“Fastest Left Hand In The West” Clint Eastwood.

October 18, 2008 at 8:37 pm | Posted in music, poetry, writing | 11 Comments
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popart popout, haha, in the meantime
naked hairy man returns grinning
Oh No not Caliban again she sighs,
doesn’t want her curv’d lines written for her
not in my tongue
no how, ho ho, no way,

art as mere artefact of spont
ayneeus combustion
Ladies and Gentleman in the left corner
Hemingway sweating and sunburnt
bruting up the hill home again
having found some release in dizziness

and the other an elegant creature
the bull survived by a certain skill
of headtbuttingsleeping learned in the taverns
of Marseille , F. said slapping my back
held the left hand together so as to make
the Chico tattoo plopping the green felt hat in his
pocket and sitting down at the piano,

(take five…

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on my best behaviour

February 26, 2008 at 6:02 pm | Posted in music, writing | 14 Comments
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sitting on the bus to work looking out a wet window

getting out has become a habit,

if i don’t get out everynowandthen,

all of a sudden a sudden clamour

ahh, that’s better, now what we were you saying?

Standard variation,

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

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