the keith jarrett riff,

August 1, 2008 at 6:58 pm | Posted in genre isn't dead yet but it should be, music | 10 Comments
Tags: , , , , ,

hey, you gotta have a hand jive
bootsy said if we’re going again,
count those silly bubbles,
pop pop pop
deep below some ancient carp is
singing some wild and thrubbing song
and sunonhead is drifting off,
he hopes his work is surely done

hey, Squires he says jangling the keys,
home time frog jumps in beer oclock,
ding ding, Shanghai, we’re here
wake up, says F, slamming his glass down on the piano, jesus man the parties just begun, i tell you you play great but I ain’t hiring you, goddamn junkie dead and done,

he turns from the obvious mirror in which his reflection can’t be seen,
i remember the days, sir ian, in wonderful suits of grey,
pluperfect in green felt hat,
some whiskery comedian,
some less outrageous Monk,


May 13, 2008 at 7:01 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 10 Comments
Tags: , , , ,

with mr N. again, Squires, are we? need we have this discussion again, it is a simple question of vowel sounds, articulate, despise, he puts his grey fedora on the piano and coughs, dabs the corner of his mouth with the cuff of his shirt which trails ornate silk brocade,
thus spake, was it,
play some keith jarrett, start again, why not,
it seems there is a cost to immortality which it is my burden to bear,
play something original,
where is some trace of light some beam some beacon,
are we lost again at sea, she is as leaky as an unstaunched wench
one cries,
then came upon some mystery, lashed to the mast
and waving a jug of ale, bring it on, bring it on,
one more time that siren song,
haha, he says, picking up his hat in perfect pluperfect  

“she is as leaky as an unstaunched wench” is from Shakespeare, Act One Scene One, “The Tempest”


March 28, 2008 at 8:24 pm | Posted in music, writing | 11 Comments
Tags: , , ,

(Keith Jarrett. “All The Things You Are”)

i must admit in the spirit of Randallian honesty
that i am listening to Keith Jarrett again through the headphones.
he is ablaze like a Sumedhian garden, as precise and transcendentally
accurate as a vision of Jo’s.
i have returned from Perception Point with a finer sense
of an articulate and harmonious future,
been persuaded by Scot Young of the utility of truth and passion,
have seen not so secret smiles exchanged between Lakota and her piratepoet
and been between two Peters poised,
travelled with Amuirin ascendant and seen an Enigma resolve into the simple truth
of a mother’s love.

the truth is easy and selfevident, its expression a delight,
but now i must return to the wonders of the night,

I Live Next Door To A Childcare Centre

November 14, 2007 at 5:50 pm | Posted in writing | 2 Comments
Tags: , , ,

There are children laughing in joy greeting their parents almost every afternoon. Prose.

I have discovered the anti-haiku. A haiku is really three concentric circles and you are looking in, Dante-like. It is finally, at its heart, silent, static and Zen. In anti-haiku something is about to happen, which it should be pointed out, means that something is happening already, a motive force has been applied and the present is a pivot.

children laughing in joy greeting their parents

5-1-5 Haiku. Pivot point emphasises the moment from which the poem expands, the occurrence of the word or idea ‘joy’, very simple device, anyone can do it and often does.

anti-haiku, now I could scatter any number of inverted commas in there, said the Japanese gentleman. Where is she?

I don’t know. She just told me to keep playing til she got here. Where did your friend go? The one with all the moustachios?

Ah ha he said with a short bow at the waist, touché, as you say, in your language.

That’s French.

Yes, but they all sound the same to me. Do you know Keith Jarrett?

Well, I haven’t met him personally,

Ah, I see, I see, very good. How long will she be?

Standard variation,

September 20, 2007 at 4:57 pm | Posted in writing | 5 Comments
Tags: , , ,

I have been asked two questions. Why don’t you just say what you mean? and What’s the difference between a blogger who writes and a writer who blogs?

Blogging is a form of fictional autobiography (even when just a series of links) but I am an extraordinarily boring person. I really only have one idea, with lazily Australian variations, which is why, unlike Keith Jarrett and Oscar Peterson I am doomed to end my career playing in Airport Hotel Bars to generic bored slightly drunk businessmen and their inevitable cohorts, which is that aesthetic unity is a spiritual principle, that a concord of form and function, a fusion of senses attracted to the highlights in her hair as she settles into duvets,

and scent is absorbed into the mind like oils into the skin,

and I have a stream of words like ‘gorgeous’ which flows down her shoulders in cascades of Spanish gypsy curls,
words with wish to conjure her
words she has whispuhrred to me which
I cannot share,
their secrecy is a form of beauty,

She leans over the piano, “Yeah, yeah what about some rock ‘n roll?”

erotica is just a trick of the tongue
a flicker in the corner of her eye
as she walks away
and my left hand watches her walk
and my right hand slides up her spine,
tickling a smiling patient melody
behind her,

Blog at
Entries and comments feeds.