Saturday, 26 July 2008

His Royal Highness

I miss him with his uncertainty and his quick wrath. A hybrid marking of piranha and tiger's stripe, a cheeky boy with his gullivers snipped but still randy.
Baron Benson of Great Barr; Abbe Bensoni; Son of Ben. All the names I have conjured for him, but he will always be Benson. Man is Dog's idea of God. Benson is my idea of a baron, a stately pompous baron amongst dogs. In the undergrowth at Great Barr park, the sun shining through the loop of his tail...snuffling in ecstasy the hot undergrowth. Running away from collies, upsetting a gulp of Magpies. But he wouldn't dare, in the final stages of our walks, breach the gaggles of Black Necked Canadian Geese. Hundreds of the bastards - aloof: King Midas amongst them. Instead a furtive nail dipped in the deep green/brown water. I know he dislikes the water when it's deep. Happily he will wade through a stream, but as soon as the murk creeps in - the tentative suggestion of an unknown space (evidently with it's own deep scent - as his nose skims the skin of the surface) he becomes that peculiarly endearing coward that Tony, Emily and I know so well. Looking with eyes as big as the moon, his handsome brown eyes - looking up at me. A moment of atavism. My hero.
Need you now buddy. Need you like you don't even know. For affection that costs nothing, has no bounds and asks no return. You make me soft, lad.

Thursday, 24 July 2008

From other times

First then, the breaking down of all you held to be true or right by yourself. The close secrets and unfolding mystery of intimacy that was latent in you. The acrid side - missing a check for an STD because of snow; waiting for an hour on a freezing night in Manchester; but it was worth it to reveal a bottle of red wine; a painting of  a cyclopean sea captain with a gold background - or to snatch a cigarette from her mouth in a comical act of bravado. No-one wants the other to die, no-one can stand the bond that makes a separation that much harder to bear when it's gone. Each of us have a way of expressing that grief - some admittedly more eloquent than others, some jealously guard those words and are dumb through choice. Those must be the most beautiful words of all. Like a quick glimpse of a dark small fish in  a pond, swift, back into its hiding place. The vanity of shyness.
Myself, I prefer to pick up the pen and feel the heat on my shoulders. Still happy and safe in foreknowledge steeped in layers of grief - cum - elation. Rebecca all the way from Korea - sorry about the one that got away - my subsequent mad dance like the time I saw a cat run over, and it danced before it lay panting and expired right in front of me. I, you, we live on. We never stay still, even in meditation or sleep. Outside I can hear a carnival, horns and drums. My eyes are bulging! My teeth stickily coated, my tongue a-drip.
For you then, anything you want. I taught myself the lessons, the turning away - the 'construct' pain as construct; and the infallible promise of a daily scream from next doors surly little boy or the cats who scream like men. All this blends together in a myriad moment of delicious heat, along with those eyes that could cut ice, but the loins that could melt icebergs! Impossible not to be humorous - the last resort surely, but the strongest. Dursn't matter. Here's at 'ee. All the things we shared. I love them and remember them not as I might; a cenotaph; a spectacular fit of puking; of unimportant memories - of something buried and gone; but as I once said : the pale blossom leaf jigging in the shade of a tomb. Distinctly dancing towards the light. Come with me.

Wednesday, 23 July 2008


Los jóvenes y muy hermoso como un Vikingo I sabían una vez. Pelo en el cambio de signo de perfección. Filamentos finos, pozo comportado y ajuste. Fresco e inteligente, un recordatorio que puedo sonreír la sonrisa de un hombre que no tenga nada en su mente sino buenas cosas. Incluso en tiempos de distensión, como más de una de nosotros está ahora. Los pilares de la sal temblaban anoche y genuino me perdieron para las palabras en esto, mi vida adulta estúpida. La amenaza del amor y de la locura en la bahía como perros bien preparados con las gomas suaves y los dientes agudos que esperan para rend la cortina de mi sensibilidad y equilibrio. En lugar la floración lenta de la amistad por la cual sostengo siempre más. Para perder más difícilmente a un amigo que un amante.

Su movimiento!

Tuesday, 22 July 2008

The Horror, The Horror

For approximately the fourtieth time in my life - and this is no exaggeration - Amy Winehouse is raping my ears with her disgusting voice. I categorically cannot see the appeal in a singing syringe. Whatever. I will be quickly shouted down by those amongst you looking for someone fitting the 'quirky /gritty/twisted /mistaken - tragic angel type.' There are millions of better people, with hatchet faces who I would rather hear right now. It tests my fucking patience. Don't go back to black Amy - go up your own bumole like a bees bonnet Ouroboros. Sing to your crack addled guts, eat your reptilian tail.
Enough. This isn't the thrust of this blog, today's blog - this greasy moment. There was a wicked night of grimey d'n'b at the Hare & Hounds on Saturday and it was over all too quickly. The bass wasn't like anything I'd felt before. Snares on top with a bit of mashcore; then below that the bass; then like a whale breaching booooooooooo there came the deeper bass and it fairly set me and Jin screeching like harpies. Or Amy Winehouse. It was rad. You had your supplement of main heads with neck tatts and chav wear - more than the A level d'n'b night we attended a while ago - but they were happy to slosh their sweat about like the rest of us when it came to it.
Time was Jazz used to fizz me up to the extremes and I'd stick my shirt in my pants, pull those very same pants up to my chest and play air sax. Now I've grown up a bit I seek the dirt sandwich that is drum and bass. Like I said to Jin - it infects me. No other music does that. Infects me. Except Winehouse - her music is a lethal pathogen.