Pomposity and Pompeii.

I started work on a short story this morning. I decided that the central character should be a plane spotter.

In order to get inside my plane spotters head I decided to go out to Heathrow to spot a few planes of my own.

I refuse to use the underground system in London ( it is Hot, smelly, overcrowded and prone to failure) and therefore walked to Paddington in order to catch the Heathrow express.

Sitting in my carriage opposite me were a young couple; a conservative MP I recognised from the tabloids and chat shows (I have no idea as to his political thinking) and his wife. As we passed through the graffiti strewn Royal Oak and Westbourne Park the MP made unpleasant noises about the vandalism of the artists responsible; I think he said 'string em all up'!

I pointed out that it was just a means of expression for a dissatisfied youth and wouldn't it be better to remove the cause of that dissatisfaction rather than the expression of it.

He said nothing.

A little later I asked where they were flying to.

Italy. He replied.

Ah, Chiantishire. I said.

No! He replied pompously. The bay of Naples and Pompeii actually!

Such wonderful grafitti. I observed.

His wife smiled beautifully.

Drums, paracetamol and the Tamil Tigers.

There is a primary school next to my house.

Over the years I have grown to tolerate the shrieks and yells of playtime and learned to avoid the shop next door between 3.30 and 4.00 pm.

however.

They (the pupils) have a drum band. They have a drum band that plays at Carnival. They have a drum band that practices on Tuesday mornings in preparation for Carnival. They have a drum band that practices loudly with the windows open in preparation for carnival.

I am not a fan of juvenile drumming.

The shopkeeper likes drums. He likes the fact that I spend a fortune on paracetamol.

He is a Sri Lankan, I know the profits go towards the Tamil Tigers' fight in Sri Lanka. The Tamil Tigers will be pleased to know that a little school in London is drumming up funds for them.

Serendipity.

A boat farm?

In the Languedoc region of France there is a village called Saint-Jean-Lasseille. The village does not appear to have a square or a fountain or anywhere to play boules. This I find strange enough to pick up my old copy of 'Clochemerle' to check that I got the description of a French village right.

On the North East edge of the village is a field filled with boats.

there is no lake, sea or river nearby, how did those boats get there and why?

I counted 30 of differing sizes.

Any ideas?

They were children.

Party type thing at the Tabernacle.

July 4th

tristan will be hosting a party at the Tabernacle W11 on Sunday the 4th of July. there is the usual BBQ thing going on in the courtyard in the afternoon followed by stuff happening in the bar from 7.oo onwards. Tristan will be telling tales and music will abound. Bring a guitar if you want and plug it in!

email me for more info: jannieupjur@gmail.com

The bag lady's mint.

A curious evening; cooked something for myself for the first time since January the 24th... What have I been living on?

while the cooking was doing it's doing I went up on the roof; unattended really since last summer, all that is there is a solitary bamboo and a self sown tomato plant in the compost box. Oh, and Moll the bag lady's mint is still hanging on. I took up the four remaining strawberry plants from the kitchen window sill and watered every thing liberally.

It is good to see the Trellick Tower to the north west. Why does it always feel such a privilege to live within view of an iconic structure?

I really must make an effort to sort the roof out it would be a good place to go and eat in the evening.

Even without the bag lady!

Cup-cakes...

What is this obsession with cup-cakes?

At a launch party last night I was offered savoury cup-cakes; red pepper and pesto.

Cup cakes are sweet for heavens sake.

This planet is doomed.

Tristan, rock n roll and mid life crises.

Tristan's performance at the Island last night was the weirdest thing I've seen for a long time.

He did 'Poetry is the new rock n roll' with a guitarist and bassist laying down a 'groove'; a highly dangerous experiment if you ask me. To make things more difficult for himself they did not rehearse the thing, what we got was the first run through ever.

To me it appeared to be the poet's equivalent of the mid life crisis Harley Davidson.

Isn't it good...

the carpenters tale.

(With apologies to Lennon and McCartney)

She sat opposite me and said:

You are seeing someone else

you don't love me any-more

you are never here

you are always distant now.

I sat opposite her and said:

Sometimes a piece of wood sings to me

I found a piece of singing wood six weeks ago

it sang of your beauty and grace

it sang of my love for you

it sang of our happiness.

Since then I have spent every waking hour

working with that wood

making you a table

I built into it your beauty, your grace

I built into it my love for you

I built into it our happiness.

That is why I have not been here

that is why I have appeared distant.

I then brought the table to her... There!

She said:

You do not love me any-more

You are seeing someone else.

That table is in the fucking Ikea catalogue... Sixty quid.

She left me then.

I lit a fire

Isn't it good. Norwegian wood.

Good grief a goal... Live from the Tabernacle

The Slovenian secret weapon

England have scored in the world cup. Whatever next?

Depression.

Depression.

In the news right now due to some stupid remarks made by the ghastly Janet Street Porter in the equally ghastly Daily Mail.

Depression: Described as a modern illness, described as a trendy illness, some times described as not an illness at all.

Depression is real, it is both an illness piggy-backing on the sickness that is present day life (Sloppy analogy here: Modern society is a very unhygienic and badly run hospital, depression is a virulent secondary infection that haunts the wards and operating theatres) and its own symptom.

The sun is shining, things are seemingly going well, I have much to do yet I am stopped in my tracks by an invisible barrier.

Time for drastic action: Depression is a bully; fight back.

Tristan is performing a few new things at the Island, London W10 on Wednesday night... It is an open mic thing, no one will know him there, and he is petrified.

Thereafter he is doing various smaller shows prior to Port Eliot. All leading up to the Event in September.

Depression may seem an immoveable object but there are ways around it...

I hope.

The farmer's wife.

She keeps bantams

has no faith in god

no faith in art

no faith in science

put all her faith in one man

all her eggs in his basket

The tired ploughman.

I've been ploughing this furrow for too long. Each time I look up from my toil the end of the field is still not in sight save an oak tree on the horizon; when I set out that tree was a mere sapling.

The seagulls that dog my wake have given up on fat worms ever being exposed and now eye my soft parts greedily. they swoop in ever closer.

Time to release the old horse from her traces (smack her on the rump and watch her trot back to her pasture) leave the plough mid furrow mid field (already rusting it will soon enough blend in visually and then soon enough decompose and vanish).

If I walk quickly I will make it to that tree under which sits a little old lady who has many stories to tell me.

I have forgotten what I was going to sow in this field any-way.

Hot chestnuts maybe.

Sunset.

Sebastian Horsley is dead.RIP.

What is going on in Soho?

Too many people are dying.

There has been a fantastic amount of interest in Sebastian since he died; some of it negative but the majority positive... I did not know him well; I met him once or twice in Soho, but I do know that he was for all the criticism, an original! He will be missed.

Portobello Rocks online.

The Portobello Rocks website is now up... Check it out:

http://www.portobellorocks.com/

Don't go breaking my heart Kiki Dee.

You know what. I kissed Kiki Dee tonight.

she said; Where have you been all my life?

Ask Tilly. She heard it.

Kiki Dee. Her hair was the colour of hair dye.

I don't think she really wanted to know where I had been for the previous ten minutes let alone all her life.

That's show business.

I wanted to say to Tilly: I know where I want you to be for the rest of my life!

But I didn't.

Ode to a departed tooth.

Tristan has been having dental problems... Ouch!

My teeth are out in sympathy.

He sent me the following which I suspect may refer to something other than a molar:

Your absence has left a void

which I have filled with pain

The exquisite agony

taunts me with your parting

Although I realise that when the pain goes

I shall remember you for what you really were

It hurts too much to miss you right now.

Girls I have teased.

Duck noodles.

How do they get the duck sauce into the pot noodles?

Hands and feet.

Last years notes.

When I am gone

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.

I can die now.

I've seen this

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bU1LB4StySo

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.

http://www.theislandexperiment.com/The_Island_Experiment/Home.htm

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Among the acts was Sandy Lamb.

She is great!

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