Tristans wall

Coincidences in nature, guns and tulips.

A mat of ivy roots pulled from a wall and a robin that watched. Is it not interesting the colours in the two images.It is as if the robin is camouflaged for stealth flying between the ivy roots and the wall. The ivy roots do not sing as well as the robin. Not even as well as Tiny Tim. And he's dead, pushing up the tulips rather than tiptoeing through them.

rusty came along shortly after the photo was taken and shot the thing with a Colt 48.

I said Rusty you can't do that and he said Jan, the constitution says I can do what I damn well please with my gun.

I said GULP.

Show business.

Things may be quiet for a day or two.

Tristan has a 'gig' (nasty word) coming up and requires my help for read throughs and rehearsals.

He is reading 3 poems with films made for the event at the Tabernacle, Powis Square on October 10th. Ditto TV are putting on the show... Probably best to be there. Just in case.

Babs says she will attend.

Swine flu. Pigs flying. what's the difference?

Shoe Trees

There appear to be many 'shoe trees' on the planet.

I am told that the first occurrance of the phenomenom was in the Herault region of France. I suspect that I might have been guilty of starting the trend when losing shoes from bridges.

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.

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

Shoe

Cerebral grafitti

Tagging a train of thought.

Jim Carroll

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/27/fashion/27Cover.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1&hpw

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.

Under the westway carnival monday

Portobello Road...