Poetry, George Best and Rock n Roll.

They say that poetry is the new rock n roll.

Nonsense.

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.

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

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.

Haunted

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.

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.

How it is

I am about to be hated but I am about to save my life.

I'd rather be alive and hated than dead and patronised.

You would not believe the shit I am having to go through at the moment so that Moll the bag lady can
maintain her reputation.

Please have patience. I will be back.

Hot dog

Postcards from Rusty. No. 23

Rusty writes from Panic, Michegan. Frankly I do not believe that the image on the card is where he says it is.

He tells me that nurse Caz has left him for a snake oil salesman from Tupelo. He is returning to England.

Correct toothpaste procedure during courting.

She said, laughing, let's brush our teeth together and by the time I got to the bathroom candles were lit and the light sparkled in the many mirrors.

she watched with burgeoning affection as I squeezed the toothpaste from the middle of the tube while I thought to myself; 'how much time will pass before I am admonished for squeezing the toothpaste from the middle of the tube and nagged into squeezing from the end.

give me a cuddle, she said some time later, not a hard one but a long squeeze. so I squeezed her round the waist and told her that she would always be my toothpaste tube and that I would squeeze her for ever. All the while thinking to myself 'how long will this last.

And sure enough one day she pulls away and says: 'Dont squeeze me like that, if you squeeze me in the middle I'll be obliged to nag...

If only you were a foot fetishist, then you'd squeeze me right.

So I never squeezed her in the middle again and over the years the 'waist' which I had squeezed Into her dissapeared and she became tube shaped from all of my foot squeezing.

The only physical contact we have now is her monthly pedicure.

I noticed the other day that she squeezes the toothpaste from the middle of the tube and has always done so.

I daren't point this out to her.

Natural history.

Some time ago while watching a TV programme about the Humbolt current Nurse Caz pressed the pause button and said:

Jannie, I never had a teddy bear as a child. I had a sea lion.

I didn't have a teddy bear either. Or a sea lion... I had a rock, a black rock.

I found it in the shed by the kitchen door when I had first started to walk. I took it into the house and very quickly formed an attachment to that black rock but my mother took it from me and threw it on the fire.

I cried for a while at the loss of my only friend but soon returned to the shed near the kitchen door and found myself another 'friend' with which to play. my mother equally as speedily threw that friend on the fire.

This process continued for some weeks until I was fast enough on my feet to get ahead of the fire whereupon my mother started putting the black rocks into a basket beside the fire place. She called me 'Mummies clever little helper' although I could not see how it could be construed as clever to burn all of my friends.

Since then I have found it impossible to form lasting relationships.

but i am known for my splendid coal fires.