To the Whore Who Took My Poems ~ Charles Bukowski

Katerine - La banane (clip officiel)

Poetry is the new Rock n Roll: Part 3.

True story this:

I was in the Nashville (a music pub in West London. Now deceased) in the late 70's to see a couple of punk bands. I got talking to the female guitarist from one of the bands at the bar. She talked about music, I talked about poetry. I asked for her phone number.

She told me to fuck off!

Thirty something years later I was in the Inn on the Green (a music venue in West London) to see a couple of bands. I got talking to the female guitarist from one of the bands at the bar. We talked about her music and my poetry and stuff like that. She asked me for my phone number.

I took hers.

I didn't tell her to fuck off, even though it would have rounded off the story. I'm a poet not a punk!

I wish I had told her about our previous meeting.

never return to lighted fireworks.

The 'Angry man' picture (blog passim) seems to have stirred up some hot ashes.... Maybe the creature (scaling the gunwales) in the picture is, rather than the octopus of truth (it's tentacles able to explore even the tiniest chink in the woodwork), a squib. And not such a damp one as that!

Society in decay. No. 1: Classical music.

I met a 'classical' musician yesterday; nice enough guy, a bit overweight. At first I thought it was too much rich food but no; he was just full of himself!

We were talking about promoting events, funding and the like. He agreed that there was no money to be made from poetry or spoken word, nor was there any likelihood of corporate sponsorship as it was just not 'sexy' enough.

He then went on to suggest that I got a gimmick... Perhaps I should dress in a nappy in order to generate some kind of attention and therefore become commercial. Later I mentioned the steel band practice going on elsewhere to which he replied: 'Oh, that is of no interest to me...It is not high Art!

Which allows me to suppose that he thinks that what he does IS 'high art'. Bollocks; A load of over-sponsored middle class idiots scraping things with horse hair bows in front of a bunch of overpaid, overweight corporate free-loaders necking Roederer Crystal while groping their secretaries/mistresses whilst listening to Garry Glitter on their ipods to drown out the caterwauling is not high art.

Now don't get me wrong, I like a bit of fiddle music (especially at Balkan weddings and Irish lock ins) and the Classical 'composers' borrowed some very pleasant peasant tunes back in the old days or just plain stole them from costermongers and fishwives But music is music. Just because something costs the tax payer loads of money does not make it high art nor does it make it any more important... Let's not get our own self importance confused with the things that amuse us.

A noise is a noise is a noise is a noise.

I asked the fiddle player what he did for a day job. He told me he played on the backing tracks for something called the X factor.... HA! The air was suddenly filled with the sound of a hundred barrels being scraped (albeit with virgin Pomeranian stallion hair bows)... He also went on to cite LLoyd Webber as an exponent of Classical Music.

High Art my arse.

What is called 'Classical Music' is in fact the noise made to drown out the sounds of a society in decay; lying around on metaphorical chaise-longues eating third world grapes and buggering small boys.

Give me a steel band any day and save me from being surrounded by the braying whordes of social and cultural mountaineers.

Whordes by the way is intentional... the people who would sell their children's souls for the price of a ticket to see the LSO perform the Telly Tubbies theme.

vivienne Gillard. Ceramic sound artist.

What is it about the sound of water? And I'd never heard of a Udu Drum before. Check out this website: http://www.viviennegillard.com/index.html

Notting Hill Carnival looms.

It will not be the best of times. Lets hope it is not the worst of times.

The barricades are already going up outside.

like a lot of locals part of me wishes for a far, far better place to go to do far, far better things. But I like a lot of my neighbours do not have second homes in Tuscany or France as refuge.

Without wanting to sound like a killjoy Carnival is a real pain for some people who find themselves under house arrest for two days, unable to do anything other than suffer the aural abuse of every sound system on the planet churning out decibels. The steel bands do play a part but can be better appreciated at one of the pre carnival events; Mangrove in All Saints Road is not to be missed on the preceding Friday.

It is impossible to leave home without passport and I.D with an address and when you finally get to a shop all they want to sell you is beer at three times normal price... On your way home you must put up with half a million drunks attempting to piss in your garden or trying to steal your wallet, purse or life.

Yes, the barricades are going up... Not just the physical ones.

Not a good day really.

The only good thing to happen in the last couple of days has been a letter from a Nigerian princess offering her undying affection in return for helping her extract millions of dollars from Burkino Faso... I know it is a scam because she cannot spell proper... And we all know Nigerian Princesses go to English schools to learn proper English spelling so that their begging letters will be taken seriously!

On top of that it was Sebastian Horsleys inquest today; Sebastian's is the most 'hit' page in this blog! He was an original whatever you think!

I missed a gig tonight because of transport problems... London is too big for its antiquated transit solutions... Sorry Andreas.

Other than that life stinks...

Of roses.

And as Gertrude Stein tells us: A rose is a rose is a rose...

Shakespeare wrote: Should I compare thee to a summers day... You are cold dull and grey!

Hemingway: Cut out the adjectives, cut out the bullshit, get drunk and have a fight followed by a post fight bonding drink. Ah to be a man.

Nettles and depression.

London is wet cold and grey. Where has the summer gone? I feel lethargic and uncreative, but what to do?

Then I read the following:

Serotonin occurs in nettle, and is found to be of great benefit to many people who suffer from depression. Serotonin has a major role as a neuro-transmitter in the central nervous system. Research in Europe, on the antiinflammatory potential of nettle, showed that the herb has a very strong action to de-activate cytokines that perpetuate the inflammatory destruction of cartilage and bone. Therefore, nettle can help to inhibit joint and bone destruction, and slow the progression of the disease.

The answer was, I thought, obvious... I walked down to Hyde park this afternoon and having found the largest patch of stinging nettles, proceeded to remove most of my clothing and roll around in the things much to the amusement of passing joggers and nannies.

I am now even more depressed as a result of an excruciating rash.

It has not helped my arthritis either.

Pot noodle and love.

My insufferable employer Jan Nieupjur suddenly stopped mid way through dictation; his eyes glazed over and a wistful smile attempted to light up his miserable old face.

He rose to his feet declaring that we should try something called a 'pot noodle'.

Now I have of course heard of the aforementioned foodstuff but have made a point of avoiding it. I asked Jan to explain and a pretty sad story emerged:

'I have fallen in love Tristan. I have fallen in love with a 21 year old Peruvian girl who seems to live entirely on pot noodle and cider, I feel I must acquire an appetite for such things in order for the relationship to proceed!'

I told him not to be so ridiculous; he is over 100 years old, what on earth could a 21 year old see in him apart from a rapidly approaching funeral. I asked him how often he saw this girl. He replied that he had met her twice, briefly! But, he said, every time I see her my legs turn to jelly!

Jan, your legs are jelly!

Sandie Shaw - Long Live Love [totp]

Why I love where I live.

This evening:

At the Tabernacle for a few beers talking to first generation Trinidadian immigrants who arrived during the 50's and 60's... We could all learn a great deal about national pride (not nationalism) from these people as well as completely new stuff. I am not being patronising; I learnt more about where I live in the space of two hours than I can shake a stick at.... More another day.

Then I watched a steel band rehearse for a while. Bliss.

I called in at the Cow on my way home... Luti the bar manager got his citizenship stuff confirmed this week, good news. If you ever bitch about immigrants and their negative input you should come down to the Cow and watch the best, hardest working, fastest barman on the planet (he even smiles now and looks ten years younger). To my mind fast barmen are second only to fast women! Fast barmen never let you down though.

Then I got home to find that I had done the washing up earlier.

And there was beer in the fridge...

Who could not love where I live?

Answers on an e-postcard please.

Starbucks or Macdonalds at the Tabernacle?

I have heard a rumour that Starbucks and Macdonalds are in a bidding war for the concession at the Tabernacle in Notting Hill.

It is probably one of those urban myths that do the rounds...

But then I found the following in my mailbox from an anonymous reader. It claims to be the transcript of a pitch made to the Macdonalds board meeting earlier this year.

"Gentlemen, oh and Lady, John Lennon once said that the Beatles were better known than Jesus. My stats team have just informed me that Ronald Macdonald is better known than Jesus and the Beatles put together!

Conclusion... We need a church!

And I have found one. It is called the Tabernacle in Notting Hill, London; you know, the place where Hugh Grant lives with that guy in the underpants.

I hear Starbucks are interested in the place too, but Hell, we got more bucks than Starbucks got bucks and our bucks got god on our side... He told me in a vision!

I've seen a photograph of the place and the Golden Arches will fit neatly above the gate to the street. We'll need to remove the existing sign but that is not a problem as we can blame the local kids for the theft; that place is worse than Detroit.

We can dress the staff as choirboys and girls. The manager can wear a surplice and paper mitre on his head.

Breakfast will be called morning service... Oh, and you don't order your food; you confess your order.

Any-one ordering water will automatically receive wine. (applause and cheers)

The 'fillet o fish' shit will be renamed the 'sermon on the mount' burger; this will be a great little earner for us as the left overs will always exceed the initial serving and we can get our boffins to come up with a catchy name for 'left over fish burger' burger!"

I've met with a young guy in a black suit who tells me he can fix the deal. He is also offering to sell us Buckingham Palace and Tower bridge at a reasonable price.

Etc etc etc.

You get the drift... I for one do not like the sound of this!