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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

ttp://www.brianpatten.co.uk/One_another_s_light.html

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.