers.

We see wolves and rabbits
dogfish and catfish

And then we see the tigers and the tigers see us, they have been waiting.
You smile and yawn.

It is a lovely day so we go to sit in the park nearby
lie on our backs looking up at the sky
searching for animal shapes in the clouds.

We close our eyes and drift off to sleep

dreaming of tigers.

Tuesday, August 9, 2016

Trump is not mad. He is just scared.

Jan Nieupjur writes:

As an amateur alternative psychiatrist I am often asked: 'Is Trump mad?"

The answer is of course no. Trump is not mad, he is a narcissist with an ego the size of Texas. Initially the idea of running for presidential office was planted in his brain by his ego. I doubt very much that even Trump would have thought he would be taken seriously as a contender... He probably saw the whole thing as a short lived attention grabbing stunt.

Donald Trump is a three year old child jumping into the deep end of a swimming pool, pretending to be swimming, screaming inwardly, while hoping someone will fish him out.

Trump is not mad. America is for allowing Trump to get so far out of his depth.

Thursday, July 14, 2016

Alphabet rain.

Today I burned my poems
a bonfire of my own vanities
words sent skywards
on vortices of their own hot air's making

Some caught in nearby trees
others falling upon the Westway
the majority fly skyward taunting
a million empyrean chimps shakespearing

at their keyboards.

I imagine abstract condensing
amid cumulus then
falling Burroughs like
as alphabet rain forming
nonsense puddles in foreign fields

Or circling vulture like
over a carcass

Wednesday, July 6, 2016

A stabbing on Portobello road.

We have had a killing on Portobello Road. A 17 year old was mercilessly stabbed to death by another teenager in broad daylight. The killer killed his victim, killed his own future in the process and killed all hope for the victims family for whom my heart bleeds. The killer killed all hope for his family...How can you live with that. The killer killed any justification for allowing children to discipline themselves.
The killer should be handed a copy of 'Lord of the flies' to read in his cell as should his parents as well as the rest of us.
The reason for the killing, from what I can surmise from talking to kids and locals, is that the poor boy was in the wrong place at the wrong time while the undisciplined children of the neighbourhood went out looking for someone to blame for their miserable lives armed with knives. They picked on him rather than picking on their parents.
I am a step parent of sorts to a 13 year old boy. He hates me because he sees my desire to protect him as a desire to control. If he listened to me he would realise that all I want to do is help him survive this mad world. Survive this mad world in order to do all of the shit he wants to do without getting stabbed.
Stabbed by the kid sitting at the desk next to him.
I do not know the victim or his family to whom I can only offer tears, tears I openly shed on Portobello Road this afternoon surrounded by schoolchildren standing at a loss at the makeshift shrine.
Do not blame the children. This is bad parenting.

Tuesday, June 28, 2016

Why immigrants matter.

As a 10 year old in the 1960's we lived on a fruit and hop farm in Kent. The house was surrounded by hop gardens ( even now I can remember my awe at first standing in a hop garden among the serried majesty of it all), cherry orchards, strawberry and blackcurrant fields. In the farmyard were barns and working Oast houses.

In late summer working class London families would descend upon the farm for the hop picking. They stayed in a row of small brick and corrugated iron huts alongside the lane that led to the village. Often 3 generations of a family would be there to work in the fields and in the sorting sheds. It was their summer holiday and it was a tradition that went back years. The kids were obviously taken out of school because I remember them, armed with pen knives, ambushing us on our way to school with offers of 'You want a knife fight'.

A number of factors put paid to that tradition. Cheap air travel allowing for 'Spanish holidays' and child labour laws being two of them.

It was in a time before the influx of much needed European migrant workers to facilitate the harvest. It seems that it had become 'Infra Dig' to the English.

Now, having looked on Google Earth I see that the hop gardens have gone, the cherry trees have gone, the blackcurrant fields have gone, and with them no doubt the ubiquitous red birdshit that peppered everything. The farmyard has gone save two of the Oast houses which have been converted into a substantial home, The pickers huts have gone. My part of the 'Garden of England' has become arable farmland and grazing. Bland.

Two years later, on the edge of the fens in the shadow of Ely Cathedral, farmers arrived at  school prior to harvest (here it was sugar beet and other root vegetable country) to drum up a workforce for the fields. I have mixed feelings about those days spent in a beet field armed with a 12 inch machete, decapitating the earthy beasts before lobbing them into a slow moving trailer. I was 12. Later in the season, during the winter holiday, the task would be to cover winter carrots with straw to protect them from the frost. My testicles have never recovered.

At that time we lived on a pig farm where I learned to castrate piglets and shoot rats in the feed bins. Both skills will now serve me well in dealing with Farage and his mob.

Child labour laws ensure that all of that is a thing of the past.

It was in a time before the influx of much needed European migrant workers to facilitate the harvest.  which had become 'Infra Dig' to the English who continue to list 'Cider with Rosie' as a favourite book.

Much of our 'homegrown' food  is now brought in from the fields by these migrants, they are essential because no-one else will do it. Every-one demands cheap produce in the shops, even the racists clamouring for  said immigrants departure whilst they book their retirements in Benidorm.

Monday, June 27, 2016

A message in a bottle from Britain.

I am 61 years of age

In the last few months of my life I have watched

Cameron lie his way to becoming the worst prime minister we have ever had

The ruination of my country at Cameron's hands.

Watched Boris Johnson buffoon his way into the hearts of no-one but into a shitty pit of his own making

The labour party tear itself apart for a lack of faith in Corbyn's integrity

All Corbyn has been saying is "This is what we could be".

Everyone else is saying: ' As a nation we have low self esteem, for fuck's sake please help please help please help someone with some integrity'.

Sunday, June 26, 2016

EU to fund Brexit and Cameron's move to World Statesmanship.

According to my man in Paris eating croissants and flirting with waitresses the EU has had a whip round and come up with the necessary funds to give Britain the heave-ho pretty damn quick.

£150.00 is the figure being bandied about as the amount that David Cameron is demanding for a speedy exit from his embarrassment.

Cameron of course wants to move on to World Statesmanship PDQ.  Following the snail trail laid down by Tony Blair.

Rumour has it that Cameron and Blair will soon be found hiding in moist ground under the same rock. Cameron has ensured that that rock will not be Gibraltar.

Friday, June 24, 2016

Senile British geriatrics say NO to continence.

114 year old Jan Nieupjur tells me that, when that Farage bloke called in at his care home in Frinton, all he asked him was: 'Do you want to be incontinent'?

Jan told him no he did not whilst dreaming of running naked through a  summer meadow with a beautiful young flaxen haired girl without the inconvenience of his colostomy bag slapping against his belly.

I thought I was voting to get my youth back says Jan. I thought I was voting to get Mandy O'Morford to give me that long ago promised peep at her front bottom.

I now realise that all I was ever going to see was a cunt called Nationalism.

Wednesday, June 22, 2016

Fools gold.

I know I am a fool
but I do not like you thinking it

I know I am a fool
but I am not the fool you are

I know I am a fool
but the only person I am fooling is myself.