'gobshyte' lowery (and his cardiac arrest team)

On Bended Knee (continuation at least)

2011-10-08T04:10:00.000-07:00

mink-sty grappling without a glimmer of pencil – I filled three score valuephobe notewads with viscous sketchhogs of the neighborhood blotch and walkabout exploding bar stools – along the canal stoop back I was mugged by decimalization – I held an emergency press conference up the pixilated bread aisle - get your grubby mitts off the donut amnesty – and whilst on parade don’t get embassy with me - performing correction fluid handstands before the finely chopped autograph hunter - sick note smeared copter blade - I reiterate you must have a pretext for this sickness – banishing reclining couplets to the miniscule windmill – we are justly perpetrating 4 hour contracts - the icing on me misery cake was vaguely enamel – with scraps of prandial vestibule - nibbling bricolage fritters - stemming the plop of ones reactionary mud flap and replacing said bandstand with kernel of prototypical tape yarn - a German shepherd on the other hand has a diminishing threshold.

Last Exit 1986 Frankfurt Jazz Festival

2011-09-30T12:53:00.000-07:00

And speaking of Last Exit this is dem live at Frankfurt Jazz Festival in 1986 with Peter Brotzmann (on saxophone and paintstripper matress breath), Ronald Shannon Jackson (on drums and Ajax capsule), Bill Laswell (on bass and kerosene bald patch) and Sonny Sharrock (on guitar and mugged by decimilization)
There are quite a few vids of them on Youtube. I haven't seen 'em all yet, so not sure if this is the horizontal and vertical tanning unit to top them all but its certainly crillied me bike hips thus far - knocks the socks off Don Giovanni. If only Strictly Come Dancing was this good!

Sonny Sharrock 1988 Knitting Factory

2011-09-30T12:35:00.000-07:00

The video is recorded live (answers on the back of a teacake please)at Knitting Factory in 1988. It features Sonny Sharrock on guitar, Melvin Gibbs on bass and Abe Speller + Pheeroan Aklaf on drums. I like the post-rock sandshoes they are crippling in and then sudden punky slip-ons they are belching flamencoland in. Of course Last Exit is still me favo bucket of snuff clappers since they started branding us with PrimarkHealthCare

On Bended Knee (excerpt)

2011-09-26T00:51:00.001-07:00

Zydeco music specialist on bended knee – brandishing inkscape vectoral – thematically in hoc to an Albert Stubbins nappy rash – cartoon mist escarpment – after hugging mouthpiece consultancy – famous for being craven – dips blog into crime hike niche haven - affiliation is out of the question – outdoorsy scenesters trampolining vehemently - lacto-file reject – right to work on stubby finger policy - in favour of serialized support network - 11th century navel fluff - arctic turn standards trio - piping hot electrified rake – cognitive rehearsal bake - our lady of seismology is blotted macadamia nut – bandying about the milk thistle disclaimer – you could tell by her yakult warehouse demeanor - some of Skipton lads fell off their piss cartons in Xanadu karaoke textures - some people ate string during the plebiscite – one man ate the shrink-wrapped reception pail for the Wyndham Lewis society - gobble gobble genre plasticity – steaming open Michael Gove’s pissy envelope - at the Leazes end avant-Bovril bypass – look it up in chintzy prospectus - bus stop opposite polarity switch HQ – cycle lane bliss staving off the cow flu…

Bitter Lemon Travelogue

2011-08-28T13:08:00.000-07:00

Yielding aggregate pub footsteps – evasive of the cobbler – meanwhile in Misrata – Plymouth Gran Fury – live on plasma - all dolled up in chevron fingernails – spinnaker genteels - jelly paddle brocade – cork pillows on a nether wavelength – catapult etymology – internment froth kleptocracy – a volley of parched ligaments – dip beaks in census gravy – slow-scan dickey stew - fanning each fatality – at the bubble ‘n’ squeak lecture theatre – a marimba bowel maneuver – torch song substation – edible snout chorus - micron treatise – orthopedic tendrils – gripping lessons in guinea fowl gadgetry - coking plant as leitmotif – pension age jumbo sin - plopped soluble stitches in - economist voucher scheme – silk cut chaperone – nasal stork grow-bag benefit gig - jobs in haulage – that billiard poke aesthetic – parenthesis formed a hammock – at the cheap tab kiosk - a bitter lemon travelogue – no gage for triviality - Dover thrift venison pluckers – munching down mandatory geloid – I shall have to reassess all corduroy - you haven’t got the sub prime hair gel you were born with - grim yeast party with the Duke & Duchess of Expungia – de-nerving procedure - all correspondence is granular – staffed by trolley bus scabs - tumult guzzlers – analgesic Shapiros - guillotining diesel quiches – my fingers smelt of coppers - classic pinched style southern ballad – great plumes of nourishment – coastline aspect ratio – semblance of janitor - apostolic incident room - backwater compound – stipulating shark tips - trombone decapitates – fistful of credit - missing Mersey sentences – fate worse than retro-gnaw foragers – moor house gunk tablature - goddamn his gristly face – wrenches up - acrylic gut kitchen tiles – turn trophy cabinets into war zones - post-punk procedural – mouse pad snot build up – nauseating salt mystic – desolate waster pouring over Brecht – pub stashed amidst Redhuegh girders - common usage – the opposite of fritter – tramp called Rowan – married in a blizzard – and before you know it a blood bin forager envelopes it – blow your harmonica Cilla.

Interlocutor's Of The Sand

2011-07-28T03:10:00.000-07:00

umpteen U.S lard-faced interlocutors angle slippers at the Bridge Hotel – our survey said mashed necklaces – Akenside Traders longitude scalpel paving the way for untold gaminess – deviating silt worming its way up said bridegroom’s pantyhose legs – underarm bowlers the world over – interlocutors of the sand – what’s for din-dins Professor Longhair? – starfish on toast my son – purist radish – curtailed border TV broadcast – bullion Shatner – up next after Bonanza - bearded bravado smitten – suet pud viceroy wallpapering his fingernails - dusty headboard sharperner - sacrosanct cask assistant – fealty XI safety bibs – as all remaining job security evaporates in a cloud of panksty-chiseled RADA prehistory – died in a puddle of his own excrement - the most reverend glassy leek of the edible booking hemisphere – some graffiti stubtoe of the compulsory cheeseboard classifieds – footnote city mosaic – chronic crab apple consumption – Mickey Rourke’s giblets – yet to be removed – ironing on pan pipes in the ladies toilets of a serviettes manufactory – absconding from a nightwatchman’s temporary contract – clammy, wizened and perma-alone – poached amphetamine picnic tables – cadging off the monitoring form dispute – tonight can be our clever night in – curliest pub carpet we’d ever seen.

Sock Bobble Syntax

2011-06-05T12:08:00.000-07:00

… and I couldn’t have skin grafts neither coz your lower back is where they take skin grafts from - a figurine of an otter on the mantelpiece – an offshore spiv - think roguish – clandestine obit – you gotta have a little faith in them luxury watch makers – spur cables – I am inserting my tracksuit motif into proceedings – failing to service rolling stock – my tummy’s got a nerve - she allegedly agreed with the roster reversal plus reimbursement – intimating it must’ve been the Waterford Lodge Lounge Bar – the panelists give them short shrift at best - turgoose sonata – voucher redemption scheme – please don’t put that earpiece where you cannot even spandex - practice phlebotomist on energized surfaces - he has worn down a vital section of the pub carpet with his navy blue sock bobble syntax – CAMRA pub promotion bunting adds decrepit warmth to the situationism of his indoor anorak staple – congratulations cousin you are in luck it’s the Carlsberg Club today £1.79 a pint – learnt some skim science back in the late 40s – you gotta act fast in dorky stilettos – bestial scranchions – juridical iota notions – the usual petulant offerings - intermittent gammon in a methane sandal – upstarts in charge - the billiard poke ensemble clipping Vomity Fair - lurching towards the steering column – my Gallipoli classmates – we all know this government is for turning – two straight years on the dole in conjunction with repeated blacking of ex-employer on myspace makes for one unemployable boyo – obstreperous talent pool – vintage ATM machine – etched lunchables on show at the Huxtables – there are no less than 5 Wetherspoons in Newcastle City Centre – Quayside one, Union Rooms, Keel Row, Ex-Luckies and the Milf Castle – bridge hotel glowworms – northern cables are as they always have been – venue name never disclosed to me – cassettes from Birmingham – fastest growing country music magazine – I am wearing my tracksuit inserts at all times - our relationship sour grapes at the best of times – I’m a carton of nerves – a home delivery species at that - a smiley badge and a book about teeth – never mind hi-de-hi – it was more ho-di-ho! – wont have enough feed to get the animals through the winter – Arbuckle jury splits 8 to 4 - Ginsberg Distillery – Billy Bingham’s Starfleet project – destined to be daft as brush – propping up the travelers – lord knows we made a squeamish profit on them propelling eye pencils - anyway to finish off the story I went to Morrisons, got the wife her favourite bottle of zinfandel – amazing the detail – foolscap hemorrhage – Airedale seismic and well they might - the Ropers discover a local pub where they serve draught gin & tonic - why go to all the trouble with tacky biscuits – when in possession of the accent most likely to put people at ease – impervious to the wine list – we don’t do household gloves this far North - learner driver rammed him up the arse on Kenton Bank Foot – mismanagement of plexiglass cordon - raising Cain against condom machine - doting in the wings outside of a card shop closure - I am sitting perched at a metallic table in the deeply lovely sunshine throwing garlics with my thighs - tax credit to the nation - winding oak staircase at the Fawcett’s butchery - hooks for your carriers on the side of the bar.

Up Gory Flagpole

2011-03-30T04:22:00.000-07:00

vintage block ornament with none of the trimmings – stool specialists’ shrine to tuppence – merrily obsessed with the temperature – desperate to unclog the midnight shite – succumbing to bacterial mirth – the winter clings to every bean – brittle indication up gory flagpole - unilateral postcard forager – flitting back to city of birth –– broom shanks of yesteryear – the logo on his cardigan blown up – buzzing like a bee in a Nova GTE –winter optimist triple bensin clatter – knitted meatball gutsy figuration – if only life was buttered clean.

Wrapper Of Sorts

2011-03-27T13:11:00.000-07:00

aldi car park triptych – pandemic of the panel - commence commitment to the chamber of cheapness – broad artefacts stashed in a shin pad of profound normalcy – insecticide in a villainous quantity – barbour rag with listerene beak during seaward leg of tour – much ado about the shed at midnight – I love these snarling horns sez Methodist turncoat – he seemed very turned on by Gordon Brown’s wife – haggardly din of justice poetry - road map surrealists – bacterial Brubeck – right to reply for toeless pitman – put my skies on sleeping tablets – riot shield tinkery – eschewing flavour in favour of turkey – snorting through blank pages – one quart blinkered tofu - circumnavigating the edible flotilla – gouda franchise divorce proceedings – she always shows up on amber – has performed it throughout Latin America – a manly translation in rye bread hindrances - canine silt afterthought – award winning colon basted till bland – cluck aperture misalignment – urinated neck bassoon – chunky knit shrapnel – fingerpicking fucking dysentery – housed in a wrapper of sorts – indicative of our arguing.

With Or Without Grouse

2011-03-25T06:34:00.001-07:00

tangerine gumshield halibut ordeal – pulverized topic heading – natch I’d hate to be a bellhop’s go-between – cue wet turnip turning cocoa powdery in my lap – paypal tremor reports to wastepaper basket for the first time this season – a regional blues misconstrued – once upon a time I was cabbages in a nail – a homespun fork entrail – virtuosic combover - miming library book sheerness – magnifying my nervousness – when photo editing generosity impales peers – frozen thai shin appeases audience - clarks mid season sale kicks in - buttered newspaper posted on windscreens - unbelted parasol chaired by – peeking through a straw – I’m called the croaker by those that don’t know – smouldering over this chip labour – blockier text gospel spokes flutter - we are currently having problems securing a privy auction - folder jazz grit quota - with or without grouse - bolt thrower on deficit cuff - trotting on down the carpet tile advisory board - arse in the snow - snooker cue wrapped in bacon - effluvia thermos can’t divorce us once it’s lit.

Dim Wincemeal

2011-03-22T03:24:00.001-07:00

may i vent my 1987 harpic in your palour sometimes - inkling line of femidom libby project - i am hardworn by agreement - dim wincemeal was sure a slug - rimmed racket sluice – challenge punnet – doorstep Wilkinson – this cats cradle I live on not earthed to the sputum it was bunced upon - flagging down the arsenal derby - driving round in a 4 wheeled litmus - sexy signature – envelopes filled with hair gel – snaps his drummer on a reiki stone - illegible cartoon from the northenmost pinking sheer - cussing out kempes on a saga cinderella bra semester - fuelled farthermore dissed wincesome bandwith on a double deck back from Middlesboro in '83-4 times - I’d hate to be a dignitary from the smithered part of town - well they say town more like a kantarell carton really - uncontaimated by gothly drinkers and doggy apposites alike - good luck with brand new buzzard skive.

Tuesday Over Eccles

2011-03-20T13:45:00.000-07:00

panzer mic stand at the broken down shavers bolt - through playing with not a runner in the strictest sense - congratulations you have moved into stirrup airport tuesday over eccles – with apejack pliers ringing out over hatty's expeditory seymour – sedimentary harshjean coolers analgesic spook – wrinkling milk from a granite knife -spools off blue riband wrapper – nitpicking the rope on an authoritarian sandal shop wishlist - festivalwise rug languishing on an iceblink armchair – nameth writ congrats you've just chinned the tireport - you just won over the sunblindness contract - with anti-gripe mechanism laying waste to perfectly pocketed silly string – ulcerated copywriter undid the slats – blogging from the carpark of all your worst wetherspoons - cafteria ice was like a brick in shade - I played like an idiot in Dublin - foraging for spout incapable of undoing the shade -
complete and utter wicker - feint buzzword at the junk shop car park window – looking forward to a bit being broken off my phone too.

Kneeist In Residence

2011-03-18T14:06:00.000-07:00

there are no bullets in my gob the day - dictatorial nappy on crab heath - i offered to help clip her toenails for here she left the stable light on for me - nascent breath windbag on ashington gravel pit closures - t'was rownas purity shout - premier league anglers - nightie 'n' chips - i cried my eyes out over the chaps on the hump of the canal - one of the most prolific bloggers in the north pole - i can sense the staples in maria calass' face - cast adrift in kungsgatan spider wedge - one of the most threatening bloggers there is - good god she grinds it like a leopard in the spring - a kneeist in residence and in spring a midge binge

Bonnie Mess Eiderdown

2011-03-18T13:36:00.000-07:00

in amongst the scooter crooks this blog no longer has anything to do with anything, frees me up a little really. Yes i'm listening to the two CDs pictured above. Top left is a page from a notebook i have of Swedish words i've collected, hopefully i've remembered an odd and a sod. Learning a language certainly brings you down a peg or two. Lagging onto diffrent chords in brev - makes sure he nametags with irritation 'concord sonata's' duration - pulka backa tribunal navel is not a noun - lozenge overview blown upon ohp spelk - church key - ulcerated copywriter undid the slats - mounts trifle in my hair for your own safety nozzle in the room furthest from your letter of resignation - desuetude tableture - bonnie mess eiderdown - quintessential cloaking device - nordic flex coating - all-star bangers - aorta dalliance - cray legs part 2 - fawning over springsteens ropey necklaces - blatherskeit jangles - elsworth kelly on the mantelpiece - ongoing scintillax - missing mersey sentance - this place i live in is not a town - you will pay with your beeb.

Nutrients In The Carpet

2011-02-09T14:05:00.000-08:00

she was into stickers for a bit,
swerving the situationist radox,
of the thermal liquidity milk churn,
hockey jersey’s on backwards,
whole school had dodgy posture,
posthumously engulfing the Faroes,
the pubs in Whitley Bay,
are at the vanguard,
unrivalled meeting places,
toilets titchy but surprisingly clean,
enthusiasm for gaga,
dogs welcome too,
better smarten up a bit,
learn how to fake plate pies,
for the benefit of the boss,
bellhop tart stifles a fart,
fluent in Olympic rackets,
canine economics,
withered comics,
decoupage blitz,
theory of longwave,
server expo,
gaping ostrich,
saxophonic grill pans,
nutrients in the carpet,
that saved a wretch like me.

Granary Seed Hose

2011-02-09T13:53:00.000-08:00

some choice early 90s gentry,
be manning Ouseburn Mariner’s Wharf,
you haven’t got the round robin you were born with,
mustard coloured hip-shredders,
sorbet fetish blip filo-fax,
found flan flush in the face,
council housing with bells on it,
mapstation screwdriver,
chanting footy’s on at the Fire Station,
you’d need a variegated shoehorn to get in,
what pincer, chowder now?
for this upset stomach workload,
marginalia kicked to cabbage,
not exactly governmental material,
in your granary seed hose,
guest cockroaches on tap,
central committee leeks,
on a bed of sanity viola,
his ‘n’ hers cottage gardeners calendar,
i’d be better off if you hit me,
keyboard tech hinney,
damn your cobweb brushing legacy.

Gala Pie Geps

2011-02-09T13:43:00.000-08:00

sons of the soil,
no fun to be around,
even their beards peep inside their mouths,
a wibbly-wobbly baking tray bids them hello,
in the accordionistic half light,
an overawed electric roulette machine operative,
brandishing a man-sized gong,
from the universal salvage auction,
a stubborn chest compass to be precise,
plastered in sand box mucus,
suspended without pay,
for putting prawn crackers on tap,
extradition treaty looks worth a flutter,
stocking up on bubble bath built to last,
clearance spectacular,
down at the Stubbly Tableaux,
transfer window et al,
in his flat, converted Boots stockroom no less,
who needs carrots,
when you’ve got gala pie geps?

Sanctuary Of Tat

2011-02-09T13:38:00.000-08:00

armchair funk enthusiasts,
jungle gym amnesiacs,
Baudelaire flagon substation apparition,
Phlegmy’s vintner hockey jersey,
a spanner in the inheritance of his crabbiness,
a plastic bag his national costume,
where’s the weekend ham at?
hiding in a heterodox windshield,
dirter-affiliated skeleton army,
captivated by hookworm copse,
dousing himself in po-faced instrumental rock,
wor kid’s got eccles all over your Sub Pop,
tendentious in point of fact,
there was something a little Russian orthodox,
about his underpant drawer,
and when exhumed he looked like Bowie ’74,
in the vibed out doorway creaks,
of a Max Eastman translation,
named his kids Wallet and Dominion,
parazone hoopla,
with the power to huff,
abide with me chuck,
you christmas knocky nut,
guillotined hemorrhoids,
pan scourers quilted,
sanctuary of tat,
intifada bath mat,
torsion bar still intact,
wrote himself a cropper,
medals chipped in the post,
piss poor panellists stricken off,
due to a time and a half gossiping injunction,
am I bidding for my own tongue here?
in the snail quadrant of the Shields ferry howitzer,
packing down my mad pride tongue scraper,
culled swain boothroyd at the Amsterdam mole port
my bottom was in ribbons,
over a dilapidated milk buggy,
despite Iggy Pop running rampant in his nighty,
causing guy fawking of the train carriage,
in the name of consumption,
I’ve seen better looking gizzards in the rhubarb patch,
I’ve seen tamped vectors with better legs,
everyone in town’s a tory in tow now,
Sulphur the milk monitor,
boiling away brownie points
this stove’s a bit showbiz,
ingenious punchy commode,
transfixes programmer of the month.

Short Date Wine

2010-11-07T23:46:00.000-08:00

i didn’t even know I had arms,
in places I’ve got muscles,
surrogate country boy,
i’m the biggest horror story you’ll ever read,
son of a religious nutter,
topping off the horse menu,
high on short date wine,
multimedia newt,
impinges good knee,
thwarted at every nap,
busting a rusty gut over,
petty houseboat abandonment,
they have published umpteen boozy rants,
in my world the lights always flicker,
in the pit of your pint glass,
her inline skates have come a fatality,
best-kept tanker secret,
malfunctioning screwdrivers are to blame.

(p.s: 'All In My Mind' by Maxine Brown is to me the most moving song i've ever heard)
(p.s+: the drawing above is called ' The Darmstadt Tea Cake')

Bathroom Twig Thermometer

2010-11-07T05:11:00.000-08:00

with bird feeder fat balls gouging away at trampoline springs,
carrier bags combing forth tablecloths,
and honey don’t flambé your cousin,
coz I’m gonna have to run,
find me such a fireman instead,
insisted on acorn tasting,
at Pokemon-dubbed lawn menace,
and model soldiers are crawling on splinters of feta,
hooray, hooray for strepsilwood,
and then, a hairgelled notebook with its very own,
peripatetic draft pencil annex has been discerned,
in an instruction manual to your baroque disposition,
well what a load off my mind that was,
i was completely unfatuated by the fact,
that you’d baked poems into the bread,
or the fact that Philip French had gutted his frog,
on a bathroom twig thermometer,
is this the archive of a mat frame,
you have drooled hapless blogger clacks over?
i can see right up your cleftone overalls,
sober enough to wank at a funeral,
with just a hint of lime underneath the foreskin,
the fat people from this building,
have smoked up all the carpet tiles,
progressive Statham eyes?
progress? – yes I’ve Statham eyes!
gotta get some quaking done on those eyes.

Shitloads Of Coins

2010-11-05T07:27:00.001-07:00

you find shitloads of coins in the countryside,
said two thick planks from the Scottish Enlightenment,
it’s the taking apart of shower cubicles,
what really counts,
and no drawings stabbed into playing card Braille neither,
despite feint admonishment from the night sleeper,
why is he singing in kiwi on the London to Darlington?
and why had said troupe of Northumbrian-accented lawn bowls champions,
entered the bespectacled vestibule unnoticed?
in possession of integral tripod weaponry,
and brandishing their bronze medals in austerity politics into the bargain,
i have spat nine tenths of a chocolate coin residual,
from the essence of a water tower,
there is much, much turpentine on the lining of his wand,
thus the primary cause of cyclical hard skin,
alleviating all effort from his index bike seat,
the sole of a shoe has tainted my bite for me,
and if you think that last line has a double meaning,
then you’ve never met a truly evil mind.

(p.s the drawing above is called 'Shepherd's Fry Up).

Winter Tyres

2010-10-26T14:22:00.000-07:00

Comes home reeking of detrimental saddle soap,
voted cellist of the century,
in this the seventh most socialist country,
in the world,
getting ready for its videotape release,
they were booked up till Thursday week,
at the winter tyre consortium,
strumming pier-front breeze blocks,
in me Oja doobie tractor socks,
hiccups woke his opposite number up,
his hay bale routine is nowhere near as genuine,
as this insect & western turpentine,
depression shits its hat stand,
after humping cumbersome DAT tape,
up Scaffold Pike,
a Spendrups light ale his miserly vice.

Situationist Block Ornaments

2010-06-23T15:25:00.000-07:00

papier wrought heavenly drunk rectilinear eye bath does a middling job of conveying the lightnin' slim of the situation block ornaments with none of the trimmings why on gods green earth did i leave this dismantled chariot warmth that i loved so dearly security tags for some inexplicable reason mottle the these two tubes of knocked off savlon oct-nov-dec-2010 n that above is some slapstick sonatas i been diggin recentlyitu

George Drenching Investigates… A Murder On The Cast Iron Gent Express or The Mysterious Case Of The Missing Plate Of Sail Cloth Linguine

2010-01-25T02:43:00.000-08:00

(Part One Of None)
We first met whilst dining out,
At an eat till your sick party,
He was hovering around the vanilla slice table,
With a discerning glee,
Not seen since ‘Thicker Than Water’ 1973,
Lipstick pouts on a Boots receipt,
Bobby-pinned to the elevator’s carpeted wall,
In the image of Drenching’s alter ego,
A certain soppy boy ‘Gene Pitney’,
An outsized bottle of brandy later,
And he couldn’t tell the carpeted walls,
From the Artexed floors,
And you’d better be prepared for some extra large bogeys,
During purgatorial hangover,
In the principality of regurgitated Bovril,
The Greater London Trampolining Society,
Is summersaulting its way through my temporal bone,
Best look it up in your Yoga bible,
Snorts Cast Iron Gent,
An all-in finger buffet was provided,
With A Richard Starkey conducted version,
Of Copeland’s ‘Appalachian Spring’,
Emanating from beneath a dusted mound,
Of Findus crispy pancakes,
Have reported said suspicious looking brown paper bag,
To a fellow member of the London Transport Police,
Unmitigated praise for farmyard adobe,
Doctoring the rota,
During nightshifts idly whiled,
Making up his own shift patterns up as he goes along,
To the detriment of all Calor Gas dusters,
At the Lizard Lane Caravan Park,
Just a hop, skip ‘n’ a jump,
From the cave with pub in it,
Where illustrious shop dummy Edith Shitwell vacations each June,
Great brash money spiders,
Languishing on her thorax,
Her sales figures are in a steep decline,
At the Dermalogica hair salon,
Up the crack of the Photographer’s Pantry,
Her shoulders are up for rent,
She’s a cast iron gent,
Extremely well versed,
In giving up psalm-biting for lent,
The West coast konk profile,
The burnt out entirety library,
Of Drenching’s fortune cookies,
Are contra to the fact,
That the marketing arm at Decca Records,
Were cast iron imbeciles,
Of the first tepidness,
N.b: this poem does not affect your statutory rights,
But back to Central Line for a second,
And a covenant was being shaped,
Amidst a cloud of stuckist muesli,
Panopticon Leotard Jr.,
Sail cloths away,
Where’s your Mister Blister now?
That well known children’s author,
Who wrote himself into a corner,
All of which had served to put,
Drenching off his plate,
Of sail cloth linguine to the point,
Of having almost forgotten to chance upon,
Aforementioned 19th especially illegible letter,
On a Bobby Darin discarded tube sock,
In a font twelve sizes too meagre,
The subject of the essay,
A phone charger,
Plooked in a William Morris sherry glass,
As a matter of fact,
There was rabies on the tube sock…

Fisticuffs-Go-Lucky

2010-01-22T04:57:00.001-08:00

The one note,
For day in question was ‘humpty/meth’,
The flock of Harringey nips it,
In the key-cutters bud,
Meanwhile, our in-tray obsessive’s,
Over at Phono Phitzgerald,
Are hijacking catalogue numbers the small of the night,
Devouring the plates of mince,
Mariah Carey has so lovingly prepared them,
Via the arse of the chocolatier,
With the dummy locked in,
It looked more like a muzzle,
On that former doorman,
Of the Ocean Pie Apartment Complex,
2006 Twelve Pins wastrel vintage,
There’s Krishna on the blinds there now,
In the aftermath of a comprehensive lagging overhaul,
A three score ‘n’ ten binning,
Of the treasury’s skull limnal ashtrays,
A fisticuff-go-lucky quashing,
Of all backstage stilton,
I was line dancing on the grave,
Of Ballad Of A Bronchial Fate Wearing Thin Man,
With the dude from Newsnight,
In my high visibility sweat pants,
Whispering 30 years of lopsided broadcasting,
Into a boarded up lug,
Better add bawdy publican,
Better add passenger seat bassoonist,
To his shaky-handed list of detrimental occupations,
Fleas in the summer, damp in the winter.
And here his balls lie permanently in the rough,
Having failed his eleven plus,
Whilst holidaying in the Anschluss,
It’s fisticuffs-go-lucky all over again,
In Sweden’s virtual north,
With capital city tongs on special offer,
Notebooks shrouded in muesli,
Walking on all fours,
In her granary seed hose,
Those panel-beater ham hocks,
Never put no spanner in my works,
And for the best deal in town,
Give that there Forlorn Warehouse a go,
You’ve been beaten to it,
By haute couture psych-folkies,
Weeping verily over the vast stock,
Of decommissioned Burberry clutches ‘n’ satchels,
And talking of sweeping generalizations,
There’s a matinee performance of ‘Indoor Knuckles’
At the Appletree Theatre,
Perhaps this arvo we might catch it?

Deemed Posh

2010-01-20T06:39:00.000-08:00

In a town where you’re deemed posh,
If you carry an umbrella around,
And the mutant pie crust vocalists,
Squeeze their pimples into parked wing mirrors,
And the memory foam that bonds,
The park benches to the park,
Is the sole remaining heat conductor,
And in spite of repeated patches of white noise,
Conversations no longer take place,
I am traipsing right now through its gauzeway estates,
Broadwater Farm benefactors,
Have deemed me a touch too posh,
For daring to set foot,
In the Desert Rose of Kensal Rise coffee shop,
In my Sun Records belt buckle,
We the undersigned supervisors of tomorrow,
Have deemed her posh as pluck,
For whispering instead of shouting,
I’m the one with the champagne eyes,
She’s the all-purpose supervisor,
For the least drafty bus station,
In North West Angleterre,
Sustained aggression from,
Their Games Workshop compendiums,
Those decorated brigadier townies,
Have heartily lost all vector control,
With bladders like Dover sole,
Twigs jabbed in Stella cans,
On their way home, snortingly so,
From that rubble islanded public house,
The Strawberry somethingorother,
As close as it ever got,
To land art in or around St. James’s,
And the linen was parched at the Bicycle Hotel,
It looked as if it had just been fed through a ghost’s nose,
There’s some slipshod hectic afoot,
In room 9,
Those inglorious plasterers,
Struck dumb,
By our heterogeneous popguns,
In all their panoptic idiocy,
Us the squidgy centres,
Of the copywriting hemisphere,
Too busy breaking a crime thriller mould for today,
To notice the noiseless fact,
That Satay was the only glue left,
And boy Geore were Art materials scarce that winter,
Those empty plinths in Rosehip Square,
Had ended up in a battle zone,
Mabel Joy Revisted had deemed them,
Unneccesarily posh,
Although I’d hardly call her a specious thinker on the matter,
Having been somewhat decapitated by,
By a virtual reality stray cymbal,
Just 20 secs prior,
And Pest Controller Starfish Numpty,
Was fucking her queasy,
Through his post-grad greaseproof blanket,
For the best part of the night before,
Oh I hear that her favourite roleplay,
Was him donning,
This papier mache balloon head,
Onto which Jeremy Clarkson’s facial features,
Skilfully rendered,
And felating her, vaugely, in it,
I mean the thing didn’t even have mouth on it,
He was after all,
Empty Plinth Porforoy’s classiest defender,
And the terrifying spanner,
In said ‘Cirque Du Soliel’ endorsed,
Broadsheet supplements’ ugly truth manner,
Please re-address all correspondence to Indoor Knuckles Esq.,
That highly accomplished nasal flautist,
Having deemed his writing too pottish,
C/o Eel Pie Island slasher movie drivel,
And what with honky-tonk Wurlitzer’s none-the-flashier,
He was fuck all use to our cause neither,
Little bit on the posh side you see,
He’d got a concave chest,
And he’d suck a pissy cloot dry,
In the vilest pub toilets in all Kentish Town,
Bit too Channel Islanderish in his outlook,
With snooty Varese O.S.T flourishes,
In his Limescale Junior executive name badge,
Pensively designed by Zimmer Frame Ink Spot Jr,
Wizard Sleaze my oldest pal,
Spilt soil on my dearest cushion cover,
Motifs from a soldier of humour,
Keeping the archivist spirit alive,
Bent outta shape commercial traveller,
Matinee performance at the Appletree Theatre,
Reluctant to brave the savage toll bridge,
Meanwhile I meditated into town,
Slanting into professorial mode,
I was fully shorn of my vegan repertoire,
Playing the gearstick for laughs,
Are new potatoes ever really new?

East Coast Impediment Cycle

2010-01-15T02:59:00.000-08:00

Mister Blister
Hilly-chested bus driver sez “give me something for me marrow”,
Instead of ‘fares please’,
Anything should suffice us,
In a bus lane this absurdly rigid,
As long as it’s not a chip off the old ‘East Coast Impediment Cycle’,
And by the way has anyone ever called you Mister Blister,
Whilst stenographically munching away,
On that classic fell walker’s jumbo pork pie?

The Harvey’s Bristol Cream Recliner
Fragments from the Queen’s speech,
Timpani wordplay contractors have exceeded their remit,
Too tight to repatch it,
Jesterly engulfing the minions,
Dousing down the Harvey’s Bristol Cream recliner,
With situationist radox,
I’m in a fine fuckin’ fettle,
In need of broken filter for HRH’s kettle,
And here comes the blow-up,
For said kettle’s fidgety blurb,
I caught it napping,
In the classified pages of You Magazine,
Image: juicy,
Look: elegant,
Easy to clean,
Attractive colours…

Spanish City Fleece
For 30 years there seemed no end,
To his biggish bag of elastic bands,
In the 4th drawer down,
He has also hidden,
The broken spine,
Of a Garison Keillor book,
Wibbly Pig on relic hunter fan site,
Eating gospel fried chicken,
Wrapped in holographic cellotape,
And the nickname of that weeks lecture was,
‘A Pine Nut Makes a Meal in Itself’,
With cinematography by Pekingese dog,
Flinging low-country literature at the farce,
Of his Spanish City fleece,
The bewitching high point of his end title apathy,
Bonding over biscuits,
Chewing up the edges of a complimentary envelope,
From the 2010 Whirligig Beetle almanac.

development of new curling clubs on arena ice in the USA

2010-01-11T17:26:00.000-08:00

heres a poem from hath: into his cloak Vale giggled discreetly, I heard this man speaking Scottish with a Vienna accent,but that's just his paperchase pith helmet for your berbiage, so here's the real poem or i don't see why it shunt be?

Notable curling clubs
Main article: List of curling clubs
• Bemidji Curling Club – Bemidji, Minnesota, Home of the 2006 United States Men's & Women's Olympic Curling Teams
• Broomstones Curling Club – Wayland, Massachusetts
• Blackhawk Curling Club – Janesville, Wisconsin
• Cape Cod Curling Club – Falmouth, Massachusetts
• Chicago Curling Club – Chicago, Illinois
• Columbus Curling Club – Columbus, Ohio — One of the United States' newest clubs
• Curling Club Utrecht – Utrecht, Netherlands
• Dakota Curling Club – Burnsville, Minnesota – a leading example of the development of new curling clubs on arena ice in the USA
• Detroit Curling Club – Ferndale, Michigan
• Duluth Curling Club- Duluth, Minnesota – Largest curling facility in the United States
• Garrison Golf and Curling Club, Kingston, Ontario
• Grand National Curling Club – Organization in the United States covering clubs on the east coast
• Granite Curling Club – Winnipeg, Manitoba
• Granite Curling Club – Seattle, Washington, the only dedicated curling facility on the west coast of the United States
• Greenacres Curling Club, Scotland – Home of the Salt Lake City Olympics gold medal winning Ladies team of 2002.
• Hollywood Curling Club, Los Angeles, CA – Home of one of the newest curling clubs in the United States; website
• Fenton's Rink – the first curling rink in England
• South of England Curling Club (SECC) – Active club in South England
• Ice Melters Curling Club — England
• KW Granite Curling Club - Waterloo, Ontario
• Markinch Curling Club – Fife, Scotland
• Mayflower Curling Club – Halifax, Nova Scotia
• Milwaukee Curling Club – Mequon, Wisconsin — The oldest curling club in the U.S. – Since 1845
• Nutmeg Curling Club — Bridgeport, Connecticut
• Ottawa Curling Club — Ottawa, Ontario
• Pittsburgh Curling Club — Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania — Established in 2002
• Plainfield Curling Club — South Plainfield, New Jersey
• Rideau Curling Club — Ottawa, Ontario
• Royal Caledonian Curling Club — Scotland, the official Mother Club of curling
• Royal Montreal Curling Club — Montreal, Quebec, the oldest active athletic club in North America
• Royal City Curling Club — New Westminster, British Columbia
• Saint Paul Curling Club — St. Paul, Minnesota – Founded in 1885. Club with largest active membership in the United States (over 1000 members).
• Schenectady Curling Club – Schenectady, New York – Established 1907 – Home to the Gordon Medal
• Utica Curling Club — Utica, New York
• Waltham Curling Club — Triumph, Illinois : The Oldest Curling Club in Illinois (Est. 1884)
• Windsor Curling Club — Windsor, Nova Scotia
• Roseland Golf and Curling Club - Windsor, Ontario
• Wauwatosa Curling Club – Wauwatosa, Wisconsin – Home of 2005 U.S. Women's Olympic Curling Team coach.
• Kilsyth – the first constituted curling club in the world

Hearing Aid Stucco Funk

2010-01-06T01:35:00.000-08:00

They said she was a Thomas Cook archivist in a past life,
Sipping Tropicalia energy drinks Nostradamusly,
Whilst tiling over her dressing gown,
On her way out of this world,
Used to be a double ‘A’ propeller blade,
In Brian Auger’s oblivion express,
Speaking of canonical cobwebs,
The name of the father was Benjamin Froth,
Who cried at the drop of a carp,
Fractal hid the aisle seat,
And was the very cornerstone of anti-theoretical stone tablature,
Weighing in, in the style of very early Mazzacane,
Hearing aid stucco funk,
Gentile forays therein,
Motives of facial shelving,
The Wiltshire of her melodies,
A somewhat immodest take,
On liturgical folk ubiquity.

One Hoarse Quip

2010-01-05T16:15:00.000-08:00

Praise be to the weeping shrimp,
Scrimping and saving in world of alcoves,
With thee three chicken secrets,
Clutching them to his harth,
And one hoarse quip held at arms limp,
With accompanying extremely annoying visuals,
From the Medieval punditry down in Paddington Basin,
Nothing remotely short-sighted,
About that Mexican bloke in the scotch pie anorak,
Or his busby-hatted colic dropsy,
Cheek-by-jowl,
At the Cactus Language School,
Kings Cross specimen,
I wouldn’t fit for less than £10,000 a day,
Came the cry,
From offside snugly environs,
Of his Monteverdi desk tidy and so on and so on and effin’ this and elephantilism that and the two-fold, wan-lit, brick-blown pittle pots of tomorrow…

Summer Wine Threshold

2010-01-03T02:05:00.000-08:00

72% of all royalty cheques never show up,
Tiny contractor Lilith has spiked his pewter you see,
Or Elsie’s honk-wrecked the bandwidth of his hypothetical moon,
Making fun of my gardening gloves,
In his Pierre Cardin sulky Christmas socks,
This sky blue signing to Decca Records,
Indeterminate hypo-divisional panty warblers,
Konk-free 13th hole anthro-disciple,
Sorbet clag frigging away horridly,
At soggybleat picture hooks,
Oh luckless storage jar what a way to refute,
Something offal-shaped,
Through the midges of the café door,
Written on a bandage or something of that ilk,
There was a skin graft still fresh,
Redundant as you like,
On the beribboned summer wine threshold of it,
Around about the gauze to the rear of it,
Bring me sunshine, bring me laminates,
Or umpteen types of omelette available.

Bonus Pork Leg

2009-12-26T22:51:00.000-08:00

Bonus pork leg this very Christmas day,
In Des Lynam’s forgotten front garden,
Coalescing permanently,
With Swarfega graffiti remover,
Drawling bandily,
Bags upon bags of burlesque cashew nuts,
With an optional clawing device,
Zebra dowp broccoli parcels,
Into their concept for learning,
Was my attorney at the time,
Of the Alberville Winter Olympics,
All was gonzo there,
With curatorial wieners aplenty at the British Heart Foundation,
All was gizzard-strewed burlap there,
Fanning his prize sow,
With corridor shaped lunchables,
He liked to tell everybody he was from Waitrose, Texas,
Varese-palmed vagabond,
Poem For
But never he was,
He was from George Michael’s womb and that’s that.
Make what sunken galleons,
Of Bisto gravy you will,
Had Henry Threadgill for breakfast instead,
And a side parting of,
Primary resourcer for the Dominions Land Act,
With Panda kong feta sneezes for his foot fetish,
For fear of losing your wallet up the back of the thermostat debacle,
Gregorian chanting within a five mile grass blade,
His competition winning baldy pate,
Is subject to perms and conditioner,
In an Iris Murdoch opening spat,
‘Twas the funniest bruise I ever got,
A floorboard splintered my dreadlock,
On the 7th most coasterly houseboat,
In the Chesty Cough peninsula,
Of Western Saxifrages,
He was yeasting me dungareed dumbbellishments,
In his hypercritical gallows eyebrow afterglow,
Humorous to say the least,
Straight out of Sodusall Bay,
Took a supervising non-prostration,
In the Groat sector merriment,
Brewing for a poo,
On the Sheilds Ferry howitzer,
I hope this does a fair to middling job,
Of explaining the Lightning Slim of the present situation,
Block ornaments with none of the trimmings,
Oh the dis-cherished mantelpiece of it all,
Etc, etc, yarn off, yarn on.

Elliot Poopie Drawers And His Baby Cardie Abreast Team

2009-12-03T06:16:00.000-08:00

Here's a little bit of a poem i scribbled down this morning with a ploppy soppy baby theme, loosely so...

Aggreagate e-greetings from Little Tommy Tippee,
with a pooh stick sash,
and a backyard cornflake bash,
some fluffy poppy toffee,
and a puppy soppy guppy,
'ere Guv'nor there's a fig roll disposition,
on that there Toblerone titty,
Hollow Ponds booby lake,
is open for bimbo limbo,
Bernie Inn Spam as per usual,
stooping to chippy choppy,
perambulate the bobbin stool,
at Sir Alfred Hitchcock Hotel,
a half a quint of nipple cream,
and a Stokey Churchy phlegm lagoon,
cursing Booby Gillespie,
on his way to the primula spool,
unpeg your fart and goose brim the hat balm,
me middle names Bamber Gascoigne,
although the registrar's a stuck up fibula,
hands up you're free,
a jigsaw huggable stool pigeon,
on the midwives big night out,
champagne pink and diorrhea blue slip-ons,
99pence a particle,
with Elliot Poopie Drawers on banjo,
conducting Karl Heinz Stockhausen,
through the eyes of an ambient goods whoopee cushion.

36 Swans Taking A Leak

2009-11-05T03:21:00.001-08:00

Now then, now then, here's a smoochy excerpt from a poopshoot that i'm working on at the moment (inbetween rehearsals for the X-Factor of course) called 'The Shields Ferry Howitzer'), if you're not from the North East of England the significance of this will probably escape you and i can hardly blame you for not being from the North East, it's not all it's cracked up to be...

"Swinging a carton containing piss,
And if we stare through this,
We just about make out the fact,
That the hinges on his front door were casual offal,
His bicycle chair was a basketball’s skin,
A boil in the bag puffin steak,
Makes for an inverse rear mud guard,
It takes a certain brand of puffinology,
i.e 36 swans taking a leak,
Into M. Portillo’s senior’s gaping gob,
To lay foundations this demented,
It’s crawling into my wallet,
It’s like I can hardly help it,
Wade through the administrative casserole unassisted,
With distancing shallot onions foot-painted onto the base of the bowl,
Which shall remain unglazed for sentimental reasons,
I am darning it’s beak,
For reasons of county council upkeep,
With a fibre optic semblance of order,
The odd rung on the corporate ladder,
Has been liberally smeared with invalidity butter,
As a token of your dreary Renfrew ferry,
I can just about fit it into my neap infested nasal opening,
His approximate set list has softened with age,
A fine looking gazebo plant was gift from graphics,
Containing snickometer opera swatches on each individual bud,
I took a job in retail like the male slag that I am,
Taking card payments into the nether reaches of bulb bukta-shaped tenet,
And today children we’ll be looking through the retail shaped window,
Why am I lambasting myself with Oxford Street every day,
Up to my guts in Dutch Tourists,
3 nights a week plus,
Weekends and shark funerals,
I am cramming myself with toddler-sized tartlets,
Before each understaffed shift takes place,
The bus floors were painted with an ocean spray mural,
Of a group of men hanging out with each other,
On the lower ground floor of the biggest record shop in the world,
Bar Japan but we won’t go into that,
Browsing their lives away,
How many pure cards you sold today?
Horrifyingly out of work gas meter readers,
Er, I mean, these horrifyingly stinky customers we have to kowtow to,
Putrid of mind, body, manners and musical taste,
Have turned me into a priggish foot soldier,
For the hambition team o’ squares,
Breathing stale liquor in our faces,
By way of enquiry,
When’s the new Porter Wagoner collection out?
First thing of a Saturday morning,
Leaving a trail of piss stained carpet tiles in their wake,
Weeping feet curling up at the edges,
Spreading fumes at the listening posts,
Contaminating the headsets with their bus conductor lank hair,
Scroting up the CD recommendation displays with their unwashed thumbnails,
Confederate flag draped and swaying barely,
Smoking an imaginary cigarette,
Smashed on his feet to The Travelling Wilbury’s,
Shall we call for security,
Under this convicted sex offenders very nose?
36 swans rasping on a leek,
A customer called me a cunt last Sunday,
Because I couldn’t identify the Liberace tune he was after,
And a smoochy bastard at that,
I called him one back with a dessicated walnut on top".

My Sole Remaining Taste Bud

2009-10-19T02:34:00.001-07:00

Another drawing I finished recently called 'My Sole Remaining Taste Bud'.

Heroes Of The Clap

2009-10-19T02:22:00.000-07:00

Here is drawing i completed recently, it's called 'Heroes Of The Clap'.

Lunceford Specials

2009-10-05T07:20:00.000-07:00

Even in his press shots perhaps he is blubbing, barrel organ bleeding for the cameras, forged betting slips staplegunned to his brow or are they 'Lunceford Specials'? Bulletins from an ingot begot guide dog labrador more like. Our trustee for the tete, our chitty for the fifedom, oh wart am i on about sez said Madge fan, how badly have i lost the plot? I just bought a Benny Goodman LP from a chairty shop.

Grade A Blood Sausage

2009-09-30T05:59:00.000-07:00

A snippet of misheard snuff pub banter, the feral bus ride ranter, the trajectory of a fly-tipped inflatable Santa… A six pack of Supermalt and a grade A blood sausage, a jar of sweaty coffee and a petulant egg…

Merriment

2009-07-07T04:55:00.002-07:00

Right here's an early bird batch of tinselated 'Gobshyte' song lyrics, stemming from the sticky thighed heights of last week's heatwave, when answering my mobile was enough to bring a sweat on, needless to say i'm spending most afternoons in air-conditioned chain pubs all over again, how dreary could life get, this could be my last summer ever, oh hell what a kick in the teeth, must remember to cheer up before Erika gets home from work... Oh well on plus side the riffs alright for this one...

What was cog?
What cog?
Casing the joint – with merriment x2
Like on The Proffesionals,
With just a hint of that almighty flop,
‘Showgirls’ (1994),
Gimmicked maquettes – of ‘Bullring’ prototypes,
International sorbet pit,
Tempo strawberries balanced on a,
Lappish eyelet,
The burglars have been in,
And tidied up my flat.

This one here’s of Britney Spears,
Rubbing coleslaw,
Into her private bits,
And Madonna hasn’t been able to stop crying all day,
I’m going out on a limb here,
By not Moonwalking incessantly,
They’re off upstairs to have a fuck,
See if her waters break,
She can’t stand these contractions any longer,
This song’s just getting merrier and merrier and merrier x 2.
(I’m afraid I don’t do finesse).

We’re saying it with roses,
Sez this busload of pervs,
Tactile merriment – in a virulent conker stance,
Sucking up to merriment – the ins and outs – various cul-de-sacs – glitzy reeds – Farsifa hat brims – plaintive conversation pieces,
Fanning the squares – a nautical look for the noughties,
Doffing his merriment – it’s his shithouse rat insignia.
This song’s just getting merrier and merrier and merrier x 2.

Ryan Air stewardess – forward slash – fairly on the blink concubine,
Pickled in a crumpled up lozenge,
Lincolnshire bangers in bas-relief,
Black leather fingernails streaming through the drapes,
Autographed sausages by King Solomon of Lincoln,
King Solomon of Lincoln x 2,
Brought car stickers to Lincoln in a big way…
This song’s just getting merrier and merrier and merrier x 2.

How’s about that for too much airborn merriment?
In flight entertainment taken to a new low,
The mile high club,
All I’ve got to say about that is,
Those jet streams,
On the flushes are fucking powerful stuff,
In an aeroplane,
85 scorpions couldn’t compete.

Rust Records Imprint (Adventures In Modern DADGAD Excerpt)

2009-07-07T04:55:00.001-07:00

Their one and only Top Of The Pops appearance,
Of ‘A Scruff At Heart’,
A cover version of Gilbert O’Sullivan,
In their eyes sandblasted,
By the embarrassing appearance,
Of Label Head/mascot for the day trip down,
In his ‘Temptation ‘Bout To Get Me’ t-shirt,
Perhaps a bandana bearing the legend,
‘Don’t You Think I’ve Suffered Enough Already?’
Would’ve been more appropriate,
This Bez of the piece,
A far cry from,
The austerity of the rest of the bands clothing,
Or as I like to call it their ‘undercover agents for Muji’ look,
They may as well have draped themselves from top to toe,
In incestuous irony overcoats by Henry Holland,
None of which is anywhere near as embarrassing,
As the band parading around backstage claiming,
To have single-handedly invented the genre ‘folk baroque’,
Only about 4 decades too late lads,
And you know where they can shove your DADGAD’s,
Your overly mannered adventures in modern day DADGAD.

The less said about their split LP with The Steel Wool Trio?
The better, ‘Patti Smith’s Unsponged Tablecloth’ was its name,
Shooting up side projects like their ‘increased footfall’ depended on it,
‘Wrought Iron Circus’ with an as yet uncredited,
Panamanian psychobilly act,
Must stand as one of the hollowest,
All of which amounts to little more,
Than a visor for their born ‘n’ bred laziness,
Putting the ‘dill’ back into dilettante,
And as for Label Head, of late,
He’s living through a nervous age,
He’s got a permanent kink in his you know what,
Due to what can only be described as,
A systematic bullying campaign,
On the part of the band,
What was their name again?
Yvonne’s Hernia wasn’t it?

A Dodecahedron Of Topside

2009-07-07T04:53:00.001-07:00

Dunno what i think about these poems now really? They're bit Yorkshire if you know what i mean?

So much for the posh printer,
He’s just spent all morning installing,
It would appear to be jamming,
On the greyscale setting,
The paper tray’s folded in on itself,
Which has got him in a state,
Of severe agitation,
‘I might as well get a job at the sanitation’,
He said, lambasting himself,
Whilst grating Nivea over his Weetabix with glee.

They say there’s no finesse to his writing,
Which he’s damned if he’ll concede,
A dodecahedron of topside,
Has stemmed his flow for dinner,
But he’s a far better writer,
Than you lot give him credit for.

The slightest broadsheet criticism,
Has him reeling,
Cuddling scrambled eggs on the side,
To his ample breast,
He has cooked them with his cuddles,
These are his topographical lashes,
He is pretty cushty at stockpiling,
Techno titles,
He is on a seven month sabbatical from,
From the specialities dungeon,
Researching his reclining novel,
Looking up the old Shopkeeper Trials,
Through the eyes of a crocodile lid.

He is scared of even looking at a poem,
Beyond the first draft,
They are sheer guts and hard graft,
If only he’d leave them like that,
Confusing criticism with hard fact,
“Breathing: why bother?”
Nodding off to the sounds of fluffing up a mash,
And if a books edges don’t resemble,
Puff pastry,
Blown up with a bicycle pump,
He ain’t happy.

Bus Conductor Lank Hair

2009-07-07T04:52:00.000-07:00

Succinct diarrhoea anodes,
Midsummer, checker-board painted toes,
Gnashing away at the sandals of blame,
6 cans of spinach for the price of 5,
I’ll never know how as long as I’m alive,
But she’s somehow succeeded in turning,
Her mean-spiritedness into a commodity,
Has cadged herself a sullied bit part,
As the official sponsor of the G20 riots,
She’s the best editor we’ve had in ages,
‘Get your fortified water balloon out of my face’,
Was her attitude to journalism,
And life, for her the same thing,
An oppositional stance that will never dim,
I wouldn’t exactly refer to her,
As the Mother Hen of our concern,
But we copped her off the Betterware catalogue all the same,
Her jumpers don’t smell that great,
Even I would be forced to admit,
Her cardigans are like ecosystems,
And she’s got bus conductor lank hair.

For The Good Of The Quiz Team

2009-07-07T04:51:00.000-07:00

In spite of her hairdo, a toe curling bun,
She was coming damn close to being,
The politest customer I’d ever served,
Now I’ve never been one to tire of detailing,
Therefore let’s have her snaffling away,
At a packet,
Of Housing Association wall brackets,
Whilst waiting for the sickbed on wheels,
56, Smithfields, clockwise,
Terminating at Mildmay Park today,
I also saw her admiring a mariner,
In a mint green hoodie,
She told me she was looking up De Kooning,
But only for the good of the quiz team,
She’s rescuing chipboard bagels,
From the clutches of a mime troupe,
Talk about a tableaux vivant.

Git On Sax

2009-07-07T04:47:00.000-07:00

Ok the next few posts'll be some poems i denounced back in May, before i got sacked and loved every minute of it...

A pickled dispensation,
With a dull implement,
In pre-paid hosiery,
Git on sax and missing content,
Bestiality on alto paraphernalia,
His fingernails were in a predicament,
They was obsolescence markdown criteria,
Scrawled all over the cuticles,
Of his quarantined thumbnails,
And his rabbit warren Fila trainers,
Were slipping all over the bus,
What piss poor purchase,
Better chase up that £50 note,
Cash refund from Foot Locker,
Better git it in your porkpie hat Postie, I said,
You can tell by the length of his stare,
That he thinks from the middle part of his brain,
And his mouldy personage,
Would seem to indicate,
That he drinks his own nose bleeds,
And puts on funeral services for deceased cats,
His life in valet parking,
An unmitigated farce,
He is talking into his Beckett book’s spine again,
Dialogue like: ‘I’ll buy you a jammy donut on the way home love’,
Has an inordinate amount of time for,
Joni Mitchell’s bad albums,
Is quite keen on perpetrating the lisp,
There’s soil on the cushion cover,
Motifs from a soldier of humour,
His jeans were worn down to a satiny thread,
When last I saw him,
Quaffing via a Northumbrian graveyard,
Or twelve,
He’s been lately having visions,
Stately visions,
Of uncapping the Krautrock nozzle,
Doing something reasonably fashionable,
With his early forties,
Better start disseminating,
Some feeler email dermatitis,
To the dispensing bee chemist,
On the subject of,
‘What will my Manx pound get me,
At the Obligato Stencil Library?’
Opening his account there with:
‘Although it’s looked as if,
It’s been going to the dogs,
For about 20 years now,
His lip has at long last caved in,
And you can bet your dwindling dollar,
He’s been aping Freddie Hubbard,
On his junior cornet.

Rural City

2009-06-05T01:44:00.000-07:00

Had something in common with phlegm,
And Len and them,
And lending them a hand,
My pleasure to meet your plurality,
In this rural city,
I’m a best selling author,
Whose just nipped out for a power walk,
In his deep vein thrombosis pop socks,
Scabies rules the park,
In the backseat,
Of a theatre director dwarf,
He’s set the date for his retirement,
For June next year,
His retirement gift a penny a chew.

Stupid Ball

2009-06-05T01:43:00.002-07:00

Get down out of the tree stupid ball,
Get down out of the tree bouncy ball,
Get out of your tree,
Vessel for my love,
Get down out of the hawthorn bush,
Even though it’s not far up,
You’re the bounciest ball I’ve ever had,
My Mam told me you’d gone ex-directory,
I’m upgrading you,
Dearest ball, tallest ball,
To holographic status,
Ah but what an idiotic racket you make,
As you ping up into the aether,
Lifting crisps up with you,
Munching these at deafening decibels,
Ah but here comes the flipside,
As if we need a flipside,
I thought you was gonna be a bouncy ball,
But you turned out to be a trick ball,
Made out of solid marble,
Lifting up paving stones,
Night in the cells for your trouble.

Questionable Character Yvgeny Kisser

2009-06-05T01:43:00.001-07:00

There’s a shop window with a sign in it,
Saying ‘no regulars’,
A dictaphone Mum mannequin,
With its left tit hanging out,
Some Scriabin safety bibs,
Put there by,
That questionable character,
Yvgeny Kisser,
That ditsy little window dresser,
Yvgeny Kisser,
He’s the Rudyard Kipling,
Of Upper Walthamstow,
Spread-eagled in the William The Fourth,
Listening to The Red Krayola,
Until he was blue in the face,
Famed for writing,
Fairly convincing covering letters,
Has opened up quite the niche market,
For penning covering letters,
That’d make a grown frogman wince,
And in his dreams his Mum,
Was always one of The Supremes,
And look at her in reality Yvgeny,
Have at at your Mum up close,
In sharp focus Yvgeny Kisser,
White Ace in a carrier bag,
Slumped against the ventilator shaft,
What was it Good King Wencelas said,
About a guillotined signalman’s head?
To quote ‘The Untouched Pint’ by Yvgeny Kisser.

Rust Records Imprint (A Cloud Of Puffed Wheat - Achilles Tendon Excerpt)

2009-05-21T02:03:00.000-07:00

The band has one or two misplaced gripes,
About Rust Records pathetic graphics,
In particular the dust jackets,
Yes that’s ‘dust jackets’ for their 2nd album ‘Quantity Street’,
Which according to the cramping drummer,
Looks as if it must’ve been designed,
Under a cloud of puffed wheat,
Which is pie in the sky stuff on the part of the band,
As if that’s reason why,
‘Quantity Street’ bombed so spectacularly,
And their career plans are grinding to a halt,
Day jobs looming on the horizon again,
The boss does the covers,
Just in case you didn’t realize,
Anyway, he had the idea once,
And I think quite an endearing one,
About wanting to give away a free Calor Gas stove,
With copies of a limited edition box set,
In a severely hamstrung run,
Lumping together the bands first three album stiffs,
Plus assorted ephemera, no make that apocrypha,
Attributed to various band flotilla,
It was some pretty low down ‘n’ dirty revenge tactics on the part of the band,
To exploit Label Head’s KitKat Senses phobia.

Rust Records Imprint (Adventures In Modern DADGAD)

2009-05-21T01:56:00.000-07:00

He may as well have draped himself from top to toe,
In an incestuous irony overcoat a la Henry Holland,
None of which is anywhere near as embarrassing,
As the band parading round claiming,
To have single-handedly invented a genre called ‘folk baroque’,
Only about 4 decades too late lads,
And you know where they can shove your DADGAD’s,
Your overly mannered adventures in modern day DADGAD,
The less said about that split LP with The Steel Wool Trio?
The better, ‘A Scruff At Heart’ was its name,
Shooting up side projects like their ‘increased footfall’ depended on it,
‘Wrought Iron Circus’ with an as yet uncredited,
Panamanian psychobilly act must stand as one of the hollowest.
All of which amounts to little more,
Than a visor for their born ‘n’ bred laziness,
Putting the ‘dill’ back into dilettante,
And as for Label Head of late,
He’s living through a nervous age,
He’s got a permanent kink in his you know what,
Due to what can only be described as,
A systematic bullying campaign,
On the part of the band,
What was their name again?
Yvonne's Hernia or something?

Party Hat Sombrero (Stubby Fingered Edit)

2009-05-15T01:44:00.000-07:00

Shredded up scabby poetic nonesense (not like real writing):
I was so young then,
Like a propelling pencil in mind and body,
They plonked me next to a right tit
A Sunday painter of the brightest hue,
Sharecroppers and homeopathy were his topics of drone,
Cauldron sausage fingers,
Kettle, pot, black,
Some spiffing examples of 19th century experimental taxidermy,
In a fly-tipped perambulator,
The other side of the fence from,
The World’s End’s beer garden,
Advertisements in a shop window,
For hot or cold insulated cups,
Halloumi sandwiches,
Cold, no butter, no marg, cheese not even grilled,
In a floppy baguette if you were lucky.

Rubbery Cucumber (Pathetique Edit)

2009-05-01T02:03:00.000-07:00

He was on the toilet floor for close to an hour,
Talking to himself,
About whether or not he thought loud hailers were cheating,
The conclusion was that he did,
This is how strict he is for the Delta blue...

Party Hat Sombrero 2006 Vintage (Blogflu Edit)

2009-04-30T01:56:00.000-07:00

I remember you skewered,
Your party hat sombrero on a bollard,
On the Stroud Green Road,
With the curried goat still rumbling round my guts,
Advertisements for hot or cold insulated cups,
Halloumi sandwiches,
Cold, no butter,
Was mine a porkpie?
It had some corks hanging off it anyway,

Some Stuff I've Been Burning Out Of The Library

2009-04-25T06:37:00.000-07:00

blogging from the innards of me first pint frog, just been in wetherspoons, er, baxters court special branch, fresh from having a conversation about spatial intelligence with Bryan Parsons in the chair. Also enjoyed a pint of Meantime real ale and a cocoa dusted choco-mint ice cream contraption. In the Hackney Central library just now on me monthly CD burning trawl, just been returning amongst others and as if you really need to know but i'd be willing to be that it beats reading about Paris Hilton and Kelly Osbourne club toilet shenanigans any day: here's the almost a list (bearing in mind this all gonna be off the top of me head like): 1) a CD compilation of Tuvan Throat Singing: Cowboy Songs From The Wild East which is truly something to behold, 2)a Manu Dibango album called Electric Africa, 3) a CD comp of Ukranian folk songs from the late 20's on the Arthoolie label, 4) volume 3 in Honest Jon's 'London Is The Place For Me' calypso series, a 1982 Deustche Grammophon recording of Mahler's 4th with Leonard Bernstein and the Concertgebouw Orchetsra, 5) & 6) Volumes 4 and 5 of the Best of Atlantic Rhythm & Blues roughly covering the period from 1957-1966, 7) Joan Of Arc by Tony Conrad, which i believe was some sort of a soundtrack for 60s avant garde film possible Jack Smith wahtshisname? Now i'm getting a trifle sketchy no wait for it, 8) a compilation of Naftule Brandwein called The King Of Klezmer Clarinet, i particularly went for this one, i think the clarinet is my favourite new instrument, well, along with the hammond organ that is, what else, er? 9) A comp called The Nuyorican Salsa Experience, 10) was a Jorge Ben comp 'Brazilian Hits & Funky Classics' or some other shitty title, there was two more but i forget, well better go enough of the this Calgaryism. This s depot petulance cubed, hasn't got a bitchy bone in his bod.

Puce Memorial (Quiet Poem - Brittle Edit)

2009-04-21T02:21:00.000-07:00

Yarning on a bobbly bit,
A caretaker’s used condom,
With essence of neck extract,
In a toy policeman’s hat,
I just threw a toothpaste tube,
Through a loved ones windowpane,
And contemplated joining the Conway Hall Jazz Appreciation Society,
Toning down the puce memorial of the staff room,
I put my thoughts down in a drawing,
Called ‘Porcelain Through The Ages’,
One of his staff recommendations was,
A ‘Bless This House’ box set.

On Death's Doorstep 2nd Draft (Pumice Stone Extract)

2009-04-21T02:12:00.000-07:00

I’m like a drowsy chaperone all over,
Since taking this job as an hourly hours,
Litter picker, at the Sleeping Beauty Motel,
I’d have been better off getting a job mending backs.

Tent Peg Bop 2nd Draft (Yeast Excerpt)

2009-04-21T02:10:00.000-07:00

A whole family in Clissold Park,
Is checking its heels for dog shit,
What they’ll need when they,
Get back home later on,
Is a flat head screwdriver for the grips,
For the gaps in the grips,
And some Whiffaway McAlpine,
For sprinklsies on tops…

Don't Forget To Mess Around (Part 2) (Orchideceous Excerpt)

2009-04-10T09:54:00.000-07:00

Dissertation for the prunes diligently working their magic on me,
With soda raga fountain states of mind,
Floating in a sea of Quaker Oats, oh-so simple,
Paste ‘Ping Pong Studios’ logo by appending table,
Brig-a-doon clunk, Bewes’s clacka,
Bio Verdi snog-yog – middle period milk tray sonata,
Cap-stannin’ in the devil’s stultifying coughter

Don't Forget To Mess Around (Part 3)

2009-04-09T10:04:00.000-07:00

Microscopic cheek gash,
Fluxus mouldy hay,
Some verification needed here,
I am tempted to fry these eggs,
Without the oil they were born in this morning,
You see I Just got back from holidaying on River Island,
Bearing Velcro-constrained oven gloves all round,
And refusing to clean my toilet bowl out on philosophical grounds,
Sounds overly simplistic,
And narrative driven I am well aware,
But on the front flagstones a phalanx,
Of used up, no, make that spent ear buds,
Some grievous gardening gloves,
And a bug-eyed Sunderland platter,
Left there by the darts player,
Co Stompe,
In the designated picnic area,
Here lies entombed a copy,
Of Sonic Youth’s fifth worst album,
By some (HEFTY) margin,
And don’t forget to do the mulch around a little bit,
Oh it’s hellish, how our lady security guard rankles,
And rifles through my Updikes and my Bradburys,
Her eyelids droop Biba-like,
Embellishments on a despairing liver,
You Cresta Run charver,
Me pruning-hams of parks department Parma,
The screen’s come off the carrier,
And I for one never forget to do the mess around,
Whilst simultaneously borrowing books,
From two separate London boroughs,
And even though I’m gainfully employed these days,
I piss myself laughing at benefit scamsters,
In admiration,
Meanwhile, as victims of facial shelving,
Wield wan Brillo pads without discretion,
TV Wales tastes like photoshopped braised penis,
Leyton (where I have the misfortune to live), is torture,
Like wading, through setting toffee,
I swear down I’ll sue them for peeking,
Through the grills, down into the gents toilets,
Them Steadler hieroglyph lasses,
Sporting their Animal Aid fleeces,
Only zipped ¾’s of the way up,
In that pub The Ship Aground,
Thank Christ it’s no longer gonna be around,
And don’t forget to not count out aloud,
I might as well remake myself in the Michael J. Fox body template,
I might as well pen the ballad of gnat,
Subtext: so and so impaled on a jug handle,
How’s that for breaking an iris over your needle?
Some scholarly dollops of misplaced rectal tissue,
For ‘Vague’ Magazine photo-shoot freebie,
Send along tractor enthusiast,
Who crosses your knees for you,
This was surely a figment of his pebble-dashed terrace,
That’s one room for hair and make up,
And one room to shoot,
Ah aye and don’t forget the cupboard under the stairs for the syrups,
The fines, on my library cards are beginning to stack up again,
That’ll be volumes 1-10 then,
The Encyclopaedia of 18th Century English Drinking Glasses, the culprit,
Gladiatorial in his conversational tics,
Sez the Stella Fate Warren, a.k.a Hedgefund McCartney,
We must be on Edmonton Green by now?
And hey don’t forget to mess around with fingertips dipped verily,
In snotty vermicelli,
Some punchy topic headers for our little nippers,
All 22 year olds intrinsically know,
The hidden symmetries behind the (of all things) Gap Logo,
It’s not their shop though,
What it is, is the birth of an industry,
Performing live at ‘Puberty Hall’,
Since the 21st we’ve had an almost continuous gale,
Blowing 57 varieties of arsehole around East London,
And all the other artworks in that ‘Group Shoe’,
But mine were ‘spinach blasters’ at best,
School scarves wrapped around cinder blocks,
And don’t forget to piss your 2012 away,
Ok, let’s talk a little bit about ‘The Boneless Quartet’,
Secreted around The White Hart’s snug,
Massaging each other knuckles post-fight,
With some margarine that’s gone rancid,
Propelling themselves towards a quiet pint,
Staved in hat brims jettisoned,
Their rebel beaks of rank teak,
Tattoos of Elbow’s lumpen vocalist,
On the soles of their feet,
Will new customers please quote ‘poster’,
Everyone has cute jackets here,
You crystal clean undies,
Me sarcophagus realist,
That cat’s not big enough, to swing a balcony from,
And don’t forget to play the sneaky heel to a ‘T’,
Gave those lads ‘n’ lasses from the Kronos & The Arditti,
A run for their money,
They laid down their gambling apparatus,
They coated, some squid tubes in marg,
Put toenail clippings in a vase,
And then forgot to wash their hands,
Prior to cutting the ribbons,
On the Diocesan School of Action Painting,
I’m one big baby for scoffing
Corned beef hash for tea every night,
The same thing every night,
Every night the same thing,
The same thing every night,
Every night the same thing,
Sometimes with tomato sauce and sometimes not even that.

Don't Forget To Mess Around (Part Two)

2009-03-23T03:06:00.000-07:00

Dissertation for the prunes currently working their magic on me,
With soda raga fountain states of mind,
Porridge this morning was more pap than sap,
Paste Ping Pong Studios by appending table,
I’m gonna make out of you what a brass really means,
Bio Verdi, middle period milk tray sonatas,
Brig-a-doon clunk, Bewses’s clacka,
Cap-stannin’ in the devil’s stultifying coughter,
None of his mugs had their handles on the wrong side,
Lea Valley git valve sez don’t forget to mess around,
He’ll always be the kid,
His lass’ll always be the rose of no man’s land,
I.e. the bowels of The Bakers Arms,
No longer a pub,
With titles that go on for weeks,
With titties that have beeks,
My sweet tooth sez I wannna my wisdom sez no,
This recipe was also given wings by Frauline Trilok Gurtu,
Gloveland bubble ‘n’ squawk,
Oh look two funny jubilee eyes on an upturned serviette,
That woman I stole her from my own,
Some calls it surrogate incest,
With gaga bulbs as the blushing bride,
There’ll never be another you with Dutch keyboard disco visceral verite,
Oh ok then Anthony Braxton on the jukebox it is then.

Don't Forget To Mess Around (Part One)

2009-03-19T02:40:00.000-07:00

Elbows flaring up at Ayresome Park, Middlesboro on Boxing Day 1958,
Cushioning the halftime Liszt announcements,
With a determination to stuff the air,
Every pocket turret of it,
With a zed bed already in it,
Or near enough directly above it,
Cantankerous basslines as my far as my,
Trusty sidekick, jumped up piece of zeitgeist fluff solicitor’s eyeballs could entrap,
‘N’ top-down ‘dowp-zines’ tell of newbies Neck Trap,
And what the hell are they talking about over on Radio 4’s Today program,
You can tell by the tone of their voices it’s the recession,
Radio 3’s ‘Liszt’s Student Dirty Water Campaign’,
Pecan shelf life underpinning the review section,
Reminds reviewer of ‘Crazy Jane On The Mountain’,
Lights up reviewer eyes to the locus of the genre Terpwelve,
Summing up then: hemplov2,
The twelfth most important new musical sub-genre (and therefore indie by default) for 2009,
According to the Observer Music Monthly magazine,
The ferris wheel’s alive and well, on one horizon,
Baritone mulch b’s ‘Things Can Only Get Better’ is partaking of the other,
With the subtlety awnings taken off,
And don’t forget to shine your roll of hymnage up,
On a fuel of heritage potage,
By kittiwake amp cordon,
Re-mastering plants by Absentia Kiwi Pip,
And funnily enough,
That torn semester his tittypulp of an excuse for a beard,
Had knitted itself into the pea souper of a wasp liver,
And whilst we’re on the subject the new boy,
Had vainly attempted to stick price tags to his burgeoning beard,
Earlier on that day at the evening shift,
This had succeed in cracking him and him alone up,
At later retellings there was ingrowing foolscap,
Never mind the camaraderie,
This had not been the easiest of his essay writing days,
Gravy from the ocean liner on the bus back home,
And thanks for not falling asleep dear listener.

Details Of Group Show That I'm In In New York

2009-03-14T03:56:00.000-07:00

At the top of the page you'll find one of my new drawings, it's called 'The Empty Foxhole'. Currently showing in a contaminated crevice across the pond, i.e i'm in a group shoe in New York City whether you or I like it or not. The opening is next thursday, hope you all can make, as if?! Anyway joking aside here's the link to the website, good chaps as far as i can tell: www.baileygallery.com. Not a link but that's correct address. The show is called 'Champagne & Baloney', put together by a top notch poet and all round art enthusiast named Geoffrey Young. I'll post more new drawings during the week. Apologies for the inexplicable white line at the top of the image, this is not the fault of Bryan Parsons, who did a sterling job of scanning and photoshopping them the other night.

Hedge Fund-McCartney (Semi-Legible Song Lyrics From The 3rd Month)

2009-03-14T03:51:00.001-07:00

Filthy knickers on the floor,
Of this fictive launderette,
Far from lilywhite,
Gusset facing out over,
No doubt left there by,
Hedge Fund McCartney earlier on,
Er, you’ve dropped something there love,
They’ve been languishing there all morning,
Coz every cunts too scared,
To stoop to pick the fuckers up,
What!!!

Good lord it might as well be spring,
Because I can’t hardly stand it,
These things called changes,
How dare the minutes seem like hours,
All I could do was cry,
(a.k.a stop the wedding),
Over my dead congregation we will,
I said “if you can’t be with the one you love,
Then love the one you’re with”.

Maryland light stopped play,
Her badminton was pure aggression,
Cantankerous bassline,
Racket strings glistening with placebo,
She’s ashamed of how fast,
Her Ashington accent has dwindled,
Just nipping out to buy gear love,
For the duration of a service wash,
Er, we’re here to collect the Lagos Island tablecloths?

It’s a no doubt crushing blow to the,
Ear candle industry – burgeoning,
The next thing you know they’ll bringing back ear trumpets,
And broiling up a hairgrip risotto,
An odd dish to begin with,
Everyone’s a word on a page to begin with,
And those state farm burger burps will never recede.

Who’s not a sponge?
Everyone’s a sponge,
Privy council enchilada,
Blood ace, blood cage,
Finger coal, thing ball,
Damson brunt,
Big box of Mondrian,
The dockers’ cat draped in tinsel,
Well now he’s dipping his,
Bug-eyed toe into,
The wonky waters of wine appreciation.
The Cliff Richard line at M&S,
Dale Winton is a nice man.

He’s an offroad pelvis,
He’s nothing if not devisive,
And I’m the living embodiment of defensive.

Porcelain Through The Ages (A New Drawing Of Mine)

2009-03-12T05:01:00.000-07:00

With a bit of luck there should be an image of a drawing i completed earlier this week attached to this post. It's name is 'Porcelain Through The Ages'.

Demon One/ Pub Lunch Review

2009-03-05T02:00:00.001-08:00

He will never write anything of note until faces up to demon one. He’s got molehills of (unrelated) writing lying around his flat, full to the lip with made up words and phrases such as ‘traditious counterpoint’, all a bit bloody pointless really, if you wanna look at it that way. Refuses to get help, believes in ‘life is something to be endured at best’. No ones got work, everyone’s got cold sores. Everyone’s wearing potato hats, put wheels on pedalos, this town’s running wild with record shop gigolos, the charity shops are as empty as peoples wank banks. Hi-de-hi he’s a fully fledged adult male now and yet still the only people he can truly trust with all of his petty secrets are his teddy bear collection, or else it’s his shiny, shiny scissors or whatever it is this week. There’s a nook in his cellar leading to a busload of pervs. He’s an early hours parasite to begin with right (far from blameless), well now he’s dipping his bug-eyed toe into the wonky waters of wine appreciation. Social interaction null ‘n’ void, still a train wreck, stabbing his eyes with others peoples blank stares. And I see on the banners that Annie Lennox is ‘donating’ an in-store meet ‘n’ greet to His Master’s Voice this time next week and I think I’ll let that one passd without comment shall I? Sarky comments taken to heart, I don’t know how you mean things all the time, you’re from the valley of the smooth and I’m not? His writing’s getting teenager and teenager every minute that clacks past. There is nothing inherently wrong about your wheat cracker pillow case, this is not the horrid cargo you’ve read so much about. There you go what a vile piece of writing that was. So now I’m being punished for my puny cafeteria area is that it? On a lighter note: having a ball up in Newcy, well it's been ok anyway, yes went to York on Friday and had gammon, 2 fried eggs and chips, review of meal: gammon slightly overcooked and tough although tasty enough, chips a bit sparse, eggs not runny enough for my liking, no peas and no salad neither if my memory serves me correct? Dad had a slice of lime in his coke and i didn't what's all that about? Working away like a fool on me drawings up here, am currently working on one called 'Porcelain Through The Ages' very pleased with that title. Also working on a new song called 'Hedge Fund McCartney' which has lines about 'dirty knickers languishing on the launderette floor' eeh hinney it's some classy imagery i can tell ya? Anyway back to the standard London grind: them cola bottles were a little brittle dontcha think? The potatoes that day were pure mulch, had a peculiarly cloth like texture about them. The more the writing the less the editing which doesn’t exactly make for chewy literary meringue. He is literary in so far as he’s read a fair few books, he’s also farted once or twice too. And while we’re on the subject ‘he even flirted with her farts’ is probably the best line I’ve written in ages. I am beginning to wonder how the world and I haven’t met yet. Her uncle was in the magnetic flounder trade for a bit so I here, he spilled his beans to the frankfurters lat last night.

Uncle Padraig's Ex-Sandshoes

2009-02-26T12:25:00.000-08:00

Sporting a dinner jacket over a denim jacket over a turtle neck, committing crime after crime against gimmicky clothing, pottering the length and breadth of the platform in Uncle Padraig’s ex-sandshoes and that’s some hard sandshoes to fill son. The very fabric of railway sleepers had come to dominate said uncle’s plus nephew’s sad existence for quite a while there, coming home late and brimming with huff night in night out. And where was the last of the great-aunts I hear you ask: with her omnipresent antiseptic whiff she is reading a photocopy of a photocopy of Mrs Dalloway with a pressing misapprehension, on the 125 up north, as we speak, somewhere in the vicinity of Doncaster, our security pot plants caught her biting down hard on some particularly apathetically crafted short crust pastry thingimy. Due to a set of National Express downturn cutbacks, her journey took 325 years. Oh aye and back to me Uncle Padraig, who’s no Padraig at all, yous lot might know him better as George Drenching Sr, who’s Buddhism has fled presently, vaulted the tumbler-bedecked garden wall so it has, George is currently taking solace in the denial of sleep (pretty blood faddy huh?), making transitional pillows out of his newfound regions abundance, of limestone quarries, of all the shrivelled up places he could’ve chosen. He’ll still be committing suicide when Buck Rodgers plaques town. And what does all this tell us if it doesn’t tell us that (out of the corner of my eye), the only lady trainspotter I’ve ever spotted is breaking code #1 by failing to position herself at a sufficient platform extremity.

Lux Interior Obituary

2009-02-19T03:47:00.001-08:00

I’d just like to mention the very sad passing away of Lux Interior of The Cramps the other day, The Cramps are absolutely one of my top 5 bands of all time and a very personal influence on a lot of the visual art and music I’ve done. Who needs food when you’ve ‘Songs The Lord Taught Us’? Christ I can hardly contain my excitement, having rediscovering them over the last couple of days, I’d forgotten all about the little blighters. Talk about the genuine article, he was surely the best front man since Iggy, a truly groundbreaking band really, bringing together so many disparate strands into their cauldron (well I can’t write criticism for toffee but you get the picture), from garage, rockabilly, surf with all that b-movie, comic book and horror imagery, like no one had really thought of before, it’s almost impossible to think of now, that these kind of collisions are fucking everywhere, water down into sleep-pest pop promos, but not then, not like that, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!! And they pulled if all off with such panache and an undreamt of visceral intensity and from what I hear he was a real gentle and intelligent guy off stage, not a rock ‘n’ roll casualty in any shape or form. There’s far too many people walking round these days that know everything there is to know about every band there ever was, most of those bands are the wrong bands I might twatting well add, these are unsettling times Gobbytes. One of the truest bands ever. They pulled off what all genuinely great rock ‘n’ roll bands pull off, I mean not the ones that Q write about and Fopp sell for a fiver, er, dunno how to put it, or mixing up a total suss about how they excavated all the gems from the underbelly of pop culture and combining that with a deep, deep (I’d hesitate to say spiritual but you get the drift), understanding of rock ‘n’ roll’s inherent simplicity, not that many have been able to pull ‘primal’ off with any conviction (do apologize id I’m veering off into Artrocker territory), it bears repeating though coz so few people have truly ‘got’ rock ‘n’ roll, or have been able to get anywhere near unharnessing its true potential and believe that Lux & Ivy were some of the very few, I will always crank things up a notch with whatever half-assed song it is that performing, I couldn’t do it any other way, not after immersing myself in music as feral as this for so long, you’d be hard pushed to crank things up much further than old Lux did though.

The Only Child Pt. 1 (The Gallerista’s Opening Gambit)

2009-02-11T02:38:00.001-08:00

“I can’t believe it’s not programmed” sez The Only Child. And then there were some far from strategically placed pads, in turn connecting to a set of lazy-day valves, I wouldn’t go so far as to say sensor/triggers but you get the general gist. (Oh and by the way – er, Weetabix crusts encircled the cunt’s keypad). Fast forward to the late noughties though but and you’ll find the sorry subject of our solo-flight pub quiz, concurrently swimming in the private view free booze from an exhibition of a friend of his, it’s contemporary photography lads ‘n’ lasses, bland as planks, just in case you were in any doubt; “I can’t believe he’s not got the ‘Trainspotting’ gene” was the gallerista’s opening gambit. “Gentlemen who are fit for work, let’s get together! It’s a cursor on the grand sound!!” was something The Only Child told me whilst nodding out on a Borehamwood train platform later on that morning. A light dusting of press clippings, but nowt regal.

Vanishing Mayorial Hunt

2009-02-11T02:37:00.001-08:00

Some far from roadworthy sentences I know, but… Two crumb-sized conceits first: I’m pretty cushy at collating dust edits, pretty cushty at stockpiling chapter titles, it’s what’s between them that’s the problem, vapid old generator at best, paddling in circles around even shards of a plot, same old aimless cough-ups. A light bulb goes clip and I’m off, maybe I’m writing this novel about how piss poor a writer I am, using italics in the all the wrong contexts, bracketing all the wrong words, stemming when least appropriate. On second thoughts nah fuck that, I couldn’t keep up with all the nihilism involved. Poorly weather conditions again this morning I see. And then I went through a phase back in January of thinking that Andrew Lloyd Webber had some redeeming qualities, how wrong I was. Oh well, at least ‘fuclstwered’ turned out to be a word. N.B: the slight absence of a vanishing mayoral hurt.

Brummiebeat Prowess (Burnt Sausage Draft Version)

2009-02-06T02:26:00.001-08:00

Brummiebeat Prowess (31/1/09 version)
Dreamt you were a stooped old man,
Dreamt you were suffering from Birmingham,
T’was a dream within a dream within in a dream,
About him being at the height,
Of his Brummiebeat prowess x2,
The worst thing about bands is their fans,
I know this song’s a bit of a pest.

And this part is far too similar to Mercury Rev,
Scott 4, Bon Iver or a ‘dumped transaction’ era Neil Young, (me personally I’ve been listening to Galaxie 500 until on choked on the stem),
Bong aficionado swarms,
Is it deep, is it deep?
Is it funky is it funky?
Is it palladian?
Apologies in advance for this vivisectionist tone of voice,
One customer said to me the other day,
This b-side right here,
It’s pure ‘Bitches Brew’,
That was the hardest sounding thing he could conjure up,
Ah what a cunt,
I told him to get some Jimmie Rodgers down his neck!

Ever so sorry to regress,
But I’ve got facial hair in common with lemongrass,
Dreamt you were an armoured car,
Dreamt you were a turnstile barrier,
Dreamt you were a Blackpool tram,
Dreamt you were pruning at the bush of Pam.

Handcuffed to one of them victrolae,
His length of trouser cuff was just one big lie.
With gross photo engravings of pudenda,
Her workforce was cabbaged with influenza,
Her discovery of the calendar month,
Was this 60’s Wolverhamtpon band,
Onomatopoeia Paella,
They knock spots off Stan Getz,
Cranky even on her days off,
Her mittens were in the style of an Aubrey Beardsley,
Her neck was superfluous and reeked of Yardley.

Brummiebeat Prowess,
Lived at the Crooked Billet on Lower Clapton Road,
I know a song that’ll get on your nerves, no comic book endings just nerve endings frayed.

Us Underpaid Douche Bags

2009-01-31T02:13:00.000-08:00

His piano keys jammed in place with a sock muppet ensure that the chiming fog is in scarily in place, his latest composerly outpourings are bipolar shoe-ins of the highest order, today the soundtrack to an unnameable mineral firm giant’s in-house training DVD, tomorrow the world… Warning bee: this paragraph contains day-to-day sentances. And if it’s not that then it’s truisms such as “oh I dunno, I’ll probably just buy myself a pot noodle or something on the way back home and then sit down, play on my Playstation for a couple of hours, have a big shit, which incidentally will be my fifth of the day, before hitting the sack”. I was just thinking on the motorcade in about a character I once had fired, just to make my life more interesting, he was the only one in the shop that knew the posters off by heart, poor beggar. Squints when signing contracts, it taxes his heart to phone plumbers up, why couldn’t the fucking landlord phone!? To be fair he is practically horizontal, but creaming off us underpaid douche bags nonetheless… I was scouring the phone booths for post-op postcards, looking to complete my collection in the Madame Tussauds area and much to my exponential horror, emptied decongestant bottles litter the phone booth floors.

The Saga Of The Bridegroom's Pen Nibs

2009-01-31T02:12:00.004-08:00

And as far as the music goes inevitably I’m a bit of a snob, I am however a wee bit partial to certain bands who’ve, you know, gotten the wrong end of the stick with the Velvet Underground over the years. Actually I take that back, I mean, what a lot lazy, hazy, indifferent, sunbathing pap I’ve written whilst languishing in anthemic comas, I spent about 3 blurred years slipping in and out of this state (2005-8). And it’d take you about the same length of time to summon up the courage to read any of it believe me. Time and time again I’d hear myself crying out “ah you must think that am is minted?” in the panic stricken, hangover bellows of the early morning. What way is that to treat your publishing company? Drowning him up to his eyelids in cut glass caviar on his hen night, he’s the hunky one with peg toes from series one of Casualty. I mean ‘DJ Unfit For Work’ was their first dance, drunken rites no longer something worth quivering over. The evening’s progressing at a snails pace, this mondo exotica’s getting on the bridegroom’s pen nibs – it’s fairly safe to riddle. Drinking from a cotton tumbler, in the corner, this sock drenched mumbler, sewage in a shot glass, worried knight blues. And now here is, the undisputed king of the wedding singers clambering to that rickety old stage and good luck to him, immediately he gets to work, regaling us with a sprightly anecdote about how he had a walk-on part in an early Liz Taylor flick, as Richard Burton’s vodka bottle no less, you could just about see him with one eye creased to a squint, thank heavens he might just save the show yet.

Elsworth Kelly Place Mats

2009-01-31T02:12:00.003-08:00

Here comes our caretaker now (his pockets lined with jewelled tissues): making hard graft of boiling away that spicy chicken cartilage from the night before, quits while he’s at a loss and gets onto demolishing a tub of glow in the dark margarine at the middlebrow breakfast table, Ellsworth Kelly place mats earmark his morning, vintage worm electronics pumping out of a misapprehended DAB radio, on the shelf where the colanders used to be kept. And when he’s not taking care of such menial upkeep, well then he’s holed up in the DJ booth spinning collegiate pheasant, in the novelty island segment of his local farmer’s market. ‘Tanz Der Lemminge’ is his favourite once again, just like it was way back in the shoeless 80s, he is envious of all serious modern composers on the sly, he’ll never give Debbie Harry her due, he is equally envious of all church organists. Routines are anathema to him, some plucky fucker comes knocking on the door asking for a length of cling film, no can do he sez, but I’m sure they’ve got some next door but one, was his stoicism all over.

Flounder For Tea

2009-01-31T02:12:00.001-08:00

Livening up the party as best he can, riding round the kitchen on a mop in a loveably unhinged way, managing to snap the pole in more than one spot, giggling on a cider top for close to an hour, hiding the remains behind the fridge and then proceeding to drink all and sundry under the table, flounder for tea at the Eggnog Yachting Launch. Make no mistake about it folks, this is precisely the kind that turns everything truly cultural into one big seething joke, ‘Guitar Hero’ just happens to be the latest in a long line of his imbecilic distractions. I, on the other wrist, cannot stomach this way of partying, peeking out meekly from beneath my ‘infinite jest’ bluegrass box set reserves. Estranging myself from party proceedings with minimal fault and having recently graduated from the Scab Mastication Academy with a flourish, why shouldn’t I take such deep pride in my own myth as dispeller of all party atmospheres.

George Drenching Does 'Man About The House'

2009-01-31T02:11:00.001-08:00

George Drenching however was no longer surplus to requirements, not in a ‘Man About The House’ sense of things at least. How’s about us having a gander round Drenching’s ham-fisted annex – come join this discontinued bloater, watch your step down mind, through the ill-fitting artexed arches, as contrived a ‘Mediterranean’ décor as the fall of 1989 had to offer, there he is now in the pokiest corner, slugging directly from the decanter, well, a little port wine for elevensies never hurt nobody now did it? He ushers us in heartily, emerging from beneath a carpet of scrunched up betting slips in the wee small hours of that very same morning, sitting at cross purposes to his prosthetic serving hatch, in his abstract expressionist indoor deckchair, mambo golfing helmet perched daintily on scalp. He rustles feverishly, amongst the overgrown vegetation of his 78s record collection and pulls out a scragg of paper, unfathomable managing to pinpoint the exact print out of an email he’d gotten from Joyce Cary just the other day, as requested, he reads aloud from particularly inconsequential section of it, or so it seemed at the time “and here I am neobop or wart? Up at some unpainterly hour watching the highlights from, the round robin stages of The Contaminated Crevice Invitational, on Transworld Sport”. There also happened to be a closing “P.S good to see that ‘characters’ such as Peaches Geldof are keeping the flame of spite well stoked”. Drenching, jovial, to a point, however, his mood deadens deeply, upon noticing that a certain little someone has left a scythe propped up against his Tom Lehrer paraphernalia. More of which at high tea…

George Drenching's 'Ceefax Loyalty Cards'

2009-01-16T02:28:00.000-08:00

Posted on the first of the first… There should be the following disclaimer on George Drenching’s life: gave up writing in secret, for lent, feels as if he’s dished out a deformed plastic bag in the name of progress, once to often, his night time friends they shout “dais gel” at the dying embers of ‘Blow Up’, stuttering with utter conviction but without zero mirth towards his evensong hobnobbers, this kids been lucid dreaming about telescope parties since the age of six. And he’ll never live up to, or for that matter, be able to live down his schooling, proclaiming his loyalty to Ceefax at the top of his lungs, location: where else but the night bus, sitting with his feet up on the seat in the manner that only the an affirmative, aspirational pseudo-boho cunt can, worm lined fleeces on his back six months ago, now then, the cessation in his sporting of those blasted body-warmers, of course, coincided mucklingly with his developing an obsession with Russian literature to the point of not washing. How come he’s the only one on the bus demanding a double seat to himself? His constitution is out of the arc, I’ll give him that much, the rest of us’d have been crawling up the fridge the next morning, but not him. Apostrophe (‘) wha-whaa-whaaa-wahaaah-wahhhhhhhh!

The Raised Instep Fraternity

2009-01-14T02:17:00.000-08:00

Hawking always but seldom opening my Everyman edition of ‘Variegated Respect Party Recitations’, this time, however, I’d long since laid myself open to the lather, when out of the blue, a Bruegel villain of the piece (no less) came hurtling off my wall, just above my computer screen, mistook a slice of Battenberg for a pan scourer in its panic, became a precursor to a hurdler in the coming moments, made my morning cloudy, cloudy, blasted cloudy and joined the ‘Raised Instep Fraternity’ in one feel swoop. Opining with silver service resiliency that Frankie Lymon and His Teenagers, were most probably its favourite musical group of all time, as the icing on the misery cake. I told it all about my great wad of pristine 78s phonograms that came free with the player, they’d been busy languishing in the cupboard under the stairs and about how I hadn’t been in there since that time I’d tried to recreate the closing scene from ‘Get Carter’, unsuccessfully thank the lord. I gave him the guided tour, explained the myriad cost-cutting measures them high-Edwardian builders had employed, such as not installing windowsills for love nor money, a trend which was less than momentary. I sat it down in the smoking room and showed it some of my photograph albums, it seemed to particularly relish the one marked ‘Kangaroos On The Golf Course’, more of which later.

Postal Brogues

2009-01-14T02:16:00.000-08:00

Deems it a wishy-washy, Frankie Lymon-inflected, not to say piss poor idea to give me a name, anyway he’s been the caretaker at the Ocean Pie Apartment Complex for the best part of 2 decades and that’s all you need to know for now (details a few key obsessions of the moment in its place): collects wine corks ‘most folks pay them no mind but not me’, has taken to pinning his completed crosswords to the wall (to date not a great lot), invents words whilst doing his rounds, ‘tumultaneity’ the favourite of the year thus far, could go on, collects pay ‘n’ display tickets, doesn’t see why not, there’s a collage of them on his desk where there should be photos of his wife ‘n’ kids, oddly enough there’s a sticker on his front door ‘this house is not a mere thoroughfare’ is how it reads and judging by his thought bubbles, I doubt he’s even heard of the ‘no junk mail’ band, due to a marinated left leg forcing him to hang up his postal brogues prematurely, way back in ’79. He’s always first in the queue when they’re handing out the night shifts these days, doped by the knowledge he’ll have more thesis writing hours to the pound that way, free to engage in moot grammatical exercises till his eyeballs become as if bell towers, balsamic rinse in his coffee, the always sun rising. I was gonna say till his heart’s content but then him and contentedness are like chalk and nostril linen. Stores his uniform in cellophane on his days off, instead of washing the fucker, refers to it as his ‘bacofoil bib ‘n’ tucker’.

Steeplechaser By Proxy

2009-01-10T09:12:00.000-08:00

As usual I wasn’t late. His name was Hoffman and he was the pole vaulting world record holder for (in the region of) 18 months, back in the late 1870s and that’s all I’ve got on him, truthfully. I mean, this was long before the poles started snapping on him involuntarily during training, for the early stages of the European qualifiers, (Stuttgart the endgame), such was his decade long dog day afternoon: 1890-1900. On the other hand I did overhear his (ever dotty) mule-ish trainer stuttering away on the stagecoach into work (comping conic sections for Sebastopol – if you must know) yesterday teatime, something or other about a teammate of Hoffman’s, a steeplechaser by trade, of the highest calibre I’m lead to believe, a close friend of neither, could be of much greater significance to us perhaps, outlined him thus: this odd, odd, highly fragmented yet entirely ego-free personality, a steeplechasing prodigy gone adrift, snowed in (heaven help his whereabouts), er, well, currently cowering in the Carpathian mountains with, for want of a more sporting turn of phrase ‘composerly intent’ and what’s more, with nought but a crepe paper carapace for company. Geezer’s prints’ vaporizing into the snow, on the end-time driblets of a sports council retainer, dwindling away Swissly in a town twinned with Wrexham The Third. Turns out not to have been Hoffman’s alter-ego after all. Oh well you know what they say don’t you? Two’s company three’s a glacier.

High Class Cockles

2009-01-08T06:15:00.000-08:00

At an Inn but not the hop: sometime cartoonist reviews bulb packet in insufficient snug, silly me, went and left sole remaining proof of nom de plume on the counter in a mess pot of honey, didn’t I dove? A geezer I could only adequately describe as being “one o’ them cultish channel hoppers”, had taken to peddling high class cockles, planting a vending machine in the smoking awning while the barmaids back was turned. Forget about the tense, just write. Geordie almighty this pub looks like an architectural dig does it not, the cornea from some Dylan Thomas afterbirth has been earmarked for the renovation wallpaper paste. Quaint displays of plaintive bathing, in pre-microwaved Carte d’Or in the flat upstairs, from them pair of bona fide Pimm’s usurpers Toots ‘N’ Fats are being re-ran as we sprech, in that cellar bar which no fucker knows about, in the patchwork gullet of the building. Endless re-writes of ‘Lucrative Spatchcock’ notwithstanding, er, N.C.P: ‘Post-It-Notes From The Beard Factory’ is now imminent.

Brummiebeat Prowess

2009-01-06T02:46:00.000-08:00

He was down to his very last HMV electronic voucher, man, times were hard, heft-affirming thornicules spackered out of his naked ankles, death by bitumen potato cake was infinitely the pipeline, a New Oxford Street of the mind, some Slovakianly spent 70’s Saturday arvos, reconstrued into an alarmingly affecting song cycle, the best thing since medium thick sliced self-embalming pinnacle hoop. ‘N’ how come every portrait in the room was a crooked debate, something I don’t truly think we want to get into just now, it’s a room not a space, I refuse to go down that route, in fact yeah, I’d rather we deemed it a ‘route’ than a ‘space’, sounds far, far clangier dontcha reckon? Something one can get one’s cigar breath into. Can you remember a time when things between us were still new? Don’t suppose it’s avoidable really? And here theses lads are now on Smooth Radio, some concertgebauw misgivings from the very apex of their Brummiebeat prowess, dissing matinee outings from their prototype revolving NME Awards stage, Bob ‘Spark Plugg’ Holly tooting hell for leather on a frosted nasal flute, with spotted dick design limited edition vanity cases rounding off that all important, split second one man band embargo, which may as well be read out at your very own languid pace, with poetry between your teeth.

(A Storm In A) Twelve-Tone Tea Cup

2009-01-04T09:00:00.001-08:00

Unabridged Picturedrome reminiscences (from some pre-rural timelag): caught blemish-handed and slugging mulled wine from a mauve mug on Maunday Thursday, I was dumb enough for that and what’s worse, her Placido Domingo twelve-tone tea cup has been in critters since way back, since the knockout stages of Italia ’90, flecks of it raise my brow to this very day. Do believe I caught the eye of this Holly Willoughby wannabe, caked on a tad too thick tart on the way to ‘art’ one morning, decked out in the droopiest duffel coat I could find, couldn’t see the wood burners for the cat hairs. Dorma pigtails and other excruciates: I had to haggle beads with the buggers, in order to get them to turn that blasted ‘Pirates Of The Caribbean’ 10 pence worth of a Woolworth’s crash poster to the wall – alarm bells ringing round my noggin at the excruciating sight of Johnny Depp’s popish necktie, easily too much to bear, on a stomach depleted as this.

Gravitas Blancmange

2008-12-30T16:47:00.000-08:00

There’s two fellas here to see you Ms McSnorkle (and no doubt abuse your hospitality), say they’re from the Pipeline Renovation Division, that’s them there jabbering away at evening service now, in Norwegian commando sonorities, politicking’s what that de rigueur lot calls it I do believe, tucking into villainous compotes as we squawk, gravitas blancmange the alternate pud on offer. And let’s hear it for the Oldham Requiem which was humming ominously through a pin pointed serving hatch. A right pair of ideas men those two, if I haven’t got me aviator bins on backwards that is, with typically English, piss poor (hollow) flaky pastry, about the best that’s on offer for afters, lackadaisical party food really and silence, where there should be oaty bits in abundance. The icing on the crud – a curt tart to the eye lid, a seraphim subtext about fashioning ladders from eyelashes, goings on don’t come much camper, than this flock of Neobaroque bellhops, what just stood down from the wallpaper (?)

A Bad Case Of The Old Naval Lumps

2008-12-25T09:37:00.000-08:00

And here’s odd soupy extract from the life and times of that tiresome ex of mine, a Miss Pauline Bierach, a calf bent, medium length calypso welly variant if ever there was a one. Alternative forms of holding sway, far beyond the national grid. From yours truly, that irretrievable meteor of new years putty rubbers. Here’s hers regardless, heavily indebted to Maria, a deeply questionable idol, with an uncommonly inept attitude towards others, you know, those vastly insuperior harmonizers and their ilk, you’d think she was sub-genre of Fado all by herself, the way she goes on sometimes. But anyway, before those days of her pinch of success, it was quite a different story (Pauline’s I mean, not Maria’s), she’d managed to raise the odd penshionable eyebrow here and there, if nothing else, a betaloned upper hand or two gained on the locals, such as a May she spent masquerading, through the back aisles of the village in that slap-happy ole, (pre-fabricated) Saab testicle of hers, nobody remembers her now but me, had her name and address photo-etched onto the passenger door side. I was pleasure seeking in reverse one morning and then I was unfortunate enough to cadge a lift, down the municipal pool if you must know, she was faltering from a bad case of the old naval lumps that day, the steal of her armpits looked like Bossa Nova parsnips and she never stopped for breath neither, propagating this ham shanks worth of a theory, that her dear old dad (god his rest his hair straightener inventing ass), had been a founding member of the S.R. James group of companies. Well, leg shaker that I am, twiddly fingers that I be, curiosity got the better of me, porridgized plimsoles lurked inside, in the rotting glove compartment, I was a fumbling terradrone for the remainder of the journey. I dreamt it all last night, all those months of prep for the Doily Invitational, they’ve all gone to rubble now. Rather more, I’ve gone from bad to worse. I’m a lad insane right down to my cinder toecaps, hence this drivel thanks ex.

Backstage Biddies With Ventricles Pilloried

2008-12-23T02:46:00.001-08:00

Years end tundra, whale blubber of the year award, in the year of the ‘far-sighted pan scourer as sculptural readymade’: she became more famous than she ever dreamed possible ok, in part due to a set of decidedly unmodish, monogrammed snooker cue designs (with offroad torniquet [plural] for rests), couple that with an omnipresent intolerance for backstage biddies with ventricles pilloried (some of whom her very own chip ‘n’ pin), i.e, net result: by the time the leaves were beginning to stash she was getting pally with suet of this brand and that.

Oliver Twist's Converse

2008-12-20T03:28:00.001-08:00

Cleft sketches for the archetypal customer/loner: pea green tights, elastoplastered thumbnails, cardigan material brogues, chickenwater disposition, the world’s gone Yma Sumac, Oliver Twist’s converse for Sunday dinners, make their holiday homes in plant pot slithers, a shattered dreams production, “who’s your favourite drug addict Steven?”, the lofty atmos of our notable sideman’s red, red humous, running on a ¼ of a nights sleep at best. You wouldn’t by any chance happen to have a recording of “Your Mind Is On Vacation” by the late, great Bobby Darin would you?

Clasping Cowering Cognac In A Stained Glass

2008-11-26T06:49:00.000-08:00

I was drinking 2 litres of milk a day, just in case you didn’t know, but my shits were solid, rock hard so they were. You’d be surprised how drained my glass was, my take on life was biscuit worrying to say the least. Getting from A to B and back again in my compacted Muji pullover, the size of a stock cube, a stock cube yet wearable, discarding chance rail cards on a Waterloo platform, in those years before it got too drafty to bear, contemplating claiming compensation on the month old brillo pads, on offer in the staff canteen, uncollected giros snagging in her whalenets, I made up in beard what I lacked in stature, substitute this apparent lack of grooming for authority of any kind, surety somewhat lacking. Richard Burton biographies accidentally flushed down the loo and here I am on my day off huddling in a pipe’s incorrect cornicing, shivering in the bus shelter for elevensies, toenail clippings in a vase. All these years, I’ve thunk funk all wrong, they sampled all the wrong songs mate, anyway, while we’re on the winklepickling subject, I’ve been mainlining James Brown’s ‘In The Jungle Groove’ compilation since late last Saturday and boy is this brittle music, the intensity of ‘It’s A New Day’ is my shit hot new favourite waste of time, you can’t fall off, what with repetition this repetitious, the mounting tension of this heinous music, you could cut it with a knife. It’s keeping me warm, on me day off, stuck in the house, can’t afford to go anywhere, can’t have the cunting heating on, just clocked off from me private poo endurance test, couldn’t even afford to flush it away. Descartes ran the disco, ran it like a grenadier with chattering teeth, rebellious jukebox just fell off the wallpaper. If I hear “you should be playing ‘Mamma Mia’, why aren’t you playing ‘Mamma Mia’?” one more time I swear down I’m gonna kick an elderly drama teacher in the belly before this shift is done ‘n’ dusted. James Brown = every song is the same, John Coltrane = every song is the same, obviously.

Frauline Trilok Gurtu

2008-11-19T08:28:00.000-08:00

Not much coplans the day, just a unthought or two: the organ player is fixated with a puddle in the middle distance and along with whose creamy wooled balaclava wearing ways, I bet we can surmise that this mung bean of a man has been miscuing every hour god sends, countersigning ratification treaties since he was so high, pinpricking hierarchies, lines like “Hi, I’m here to collect the Lagos Island tablecloths” do the job just swell. What ‘blank’ was the closest Alex Higgins ever came to a square meal? This recipe was also posted by Frauline Trilok Gurtu? “Fresh Cornish skates, make for good pot lash here in this here Kennel-City-Undermined, my kinda town.” I’ve not really got a head on me for such till roll practicalities and my V.A.T return demeanour leaves a lot to be desired. Walking round in nonagons up the Opera DVD aisle, I’m a wiz when it comes to me ‘Simply Dinner Jazz’ box sets therefore. Oh well, I’m as capable at the next glutton, gotta keep telling meself. Have meself a little cognac for the end of time on me day off. and then we have ‘Embellishments on a Despairing Liver’ by the ever ready Olivier Messiaen, blaring away in the background through his cardboard Muji speaker stacks. He had a chilblain cluster on his liver, a puddle of G & T rising to his forehead and Cat Stevens joined the Jazz Messengers onstage in his dream last night. Oh look how funny, two jubilee eyes on an infirm serviette, is this the step on journey towards the Marlborough Crescent Museum of Minestrone Mumbling?

The Haemophiliac Sweepstakes

2008-11-07T08:26:00.000-08:00

There was a hint of Elizabethan madrigal culture about those hieroglyphic drumming credits, don’t you reckon? That sleeve note hack’s head sure is in something of a whirl, substituting grammatical pointillism for whimsical tales of quiche component woe, “K. Rusby-esque percussive sand-blocks are the order of the day”, he could’ve been the greatest thing since sliced John Peel, he’s been speeding the wrong way up a one way career path for far too long now. Oh aye and here’s a bit o’ goss, I hear he won that years supply of CD labelling pens, in the Haemophiliac sweepstakes, who’d have thought such a thing existed? And I suppose we’ve all got our own idea of what warm water is, this whole host of simultaneous droplets sounds a lot like the title track from Jimmy Guiffre’s ‘Free Fall’, likes his carrots pulped or so I can ascertain, anyway I’m in favour of the aforementioned Guiffre offering, could well be my surprise find of the winter, stemming from without the harmonic domain for sure. And while we’re on the subject, my CD liner note quote of the month simply has to be “this is not music to roller skate by” from ‘Out To Lunch’ by Eric Dolphy and what an album, those vibes and that bass clarinet are an ace combo as incidental as things come.

Figurine Auto-Adhesive

2008-11-05T04:18:00.002-08:00

Normalizing away: too busy ironing out her smart trousers, luckily, those creamy, creamy rings of figurine auto-adhesive had come out a treat in the wash, proud as blinkin’ punch so she was, of her Unisex hair salon mint green walls, a turps smitten cabbage on the Lea Bridge See-Saw, the finalizing remnants of his Branston pickle squeezy shampoo better get down to Macro’s and order a few bumper jars thereof.

The Palm That Refused To Be Bitten/ Snowstorm Tagiatelle/ New On Naxos!

2008-11-05T04:18:00.001-08:00

Must be a cyst of human origin, most probably inserted arse first by a hospital or government worker or even better, an offal pledged be-mittened auteur, you’ll find him most afternoons necking blondish beer in a backwoods bar, those dwindling pub landlords have dubbed him the palm that refused to be bitten. And then there’s the horse that swallows swords, in his snobbishly construed snowstorm tagiatelle Halloween mask, snot-expanded slapstick caraway seeds dribbling from flaring nostrils northwards. And there goes wor kid, lighting a cigarette in the shield of her hard helmet, tremendous dexterity on display, hotel forecourt stemming witches, tendons ablaze with overwork, it’s time for her to call on her inhaler, if you’ll forgive her. Insert the ghostwriter’s choice of clip art here – this months offering being a Women’s Insitute commemorative pepper pot, a piping hot octet rendition of said grinding mills is New on Naxos! Old on the increasingly smalltime Ace label, well, enough shop talk for one day. The tracklisting continues up a contortionists ring piece, see overleaf for the engineering credits pertaining to ‘Stone Tablet (Peter, Paul & Mary Remix)’.

Pig Latin

2008-11-02T04:00:00.002-08:00

“Win, lose if you must, but always cheat”.

Just a word in edgeways from the sponsors,
It just happens to mean ‘dough’ in pig Latin,
Pity the poor gecko what put that in,
Put that in x 3…

And his accent was clipped to say the least,
Scrabbling around that kitchen’s B-block,
In his Reader’s Digest free gift flip-flops,
Moxy, the kitchen porter’s got him in a fucking headlock,
Headlock of sorts x 6… (he’s been on the sauce, in fact he’s never been off the sauce)

Snacking on Bellmer-headed crabcakes – between takes,
A bandy-legged Cab Calloway impersonator – on the make,
Busy, busy, busy playing possum on my day off,
Making pistachio nut stacks,
For the betterment of my Halloween mask,
(‘ween mask x 3, we must x 3, we simply must bob for apples before this day is done).

On voice, tamboura and Oberheim ring modulator – er, I ring you later,
And yet with HMV felt loyalty bag,
Swinging aimlessly from hips,
And a clip-on ponytail which has unclipped,
He is far from the flair player – that he once was fated as.

He don’t need no spoiler,
Not when he’s got a sunroof,
When he’s up he’s up,
And when he’s down he’s down ‘n’ dirty,
He’s like Ben Stiller,
Of Danish cinema,
This one is the feeble postscript,
From that tailor’s tailors dummy,
Spitting out its brioche.

Beef Tomato

2008-11-02T04:00:00.001-08:00

Do not tread on,
Those precious cork tiles,
In them stiletto heels,
According to the small print,
On that packet’s Netherlands,
Well, I’m sure we can rip up,
Rip up the small print,
Rip that small print up,
Fling it on the fire,
And then pepper it,
With a Lemsip packet,
Like previously on The O.C…
Although it pains me to say it.

Oh aye, we’ll rip it up good ‘n’ proper,
Shove it up the mouth,
The gaping mouth,
Of a dust bin,
It’s doesn’t matter which one love,
All dust bins are the same to me,
Ours is 17B.

Let’s beef this thing up a bit,
Supplant a recorder solo here,
Some Dictaphone mumblings,
From the Atlantean into Toon,
In 1989,
A beef tomato,
Beef tomato.

Deposit them in a swab bin,
Around the back of the University College London Hospital,
Where they flamin’ well belong,
And how come those,
Fish pie Adolfs,
Are always banging about,
How they make do and mend?
Man their rings are cabbaged,
Give us chicken nuggets every time.

D’you know there’s nothing so divisive,
As getting tanked up on the shrapnel from Mam’s purse,
Which of course is far, far, far, far worse,
Than what’s to follow,
Of course it is,
Course it is.

I’ll rip up your certificate,
Of entry,
And store it in a damp place,
Semi on purpose,
Deliberately and other such miscellany.

Ah your log books are all in shreds darling,
Sandwiched between,
Some rising damp and an Our Willie annual,
Oh how I’ll put the dampners on,
Your fresher’s do,
I’ll be doing you the favour of a lifetime girl,
She cut one of her own fingers off,
On her sixteenth birthday,
It was only the tip,
But that’s not the point,
I can’t lie x 16.

Swear Box

2008-11-02T03:59:00.000-08:00

I don’t even look that frail today,
I’m in need of prayer books all the same,
My sister’s curtsying you with dirty looks,
Methodism is prism,
I don’t need to look up Peru,
I know my capital cities way better than you do,
I have no need of a swear box,
I have no call for your kind condolences.

You don’t need no flicker switches,
You too young ‘n’ trendy to blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah,
You don’t feel the need to say please,
Or even utter so much as a thank you,
When they come and check all tickets,
From Newcastle, Durham, Northallerton and Doncaster,
You’re not even sorry when you elbow me crisp in the ribs,
What a fucker you really are.

You’ve got The Kooks on too loud in your i-pod,
Your coffee coloured i-pod,
In fact The Kooks are the most bearable thing on there,
I’m not that fixated with such get rich quick groups,
In fact I find that scene sick,
And I’m not the kind that sermonizes airbags,
You could call me something of a total one off.

You, you,
How could you sit there,
Knowing all you know,
How could you sit there,
And flirt with me,
So blatantly,
In a bucket of fleas,
In a surfeit of bees,
There are many many me’s,
This one lives off mushy peas.

Human gelatine if you please,
Pull the other one Ulysses,
I don’t need to listen to you,
All that very carefully actually,
I am sleeping soundly in my yard of dirt as per,
You must think that am is minted,
But here’s one thing that I’m far more concerned with,
There’s 20% off at River Island.

You, you,
You work there don’t you?
Ahhh, yes you do,
How could plonk your arse there,
Chlorine breath all too evident,
And flirt with me,
Tennis elbows draped all over me,
Offering me Trebor mints all the while,
And flirting with me,
Like it was going out of style.

I don’t eat me Settler’s Tums by halves,
I know some piss poor poetry off by heart,
The nether reaches of Philip Larkin anyone?
And even though I’m still so, so, so skittish with strangers,
I’m luglessly devoted to you,
And you alone love,
I’m the tormentor from a silent movie flick,
I’m that Peter Seller’s wanker,
I’m Peter Seller’s gone apeshit, reincarnated,
And now I write for the gutter press as if you didn’t know it?

You, you, it, I’m a sponger and I’m proud,
You, yes you,
How could you?
How could you park your arse there,
Chlorine breath in evidence,
3 ½ hour long train journey back home,
East Coast Mainline,
And be flirting with me,
After all that shit we’ve been through,
What’s wrong with you?

For The Betterment Of My Halloween Mask

2008-10-29T06:47:00.000-07:00

What about that for a truly revolting seascape, moonlight through the pines it ain’t, taker of quite probably the last known dusty photograph of Gustav Mahler, that fella’s there’s the bastion of shrimp in a bag and a true New Orleans of the stomach, the Bela Bartok of seaside smut, or should that be Blixa Bargeld. And here he waxes lyrical trough one midday soggy toilet roll after another, he calls it his pocket trumpet without a trace of innuendo and not a mung bean in sniff. By heck its cold this morning it’s a three jumper sort of a day if I’m not sorely mistaken, only October an’all. Slowly creeping up on rhythmic castration and yet relatively insecure in himself during everyday conversation. On Voice, Tamboura and Oberheim Ring Modulator and yet with that HMV felt loyalty bag swinging lamely from his hips, he is far from the flair player he was once fated as. Snacking on Bellmer headed crab-cakes between takes, this bandy-legged Cab Calloway impersonator on the make. Busy, busy, busy, playing possum on my day off, making pistachio nuts stacks for the betterment of my Halloween mask.

Bring Back Sequined Parallels

2008-10-25T03:46:00.000-07:00

I’m 15 but I’ve been writing this book for 16 years and counting, since autumn ‘08 hit town, for instance, I’ve been wallowing, in a palette knife like over-simplification of the contents page. And you join us now live from the Lincolnshire hair summit on a plate, with musical aperitif from a decapitated Nigel Kennedy, circling the bay window table, a couple of elopers have lapsed there and bowing away criminally on his dearly beloved transparent violin with all the trimmings, eat your offal out Nile Rogers. The indexing skills of Mr. Jupiter Larsen are somewhat contrary to what you might expect today, very Bartokian in his massaging techniques all the same. Look it up in your WH Smith’s Book of Jazz Standards kidder, it’s been out of print since 2005 you dotty but lovable little ignoramus from lfracombe. Sans outmoded patchy blue jean clobber, bring back sequined parallels, scuff them up a bit with some CD labelling pens for that rangely authentic look, somewhat reminiscent of them paperweight fighters of the early 1900’s – such like is probably next on the list of things that are like, well, you know ‘genuine or thereabouts’, all the best bits that the 20th century had to offer, soon to be debased beyond fathomability in pop promos by the likes of Katy Perry, who is truly evil for being so knowingly dumb. Hell I even see the merit in jazz guitar these days, which I never thought in a million years would… (Which is something novel to say at least.) "Just a word in edgeways from the sponsors, it just happens to mean ‘dough’ in pig Latin, pity the poor gecko what put that in".

Reader's Digest Flip Flops

2008-10-21T09:06:00.001-07:00

As far as the job at HMV goes, well, we had someone in today asking for an album called 'Beautiful Western Saddle' by the band Curlew, which put a giggle belly on me i almost couldn't stifle. I don't care what you say about the bloke's table manners, is irrelevent, his work on the bass clarinet pointed us all in an entirely new direcion. I've got no nails this morning, i'm a pencil packin' papa and wouldn't look entirely out of place in a pairof reader's digest flip flops.

A Den And Seven Eighths

2008-10-18T05:27:00.000-07:00

Our sweaty cardboard hut’s been hospitalized, what about that for a private thout repertoire dug-oot, it's a den and seven eighths? Neigh-on nylon sheathed melodrama dorma windows, the first sahsless affairs to hit post-austerity Cumbernaud. But they;d barely be able to pick me out of a police line-up if i was surrounded by proto parking meter men these days. Sleigh bells for toenails, abridged apple tarts, copiously fairy-dusted. Far from talkative and other snot valves. During his double-digitized decades as a djangled up sideman, his interview technique was about a sharp as bambino loofer and come closer, come closer, there's more, there's more...

Modal Jazz Mood Board

2008-10-15T08:52:00.001-07:00

Just a little word in edgeways from old misanthropy thumbs utd. And i think we can safely claim in churlish to dismiss this latest offering from Kenny Garrett as being little more than musical toothpaste. Adds a few offclassical stickerings to his Modal Jazz Mood Board for the fall of 2008. Her back's been cycled over by better men than you my friend. Eyes peeled for that distinctive moon shaped scar north by north west of his upper lip, him, the dribbly-drabbly one, still paying lip service to the Death Vessel Up The Junction Revivalist Tendencies Band. A list of two for now: a) The Royal College of Anaethestists (by care of da ballooning a&e entrance) and b) Dim Slayer Of All Branch Lines. For catalogue words see 'fey printer’s handbook.

Kennel-City-Undermined (My Kinda Town)

2008-10-09T02:35:00.000-07:00

I have hardly been an avid anecdote collector, but here’s a Kenneth Tynan behemoth describing Roman Polanski as being “the 5ft pole that you wouldn’t touch with a 10 ft pole”. Thank fuck autumn’s here again, it was perhaps the least bestial summer on record, I abhorred every day of it all the same. And it’s all because the lady loves a sorbet up the larynx, that he’s been found guilty of using Imperial Leather in a court of law, well it won’t wash with me marrow. He’s darning the crux of two ice cream screwballs, interlocking in the interval – good technique there though lad, with or without the double-ended dildo, he is darning his Weetabix in the Champions League ad-break, he’s been darning his day out to Hove for going on a year now. On Whitely Bay beach sometime in the autumn of 1991, all them lads ‘n’ lasses there, all wiv’ smiling faces and bedecked in purploid kite fabric tracksuits. Oikish sockets basted in free range lard. Kennel-City-Undermined – my kinda town. Miss Marginalia 2008: she’s just a dairy farmed woman. And A Literary Madam To Boot: keeps foldaway sheepskin rugs in a protractor void by the fire in case of emergency. Listening intently to ‘A Book At Bedtime’ for possibly the first time in her life, ‘Calling All Sufferers Of Extreme Shyness’ I believe to have been the book Nigel Havers just fashionably stammered his way through.

Scrappy Blumenthal And Other Pap

2008-10-07T09:51:00.000-07:00

Written on the hop to say the very least: saw that lad Scrappy Blumenthal in the Balls Pond Road Tesco Extra the other day, saw Tricky outside out Nim Con Soup the other week and saw this Vic Reeves from the back in the Zavvi spoken word compartment earlier this arvo. And here's the most rudimentary of first drafts turquoisewards the first draft, opening salvo of 'The Valley Of The Francis Rossi Clones' in song form:

Here comes the narrator now,
Pockets lined with used (hard, spent) tissues,
There goes the Rick Wakeman look-a-like,
Slowly pickling himself alive.

There’s that Ray Illingworth doppelganger,
Preening himself in the outsized mirror,
He hasn’t had a wash between the legs in a month,
He always stands up,
But never at the bar,
(Not him, he loiters round the middle of the floor.) (sprung floor...)

There Carlsberg is £1.64,
I am sat in the draftiest corner (pokiest),
Eating pork scratchings,
Listening to Radio 4,
To a documentary about Radcliffe Hall,
Very informative,
Not very entertaining.

This is the valley of the Francis Rossi clones x 4,
Those esoteric clowns.

The table numbers have al been yanked out,
There’s no toilet seats, there’s no locks,
No doors,
One old girl in particular that always gets in there,
She does a good impression of Ko-Jak,
She does it about every 60 seconds.

Their cocktail menus have been expunged, blah de blah....
Their cochave been expunged, blah de blah.... Cockktail menus
Oh well got a new job qworking in the jazz secot of the HMV at Oxford Circus, better scrub up on me Jelly Roll’s and me Hot 6’s and 7’s then aint I?