Portobello Rocks

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.

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

Tree

Clubbing.

Clubbing at my age should be a criminal offence. While it is legal however I'm going to carry on.

I'm supposed to be reviewing a book but I'll have to do that tomorrow.

It is a nice looking book if that is any help.

Tonight early drinks at the Tabernacle with the enthusiastic new management... Things bode well. Then on to 'Whippet' at Supper Club under the westway... I recognised some of the tunes which isn't a bad thing.

I was tempted to sing along which is definitely a bad thing.

I met a wonderful young bluestocking at the tabernacle who tested me in a delightful way... I wish I had had an education. Imagine what I would be now. Probably a waste of time.

Feminism

Spent the evening in the pub talking about feminism and I didn't get bored once.

Her eyes glazed over once or twice but I revived her with obsequience and cider.

Memories of Moll the bag lady.

What a weird few days.

Spontaneous pole dancing to the London Gypsy Orchestra in a church on Ladbroke Grove followed by a spontaneous party at my favourite Dutch girl's house.

My favourite dutch girl has a dog that fits into a bicycle basket and a record collection to die for... She makes good coffee and talks sense.

I also learnt this weekend that a smiling woman is not necessarily an honest woman. Frequently a smiling woman is just a woman trying too hard to disguise the fact that nothing has gone to plan... the brighter the smile the greater the sadness.

Dysfunctional women have no time for happy, content men... There is nothing to manipulate and from the man's point of view, after a few shags, there is nothing there apart from a future consisting of fault, blame, psycho-sexual counselling, transferrence of doubt and the realisation that we are to blame for the ageing process, loss of looks, lack of orgasm, stretch marks, dead children, lack of children, unhappiness, family feuds, the price of cosmetics and the depth of wrinkles. Oh, and getting FAT.

For fuck's sake let's all take responsibility for ourselves.

Fortunately for dysfunctional women there are plenty of men out here who will buy the bullshit or ignore the bullshit just for a casual shag.

Imagine going through ones entire life presenting oneself as a sex object (and lying compulsively) in order to feel wanted.

I saw Moll the bag lady trawling through the rubbish bin of humanity the other day... Looking for an admirer.

Sadly she would not recognise an admirer even if he saved her life... she is too busy looking for trash.

She'll find it.

Last will and testament.

I really do not care what happens to any of my stuff. It is just the kind of stuff you find in a dead persons house when you go to clear it out prior to selling it.

Depending on when I die there might be some booze in the refrigerator, the first person to find that can have it.

Any poems, stories, songs belong to themselves, fight over them if you like but it ain't worth it.

My blue French jacket with zipped pockets I leave to Hattie Gallagher on condition that she names one pig after me

But not an ugly pig.

Advice to young men considering falling in love.

Lose yourself in her

but do not

lose yourself to her

Enjoy the moment

but do not

assume it will last

Spend all you have on her

but do not

borrow to impress

Invest in the truth

but do not

expect dividends

Live for the moment

but do not

live only for the moment

Care for her

but do not

think that you own her

Tell her you love her

but do not

tell her too often

Tolerate stuff

but do not

let her take the piss.

But most off all

do not take sharp things

into the bubble of bliss

Then she might fall in love with you as well.

Early childhood.

I was taken back to my early childhood today.

An accidental journey brought about by getting shampoo in my eye; I was immediately transported back to my 2 year old self having his hair washed by his mother; shampoo always got in my eyes back then (there was no baby shampoo either) and as far as I was concerned it was attempted murder. Boy did I wail.

'Don't be a baby'. She'd scold.

'But I am a fucking baby!'

And if I knew then what I know now I would have stayed a baby.

Oh, and love.

Imagine falling in love while your child dies

How far will the elastic band stretch?

I have watched a junkie mother

Leave a dying child

In order to find a fix

Beautiful world

We didn't make it

We just have to find a way to live in it.

Sometimes that takes death and drugs. Oh, and love.

Heads do know best!

Angel: Jimmy Hendrix

I cannot remember where I nicked the Image from... I'd love to give a credit.

Swings and roundabouts.

A long day. what should have been a splendid day spent doing mundane things well and reaping the benefits of that. Followed by exciting news from Tristan which must be put on hold because it was followed by news of a friend suddenly in intensive care in Cannes.

The joy of ageing and all it's benefits is tempered by the regular signs of ageing, not so much in myself (I am so old I have given up looking or worrying) but in my friends and peers.

I wish I had a group portrait of everyone I know in my attic.

Royal wedding, Filmstars, Art and Landrovers.

A long day...

Lunch with a very reliable source of Royal stuff who assures me that there will not be a wedding this year.

drinks this evening with an exciting young film actress; Jaala Pickering. who has just finished shooting in India and will eventually be gracing our screens in 'Dam 999'. I'll review it when it is released.

Then on to the Apart Gallery 10th anniversary show... All the usual Notting Hill faces... Like being in the pub but with paintings on the wall. If I see another 'artwork' painted on an old car bonnet (hood for my American readers) I will go mad. What the fuck is wrong with canvas?

Finally a nightcap at the Cow and the delightful surprise of bumping in to a Land Rover driver from heaven.

Not all angels have wings and not all winged things are angels.

Thoughts for a friend on a very cruel event.

.I feel firmly put in place tonight.

Joking aside I take the piss out of mankind, Notting Hill, tourists and myself but sometimes I have to stop and wonder.

I do not believe in god and am now left to puzzle over who could possibly do such a cruel thing.

I will write about it.

You bet.

Holiday romance

Sorry about the lousy sound quality.

Welding and confessions.

The paparazzi are becoming more cunning. I was unable to spot one of them last night although I know they are there. No doubt the photographs are doing the rounds as we speak.

I was mistaken for a priest at one point, before the error was corrected a number of young ladies had lined up to give me their confessions. I confess that I was tempted to hear them.

I also met a charming young welder (I have not met a female welder before) Which allowed me to enjoy a conversation that would have been unimaginable before.

Often

Often it is the closest people who fall out.

Celebrity and its pitfalls.

Once again I find a crowd outside my front door, the third time this has happened this week.

They are all armed with cameras and snap away as I emerge. there appeared to be a ringleader so I approached and asked him what it was all about.

He said it was the Notting Hill celebrity tour.

http://www.thecelebrityplanet.com/london/the-celebrity-walking-tour-of-notting-hill.html

A Japanese tourist asked if I would go back in then answer the door wearing nothing but underpants.

No. I don't think so.

John Fothergill

Short stories about tall women.

There are few meaningful occupations that can be successfully pursued in a bar unless you work in one.

Mine I think is an exception; I can sit at a table with a ginger beer and a notebook. When I'm not writing I'm probably thinking about writing, or watching.

Quite a lot of material comes that way, walks right up to my table and sits down:

'What do you write'?

I'd looked up from my notebook, she was sitting opposite me. I said: 'Short stories about tall women'.

'Are you going to write about me?'

She had good hands, long slender fingers; the hands of a tall woman. 'Bits of you'.

'Which bits'?

'So far your hands'. I looked at her eyes then. She held my gaze, imprisoned it.

She said: 'You'll write about my eyes too. Can I read it when it is done'.

'Certainly'. I replied, where will I find you'?

'Oh, I'll wait here until you've finished'.

'I may take many years to complete it. I may never complete it'.

'That's ok... I'll wait'.

Joy.

Sometimes when in a dark place someone will come along and light a match. Every once in a while that match will be used to light a candle. Very occasionally that candle will be used to find the switch...

To turn on the sun.

It is dazzling.

Dodi and my girl.

An ex girlfriend once told me she used to be Dodi Al Fayed's lover.

but it is all right, he was such a coke head he couldn't get it up and I never had an orgasm.

Have you ever had an orgasm? I asked.

I don't think so. She replied.

But it doesn't matter because he was always out of it and wouldn't know and I made out like he pleased me for the money.

I asked: Did he know he was your lover?

No! She said... He was always out of it.

and

Now he is dead I can say what I want... What's an orgasm?

Freedom of speech.

I am so tempted.

Dead puppies and the law.

An exhausting day spent with my legal team. I had initially been accused of shooting Bambi's mother but I had an alibi for that one.

Now they have come at me again with the charge of shooting a puppy.
I'm denying it of course although that in itself is hazardous as I WAS present at the shooting of said puppy but did not pull the trigger. I remember blogging about the incident months ago.

My only real defence is to point the finger at someone else but that may lead to accusations of another variety.

Gosh the law is complicated.

An unexpected memory.

An unexpected request from the ex Mrs Nieupjur arrived today. A short text message asking: Do you have a copy of the marriage certificate?

I immediately went to my box of cherished items and there it was, evidence of a memory like a wine stained menu card from a fondly remembered meal.

Surely her request can only mean one thing.

She was a good wife, as wives go. And as good wives go, she went. (apologies to Saki)

A chance encounter with Art.

I happened to walk past the Lisson Gallery this afternoon. Before I had realised where I was I had looked down into the gallery space and assumed that what I was looking at was a Kindergarten that had yet to be tidied up at the end of playtime.

I didn't bother going in.

I'm sure it was very interesting though.

http://www.lissongallery.com/