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.

http://www.yelp.co.uk/biz/coffee-plant-london

Oscar Hazell.

I may not understand everything he is doing but I will defend to the death his right to confuse me.

http://oscarhazell.blogspot.com/

http://oscarhazell.tumblr.com

A poem written in a silk shirt that you hated.

Her life was a discoball constructed from shards of shattered bliss

Lies

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...

http://windswept-productions.com/

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

I 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.

http://www.stefanoforever.com/

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

Metropolis Rescore - Race / Eternal Garden - 3 of 25

Metropolis Rescore - Maria's Love - 4 of 25

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.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k2Nn5JhKQyU

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

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--TwfsHgA6U

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

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

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!

Work in progress.