Saturday, 12 June 2010
Friday, 11 June 2010
The effect of air-freight on poetry.
Sorry about the sound quality... I need a techie type to help on that.
Tilly, coffee and a hit spot.
Coffee with Tilly this morning at 'Coffee plant' on Portobello Road, by far the best coffeeshop in the area. (Three coffee's in a sentence, not good but Tilly has that effect on me). My cappuccino hit the spot.
I complained to her that Tristan's work was suffering as a result of her interference in his musings.
'For heavens sake Tilly'. I said. 'He's writing bloody romantic poetry when he should be doing his dark stuff.'
Tilly smiled beautifully, said nothing, sipped her espresso while I combed my besotted brain for words to rhyme with gorgeous.
'Shall I pop home and get my husbands thesaurus?' She asked.
That hit the spot too.
Thursday, 10 June 2010
Oscar Hazell.
I may not understand everything he is doing but I will defend to the death his right to confuse me.
A poem written in a silk shirt that you hated.
Her life was a discoball constructed from shards of shattered bliss
the blunt but self sharpening things
you bring into the bubble of bliss.
The knife you hold to your wrist
should I threaten to leave.
The new man you prefer to the last man
Who all forget to leave a forwarding address when they go
to
meet clandestinely in the pub
To discuss
the blunt but self sharpening things
You leave lying around
Amid shards of bliss.
Oh. And bullshit.
Murray Lachlan Young.
I rarely plug things or people but Murray warrants a good plugging...
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
Rusty, Babs and Stefano forever.
Rusty came round this morning for a stale cup cake and coffee. He was agitated. I couldn't shut him up:
Shit Jan. He said. I had a crazy dream last night; Babs sent me a card from Saint Tropez, said she was working in a burlesque called Stefano Forever... Asked me to visit. What do I do Jan?
He pulled a postcard from his pocket, it was definitely babs but the handwriting was not hers.
Image: Sasi Langford
Image: Sasi LangfordI said: I thought you said it was a dream Rusty.
Oh it was. He said. I just made this to show you what the card in my dream looked like.
I worry about Rusty sometimes.
Tuesday, 8 June 2010
Rafael Nadal, homme fatale.
Oh Rafa, oh Rafa, oh Rafa Nadal
what have you done to this normally rational gal
who once was impervious to masculine charms
but now turns to jelly at the sight of your arms
Oh Rafa, oh Rafa let's cut to the chase
I long to be held in your embrocated embrace
so beat me with backspin, topspin and guile
and I'll ease your cramps with my losingmost smile
The din of your raquet can't drown out the sob
that I utter on witnessing your unanswerable lob
As you, white shorted, white shirted, quite utterly devine
send another backhander straight down the line
The curve of your bicep, the arc of your ace
the lovebeads of sweat on your handsome young face
Oh come to me Rafa as you come to the net
I'm yours for the winning... In another love set
Sunday, 6 June 2010
Saturday, 5 June 2010
Tilly, Klaus Nomi, omelettes and charlatans.
Another glorious day, for reasons I will not bore you with ( a happy man's gloatings are best kept to himself) save to say that the weather was of little consequence.
A coffee this afternoon with Tilly followed by a Klaus Nomi cake moment set the tone.
Then to the Cock and Bottle for a quiet anonymous pint only to find good company and the excuse to while away a few hours...
Then home for a Rusty omelette (3 eggs, pepperoni and cheese) followed by my favourite form of relaxation: Work.
Oh, and the Charlatans Weirdo
Urinal song.
I love the sound of piss on zinc
It reminds me of Donna's sleepy tales
of rain on Trinidad tin roofs
that she told me as we lay
in a Gloucester park
she reeked of
passion
passion
and coconut oil.
The downpour
on the corrugated school bike shed
where Mandy and I
traded tobacco smoke laden kisses
and held our own geography lessons
The rusty dutch barn
in which we made hay
and then hasty crop circles
in that hay
and planned al fresco escapades
in the ripening wheat
come the sun
Of the posh girl
dancing naked
save a transparent plastic mac
in the deluge
drumming the upturned boats
as I drowned
drowned
in
her
exclusive
proximity
drowned
in
her
exclusive
proximity
Before realisation that
it was the breaking of our 'summer'
30 years have leached out all
but the salty memory of those monsoon kisses
that creeps up my spine
At the sound of piss on zinc.
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!
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