Tulips

Good advice and lightning.

If you really love something let it go.

If it aint come home in a couple of months track it down and kill it.

Rusty left that on my voicemail. He said he saw it on a bumper sticker in New Mexico.

He'd been visiting the lightning field.

He added: Tremendous electrical storm here last night; dramatic lightening echoing around the amphitheater of the mountains, a spectator sport with thunderous interludes but not much rain.

Keep on sparking.

Killing happy things

I am told that I should be eating free range chickens, they live happier lives apparently; get lots of exercise and fresh air.

Surely we should be killing and eating the unhappy battery chickens, putting them out of their misery leaving the free range birds to continue their blissful existence.

Killing happy things seems cruel.

Palatial memories, Patti Smith and Make-up.

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.

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

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.