The patriarch.

Rusty, Tristan and Fluente paid me an unexpected visit this morning, waking me from my slumber (I had, rather like Ginsberg's cougher been singing in my dreams). I threw on some inappropriate clothing then threw on the coffee. I then made the boys listen to Amy Winehouse for a few minutes... I like to wake up with Amy!

'What brings you to my door this bright morning?' I asked.

'To celebrate the birthday of the patriarch'. Said Rusty.

Of course it is The 'Heads' birthday today. I retrieved the bottle of sweet sherry (left over from my last two weddings) from the back of the cupboard and poured us all a tumblerfull. I also found some seedcake which seemed appropriate somehow.

I was congratulated by all on throwing a pretty good spontaneous party.

Happy birthday Heads!

Work in progress.

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.

http://thesourcemag.net/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=202:drowning-on-dry-land&catid=50:blog-by-piers-thomson&Itemid=76

I spotted Tristan at a table with the chanteuse Anne Pigalle; I must ask him about that when I next see him.

http://www.annepigalle.com/

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.

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.

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