A fine photograph.

Poetry in an unsatupon chair.

I once came to the conclusion that a chair, when not sat upon is a meaningless object; a non item in search of something to do.

It dawned on me that, if I wrote something meaningful on the chair it would create a purpose for the unsatupon chair. I wrote a schmaltzy, cheesy poem (about loss of a woman) on strips of paper then pasted them onto the piece of furniture.

It worked. When sat upon the chair was a chair, when not sat upon the thing was a poem.

The problem was that each time I read the poem(which was often) I would burst into tears. The memory of the lost love was too much.

I eventually chopped the chair up and fuelled the fire with it; another use for an unsatupon chair.

I wish I had said that.

We seek the teeth to match our wounds.

Ken Tynan.

All gong and no dinner.

There are many ways to skin a cat.

But why? What's the point, there are no uses for a skinned cat that I know of. You cannot even eat them.

And then it dawned on me: It is the skin that is important. the packaging is the desirable thing, the contents are just packing material and worthless.

Retreat and jelly sandwiches.

Rusty telephoned this morning from Cerne Abbas where he is in retreat.

Retreat from what? I asked him.

From the truth. He replied.

He went on to tell me about a pub in Brinkworth that did a great peanut butter and jelly sandwich (he had had one for lunch on his way down there). I never could understand the concept of that particular Americanism. I told him.

That's rich coming from a native of the land of marmite, he said.

'But i'm a Dutchman rusty.'

Silver sofa surfer.Work in progress.

A bird of passage, wandering albatross

sleeping on the wing

or perched precariously

on the cliff face of others hospitality

changing the face of hippychick philosophy.

Years ago in Paris I did a great deal of drinking and talking with a guy called Antoine. He was a good looking man, an aviator, philosopher and writer.

He showed me the rough draft for a book he was working on, provisionally called the little prince. He asked me to read it and give him my opinion.

I found the book a little twee and the philosophy simplistic.

when we next met I told him this ( I am a straight talking man ) and went on to suggest a few modifications.

I remember suggesting that the little prince, when lost in the desert, uses his remaining bullet to shoot down Jonathan Livingstone seagull. Later, after eating the bird, the prince dies of food poisoning, putting a generation of hippychick thinkers boyfriends out of their misery.

Antoine did not like that idea to much.

I did not tamper with his aeroplane whatever anyone says.

Abomination and Art

A friend asks me: 'Have you been to Westfield yet?'

I'm a bloody poet, what on earth would I want to go to that place for.

Salvation

Lyin' to me was the only honest thing she done.

The one advantage of having a tooth knocked out by an angry woman is that one is able to get much bigger lies out between ones teeth.

The gaps in my teeth were never big enough for the kind of lies I had been cooking up.

Hey if you have lies inside you, let them go, exorcise them, go to liars anonymous if you have to but let them go

Freed Lies, unlike sheep, will not come home wagging their tails behind them. they just keep on moving on.

they finally come to rest in a country and western song.

If that's resting in peace then I'm a Dutchman!

Uncomfortable moments, candour, nudity and irony

Jolyon my erstwhile studio assistant came round today for a bit of advice.

I sat beside him on the sofa and patted him on the knee saying; 'Jolyon, what is the most embarrassing moment in your life?'

'Right now' He said.

Maybe I should have got dressed before he arrived but sometimes you just don't know when you are going to be surprised.

sometimes stuff happens that you have to deal with, naked or not, and nakedness, like truth, never hurt anyone except clothed prudes and liars.

I hate ironing, never do it, waste of time and always reminds me of an airline pilot i know who irons his y-fronts.

Rock and Roll, read into that what you like.but Ironing y-fronts can lead to scorch marks and scorch marks on underwear can be easily misconstrued, especially in a poorly lit room...

See where I'm going with this?

I can't.

The things we do for love

Before I left I painted Moll the bag lady's toenails.

I painted them red while thinking of Titian..

I have no idea what Moll was thinking.

I guess I'll never know.

Dysfunction

'A spooky feeling is creeping up my spine.'

These were the words rusty used to begin another strand of his story. He went on:

'Years ago, maybe ten or so, my mother called me up and asked if I knew of a man called Tom North. I said no and asked why.

She told me that 'Tom' was my half brother, he had been the child of my fathers, born before he had met my mother. He had been put up for adoption and my father mentioned him to no-one.

Until a letter arrived, a letter which my mother opened, Asking my father if he would meet him. My father refused. Denying all knowledge.

My sisters met the guy a couple of times, knew of his whereabouts. I asked one of them for his details but she refused to give them to me.

She told me that our family was far too dysfunctional and introducing him would do him no favours.

Later she told me that his details had been destroyed in a house fire.

That was the last I heard of Tom North'.