Friday, 4 June 2010
Life in the old dog yet.
A very busy evening yesterday.
To the Tabernacle with Tilly for the launch of Ray Roughler-Jones' book: Drowning on dry land; many long unseen faces attended. I'll be reviewing the book soon.
I spotted Tristan at a table with the chanteuse Anne Pigalle; I must ask him about that when I next see him.
Tilly then raced me across town in her dog catchers van to Hoxton in order to attend an Exhibition opening. We arrived in time to be thrown out after the skimpiest of views but still too long to my mind.
Then back to Notting Hill, getting lost on the way (although I am constantly lost in Tilly's company), for fish soup at the Cow. We ate at the bar where it seemed that everyone arrived to meet the new muse.
There were leaving drinks for Viviana who is returning to Mexico soon, I declined the suggested drinks at the Beachcomber, I'm too old for that these days.
I saw Tilly off safely in the dog catchers van then returned home.
What a lovely evening.
Good luck Viviana... I shall make your place my first port of call on my world tour.... Just to stock up on smiles, joy and enthusiasm.
Your leaving is London's loss.
Wednesday, 2 June 2010
Women and swimming pools.
The perfect woman is like a swimming pool. she has a shallow end and a deep end.
my problem is I keep diving into the shallow end.
Much to the amusement of the handsome life guard.
Tuesday, 1 June 2010
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
Monday, 31 May 2010
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.
Sunday, 30 May 2010
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!
Saturday, 29 May 2010
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.
Friday, 28 May 2010
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.
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