Tilly, snakes and Marmite.

A message from Tilly (the man eating muse).

She is somewhere in the countryside but will be back soon. I must remember to wear my seamless suit of inedible armour and fill my pockets with sprouts and marmite; there is no way anyone can possibly like both.

Her message reminded me of some facts which have come my way: Man eaters do not, as I had first thought, eat men constantly. No. Rather like pythons it can take months for them to digest a man; during that digestion period we are completely safe.

Python digesting a goat.

Man eater digesting a man

Jeanne Hebuterne.

The Beatles got it right... Cant buy me love.

You cannot sell love

love has no monetary value

You cannot buy love

there is not enough money on the planet.

Love is like brownie points

you can earn it but cannot spend it

However

Some of us have an eye on a profit

some of us have an eye for a bargain

some of us trade in forgeries

some of us happily buy fakes.

Love has no wheels to grease

no hands to ring

no feet to Manolo

no wings to feather

no pockets to line

It is the immoveable object

and the unstoppable force

The immoveable that stops the unstoppable

the unstoppable that moves the immoveable.

When money changes hands

it all grinds to a halt.

The whore's fake orgasm is the sound of that grinding.

Marriage.

Whores d'ouvres.

A dull grey morning spent attempting to write a torch song.

Bob Dylan's 'you're going to make me lonesome when you go' doesn't help much.

Then a 'chanteuse' in Soho posed the question: "Are we all prostitutes"?

There's a start!

The impact of airfreight on the poet.

Once, long ago

it would be enough to say

that we ate strawberries

she and I and you would know

That she was beautiful in her summer frock

eyes the colour of cornflowers

Hair of course

ripe wheat

The summer heat sang

swallows flew low

smell of new mown grass

rosemary

lavender

and a jamjar to trap the wasps in.

Now

thanks to airfreight

if I were to tell you

that we ate strawberries

she and I

you would have no fucking clue

as to the season or our whereabouts

We could be in the Ikea cafe

in December

for all you know

Thanks to airfreight.

This poet will

if longevity allows

scream with joy

on hearing the news

that the last drop of oil

has been sucked

from

beneath his summer lawn.

And it will

once again be enough

to say:

We ate strawberries

she and I and you would know.

Port Elliot Festival.

Spent the morning writing a 'biog' for Tristan.

He is performing at Port Elliot in July. Naturally I shall be going along to support him.

http://www.porteliotfestival.com/

Dinner with a man eater.

Dinner tonight at the Cow with a delightful new muse Tilly whom I had been warned about by mutual friends; she's a man eater Jan. They said.

All I saw her eat was fish soup.

Oh, and prawns.

Meanwhile the council have decided to dig up the road outside my garret in the middle of the night.

Don't they know who I am!

I am thinking of ringing Tilly and getting her down here to eat the men in the road.

Closing the windows is a safer option.

mary cigarettes/fish go deep- hard times lately

Tree

Clubbing.

Clubbing at my age should be a criminal offence. While it is legal however I'm going to carry on.

I'm supposed to be reviewing a book but I'll have to do that tomorrow.

It is a nice looking book if that is any help.

Tonight early drinks at the Tabernacle with the enthusiastic new management... Things bode well. Then on to 'Whippet' at Supper Club under the westway... I recognised some of the tunes which isn't a bad thing.

I was tempted to sing along which is definitely a bad thing.

I met a wonderful young bluestocking at the tabernacle who tested me in a delightful way... I wish I had had an education. Imagine what I would be now. Probably a waste of time.

Feminism

Spent the evening in the pub talking about feminism and I didn't get bored once.

Her eyes glazed over once or twice but I revived her with obsequience and cider.

Memories of Moll the bag lady.

What a weird few days.

Spontaneous pole dancing to the London Gypsy Orchestra in a church on Ladbroke Grove followed by a spontaneous party at my favourite Dutch girl's house.

My favourite dutch girl has a dog that fits into a bicycle basket and a record collection to die for... She makes good coffee and talks sense.

I also learnt this weekend that a smiling woman is not necessarily an honest woman. Frequently a smiling woman is just a woman trying too hard to disguise the fact that nothing has gone to plan... the brighter the smile the greater the sadness.

Dysfunctional women have no time for happy, content men... There is nothing to manipulate and from the man's point of view, after a few shags, there is nothing there apart from a future consisting of fault, blame, psycho-sexual counselling, transferrence of doubt and the realisation that we are to blame for the ageing process, loss of looks, lack of orgasm, stretch marks, dead children, lack of children, unhappiness, family feuds, the price of cosmetics and the depth of wrinkles. Oh, and getting FAT.

For fuck's sake let's all take responsibility for ourselves.

Fortunately for dysfunctional women there are plenty of men out here who will buy the bullshit or ignore the bullshit just for a casual shag.

Imagine going through ones entire life presenting oneself as a sex object (and lying compulsively) in order to feel wanted.

I saw Moll the bag lady trawling through the rubbish bin of humanity the other day... Looking for an admirer.

Sadly she would not recognise an admirer even if he saved her life... she is too busy looking for trash.

She'll find it.