first drain the blood and set aside
Burn me
Mix ashes and blood with cement
Cast bricks.
with which to build a folly.
Build it in the meadow where we were happy.
According to last years notes.
Sunday, 13 June 2010
Saturday, 12 June 2010
The Island experiment, Sandy Lamb and the World Cup.
To the Tabernacle last night for the'Island Experiment'; an evening of live music, which, considering it clashed with some football event or other was the place to be. A very upbeat happy occasion.
Among the acts was Sandy Lamb.
She is great!
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
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