6p.m. Tuesday in The Orchid Room.

August 16, 2008 at 8:24 pm | Posted in writing | 9 Comments
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Not quite standover man, elicits commission, ie payperview basis only. He’s polishing the glasses in the corner. The boss is still missing. She went walking with some old man in a grey suit and a silver cane. Downstairs backstage the pianoplayer is polishing the tops of his red and blue platform shoes on the back of his white pants, shrugging on his jacket and seeing the diamantes reflecting in the mirror. He blinks and slides on the Bootsy Collins sunglasses. His top hat is at the drycleaners but at least he still has work.

Not quite voiceover man in that the glasses purr as he polishes them and blur into rainbows reflecting the neon lit room behind. He turns and watches the pianoplayer in his ridiculous fireproof suit emerge from the downstairs and clomp over the dancefloor toward the tired old honkytonk upright. Not another one of those nights, he thinks.

F. is upstairs searching for something he left inside somewhere else and outside in the rain a limo shwooshes by with the windows wound down and Joan Armatrading singing “Willow”,

Brazilian Invisibility Spell

August 14, 2008 at 6:31 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 13 Comments
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the essential anonymity of the artist in
Sao Paolo streetart done with stencils sure
but such passion that black and red,
white and blue leap from the wall
and assert liberation into the image,
the artists are Hieronymous not from ‘umility
but from a belief in the power and freedom
in anonymity behind the image, Exu. You cannot assert that you
know Picasso nor Matisse all their remains
are mere images and endless interpretations burned
blurred into the retina and the bus smells
faintly of magnolia thinks Saudade
looking blankly at the back of her nails,

To take an actual busride and look at the streetart of Sao Paolo go here…

three cards only regret

August 9, 2008 at 5:24 pm | Posted in writing | 5 Comments
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On the Tokyo-Brisbane Express. “Thank God the liver remains undamaged,” says Dr Benway as he throws his bloodied chain mail gloves over his shoulder and reaches for his martini. “Through co-option and degeneration of the image, he says,” who, is it sir ian playing WSB again, but if all there is is the buzzing of bees and rain dripping down the window of the limo. Hmm, he looks down again at his hands, slips them into his pocket. There is value in pocketable wealth, jewellery, but these days nothing else is worth much of anything. A limo cruises by the bus stop containing some aging rock star and a bevy of businessmen ghosts busily plotting graphs.

I wish it was raining, he thinks, instead of this endless blue,

A girl is standing bored chewing gum on a corner, he leans forward to whisper Mamu slow down but a ghost appears between them waving a release form for a camera crew. Three Card looks out at the favella passing by. He remembers Saudade. She writes, “it is not so cold as I had imagined it might be,” her fingers turning blue shaking gripping the pen,

He settles back into his leather, the limo ssshhes by, everyone lives he thinks, everyone dies.

The True Legend of John Terry.

April 12, 2008 at 4:12 pm | Posted in football, poetry, writing | 4 Comments
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(1)

Frank knows who is really paying his wages, owners come and go. He is a man who understands the primacy of a fundamental rhythm through the team. All they are doing is thanking him, he says to me looking out over the pool sparkling in the Mediterranean sun. All of those people in the crowd have a special moment in their lives when Zola made them feel alive again, feel proud of who they were, of the community to which they belonged and he did it, Frank smiled shyly, with the creative unexpected, supported by flawless technique. On the lawn below his children are laughing and his wife looks up to the balcony. I swear she did not see me at all.

(2)

Well, I’ve looked at the first reel through the telephone, he said and I thought you said it was a documentary about football. The Americans don’t know who this guy F. is, and I thought you said you had the captain of England. Ask him why they keep losing, that’ll make some interesting footage. Oh and stop spending so much of my money. Click.

Oh come to bed she says curling into herself for warmth. And close the window. One more call, he murmurs, hello is Mrs Terry there? Well, could you tell me the name of her hairdresser? It’s Paul. I’m a friend of Frank. She rolls her eyes and waggles her ringless fingers in the moonlight. Great thanks for that. He turns back to the bed, my darling Saudade, you need a new hairdo.

hmm, she says unravelling her self hug, another one, well you shall have to be careful this time, and you forgot to close the window,

(3)

“the japanese squid fishermen are asleep” she had said,

introspection, he says, turning from the smudged mirror back into the chaos of the room. i take my hat off for the photojournalist, his faith that mere description will effect change but to exercise desire requires imagination. the world as it is was imagined into being, sometimes by sailors.
he shrugs on the long cloak Takeshi had given him and turns back to the bed where she lies sleeping, eventually everything will be as it was before i arrived,

silhouette, he says,

the curtain flickers on the moonlit breeze,

(4)

John Terry is very tall but he moves with a grace which belies his obvious strength. He has shoulders made for balance in the air. It is easy to forget that he is such a young man. It’s an honour, he says, however the team performs. It’s part of being a modern defender, you have be able to move up the field, to make an impact and hope that team moves forward with you. If they do, then you are the Captain of England.
and if they don’t, i was tempted to ask just as Saudade appeared, oh here you are, there is somebody on the phone, he says you owe him money,

Gotta new tattoo, it’s a real beauty,

March 14, 2008 at 7:05 pm | Posted in writing | 17 Comments
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ahh, you gotta love Jimmy Buffet, for a white man, Margaritaville, carapau, he said smiling like Ronaldhino and looking out over the sparkling blue pool, i see you met my sister, she’s amazing, everybody loves my sister, but i’m gonna tell you one thing, man, she is only dancing with you cos you are a white man too, and in this part of town that means jewellery, safer than any kind of cash man, i’m telling you, my sister is dangerous, she is mixed up in some stuff, if she ever calls you Exu you better watch out, you might think that down here corpses can come to life, maybe your pallor of a big city slow death will be flushed away and your heart will beat for the first time and you will smell perfumes unknown, but your corpse if you die here, man, it will not come to life again. You read much? i read everyday, i’m reading H. P. Lovecraft, and my sister, she is a star vampire, man, heh, there she is, Saudade, Saudade, this crazy white man thinks he’s in love with you already, well later man, he said, nice place, beautiful view,

sorry she said sitting beside me, my brother is fond of spy novels and i do so like him to be happy, you have a beautiful home,

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