Eyes

Tristan, B.E.A.T, Hoxton.

Tristan is doing some of his stuff at B.E.A.T at McQueen in Hoxton on Tuesday the 20th.

http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=108995149139489#!/event.php?eid=114404488578959&ref=ts

I shall be going along to offer support.

Mary spanking Jesus.

Max Ernst

Lay-by picnic.

It always amazed me as a young man that most of my friends could find their 'niche' at such a tender age without exploring all the possibilities that life had to offer.

It's like picnicking in a lay-by just outside an enchanted wood.

I have been wandering that enchanted wood for the past 40 years.

I think I have found the place to sit for a while and feast.

When the bliss seed germinates and the next Event.

What a delicious day.

Took myself to Gusto in Westbourne Park Villas for breakfast. Surely the best almond croissants in London and the cannoli (?) are to die for; the most seductive things on the planet.

Now lunch next door at the Westbourne. A poets life is bloody tough sometimes.

We finally have a date confirmed for the next Event; it will be on the 18th of May at the Tabernacle, Notting Hill. I will post the flier when it is made. We have a fantastic line up.

Tristan promises to talk about love (or what love becomes when the bliss seed germinates) in dark places.

Can't wait.

Birthday Poem

I sit here at my loom

Penelope to my own Odysseus

unpicking life's tapestry by night

embroidering by day

Constantly on the lookout

for a white sail on the horizon.

Is he with Circe or Calypso tonight?

Tristan and Isolde, Guinness and oysters.

A very strange incident on Friday night:

I was having a beer with Tristan at the Cow; listening to one of his monologues when he suddenly stopped mid story, approached a young woman who had just passed us and demanded 'Who are you?'

She replied. 'Isolde'

'Amazing'. Said Tristan. 'I've been waiting 55 years for this.

'Why? Who are you?' She asked

'Tristan'.

'Oh fuck off' She replied. walking off.

I guess she hears that all the time I said to Tristan in order to mollify the situation.

Tristan celebrates 55 years of picking at the loose threads of life's tapestry and remedial embroidery tomorrow...

We shall celebrate with Guinness and oysters.

How it is.

I said: Tristan, that is how it is!

You hope for too much.

They hope for just enough.

But it is never enough really

And too much becomes too much.

I guess he can wait a little bit longer...

Beer, women and loss.

I met a friend yesterday. I say a friend but she is really a friend of an ex and therefore an ex friend.

She was on her bike in Portobello road but circled back to say hello and chat for a moment and she glowed and I said you look wonderful and she said yes I am falling in love then she wheeled off again in front of a police car she was glowing more than the lights on that car and her siren sound was more pressing. And she, on the whole was far more arresting. Aint love wonderful.

I went to have a beer to think about that...

I loved that beer while I missed the woman... We miss them when they are gone.

Fucked if I know whether they ever miss us.

Probably.

Hopscotch, bunny boilers and Mondrian.

Easter leads me to think of bunny boilers.

I thought that frightening until tonight when a friend showed me the easter eggs lovingly ( and suspiciously) perfectly made by his girl friend; they had messages on them (exquisitely written in melted while chocolate; as good as if Mondrian had marked out your hopscotch squares on the pavement) which kind of spooked me.

The messages read(subliminally): Die you bastard!

But he is a chocoholic. I know he will ignore my warnings and fall in love.

One day he will fill the cracks in the pavement with alcohol.

The pitfalls of bearded snogging and Lucky 7.

I know I've been lazy. It has been easter and all that that entails; there has been no one on the streets and no observations to make. I did however have a fantastic lunch on Monday cooked by the woman who wears the trousers in Notting Hill. Fantastic for many reasons(as well as the food being brilliant) including the fact that no-one needed to introduce cocaine into the equation. Met some new friends there... Good.

I'm also trying to organise the next event; venues are tricky people to deal with, they think that they are the stars. I'm the promoter. I'm the fucking star; oi no brown m and n's babydoll.

I have however been considering the pitfalls of gay snogging among bearded men; specifically the velcroic nature of beards... What on earth do you tell your wife when you arrive home in the early hours of the morning (after a drunken snog in the alley behind Lucky 7) with a bearded scotsman stuck to your face?

Does a bucket of cold water work?

In my case I would say: Darling, I was snogging this Scotsman behind Lucky 7 and his beard got stuck to mine... Working on the assumption that none of my wives have ever believed a single word I say, they would dismiss this as poppycock and look for a thoroughly red blooded and heterosexual explanation involving booze, football, rock n roll and Russian tarts.

Lucky 7. Westbourne Park Road. London W2.

Hope I get a free portion of fries for this plug.

Somehow I doubt it.

The muse is dead.

Long live the muse.

Something to talk about.

With converse you always have something to talk about.

Let's talk about Vans