Snake oil, oily fish and Notting Hill parties.

Lots of oily fish the doctor said.


Yeah, as if.


Anyway a guy at a party handed me a bottle of omega 3 capsules and said try these.


If I am dead in 30 days it is because they don't work, nothing to do with the fact I'm dying anyway. If I'm alive in 30 days come for the party.


Makes a change from the usual Notting Hill snake oil salesmen.

Murray Lachlan Young is coming to the Tabernacle.

To my mind the best performance poet around is coming to Notting Hill on the 22nd and 23rd of this month. This gives me the excuse to post his showreel. 



Tom Baxter and vashti Baxter are also on the bill.... See you there!

Alive and well enough.

Photo: Emily Paige Short

Guerilla gardening in Powis Square.

A quiet evening beer at the Cow was interupted by a call to arms by a Guerilla Gardener friend; she was about to introduce a host of daffodils into Powis Square and needed help. there were only four of us (the Notting Hill promise applies at a time like this) but the task was completed without a hitch.


Something to look forward to in the spring.

BEAT.

I shall be reading a few of my poems at BEAT this evening. It is at Charlie Wrights in Pitfield street N1.  


hope to see you there.

Simon and Garfunkel - Bridge Over Troubled Water Original Version

When I'm pissed off I listen to this.

when

Now read in Ho Chi Minh City.

In the old days they would research Notting hill via blue doors, film set book shops, Welsh actors in their shreddies, Hugh grant in  Mary Poppins Portobello Road walk throughs....


Now they don't.


In Ho Chi Minh city they read Pre-Pentimento.


It is still all unintelligible bollocks to them but it is pre-pentimento bollocks; the bollocks you can savour world wide.


Pre-Pentimento bollocks; Tastier than a dog in any language*.


*translated by Lingling.

virtualfactory.org and virtualfactoryvictorfoxtrot

http://virtualfactoryone.blogspot.com/ For details.

Great Western Studios comes down.

They have started tearing down the Great Western Studios; for years in view from my desk. First to go is the wood clad tower where once Banksy's highwayman reared.


In the buildings place... The entrance to the Crossrail tunnel.

Amedeo's decision

And had Amedeo Modigliani known

that by choosing another life

he could have saved his own

as well as those

Of Jeanne Hebuterne 

and their daughter would he have done so?

I doubt it very much.

3 deaths is a small price to pay

for such placement of paint and suffering.


READ MORE POEMS AND STORIES

Rumer at the Tabernacle.

There was a buzz about the Tabernacle last night; Rumer was in town. There's a buzz about Rumer at the moment; A new album released, endorsements from such heavyweights as Burt Bacharach and Jools Holland and a following of enthusiastic fans.

Once on stage there was an air of nerviness about the singer, who, dressed simply in black, wearing shoes worthy of a second glance, launched straight into her set. It was not until a little bit of banter with her pianist put her more at ease and allowed some interaction with the audience.  Her own songs are lovely; lyrical and gentle, she has a sweet voice to carry them and her lyrics poignant enough to actually want to listen to. Her new single "Aretha" was beautiful; I'd been listening to it enough at home beforehand to recognise it with a smile.

It is so refreshing to have a British artist who is happy enough to eschew the trendy Americanisation of female singers as well as avoiding sensationalism. We shall hear a great deal more from Rumer.

Gaz's Rockin bookreading and signing.

Memories of the Muse in tattered tutu on a garlanded swing.

As I write this the happy cries of children leak into my room from the school yard next door.


I am usually impervious to these noises such is their ubiquitous status in my life but this morning for some reason I hear them... and am immediately transported (through a seemingly never ending succession of mediocre performance/installation art pieces put together by lazy, uninspired and uninspiring, talentless 'Artists' who use the sound of children playing a metaphor for innocence or some such hokum) back to a fondly remembered muse.



Years ago the Muse and I  worked on a vignette for her MA show (before the crack and heroin really got to her) in which the muse, in the guise of Manet's ballerina, hooked on crack, tutu tattered and filthy from the constant abuse she endured as the price she paid to her chemical god, smiling numbly, finger in mouth and childishly singing some unintelligible ditty, swung too and fro on a garlanded swing in the middle of a warehouse.


The soundtrack to this was the innocent playground cries of children.


I think what the muse was trying to say was: Make the most of it girls because I am what men are going to turn you into!