Dinner last night with the professor and his wife.
How offensive of me. I should have just as rightly written: dinner last night with the editor and her husband.
The meal punctuated an evening which had started with me filling their bath with sulfuric acid. The acid was something of a success as was the dinner.
I insisted tthey listen to Patti Smith's cover of Smells like teen spirit; another success.
http://www.youtube.com/user/Tristanmarcu#p/f/30/M_ciiCyxOJA
On the walk home I mused on the fact that to the Muse make-up was a weapon, make-up was a lie; it was all made up.
Whatever comes to mind before I alter it with the overpaint of time. Mostly satire, poetry and fiction but occasional unreliable fact, as all facts seems to be today. From deepest Notting Hill. London.
Thursday, 18 February 2010
Wednesday, 17 February 2010
Rust in peace.
Rusty called this morning.
He is giving up show business he said. What he meant by that was that he was giving up hanging around burlesque stage doors waiting for Babs.
He is moving to New Mexico with Lula-Mae in order to write that novel.
'Which novel?' I asked him.
'You know Jan'. He replied. 'That novel I ain't never going to get round to finishing'.
'I've got one of those'. I told him. 'Yup' He said. 'That's where I got the Idea from'.
Accessing poetry.
I am concerned that younger generations find Classical poetry inaccessible. To that end I have taken liberties with ' La belle dame sans merci'.
The merciless bitch
Hey dude, why so down
and you're looking fucking white man
things are cool
stuffs happening.
I met a chick, hot as hell
mix of goth and EMO
she took me to her grotty flat
did MDMA and vodka
she spiked my drink
I think we fucked
I really can't remember
Then I woke up here man
in the gutter
I've lost my wallet
and my Bloc Party ticket
Bitch
The merciless bitch
Hey dude, why so down
and you're looking fucking white man
things are cool
stuffs happening.
I met a chick, hot as hell
mix of goth and EMO
she took me to her grotty flat
did MDMA and vodka
she spiked my drink
I think we fucked
I really can't remember
Then I woke up here man
in the gutter
I've lost my wallet
and my Bloc Party ticket
Bitch
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.
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.
Sunday, 14 February 2010
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.
Friday, 12 February 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
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!
He calls it Tech Mex!
Tuesday, 9 February 2010
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
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.
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.
Sunday, 7 February 2010
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
Saturday, 6 February 2010
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.
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.
Friday, 5 February 2010
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.
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.
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