Can’t stop

Here’s one more:

I’ve said it before but it bears repeating, like a mantra, over and over.

“It’s the way to write poetry, letting things come” (Pooh bear)

there’s more wisdom in that than in every word TS Eliot ever wrote.  (Or Toilets, as Mark calls him).  I don’t think he’s untalented, I just think he’s overrated, especially by himself.  Who writes notes to his own poems?  And he was a total git to his wife.  These bastards will pay the price.  Whoever said that to be a genius you have to be a total sh*t?  I think the opposite is true.  We need to get back to poetry and the word of god (in the best sense) being the same sense.  Poetry and prophecy.  Or something like that.

Now there’s a way to make money.


I’ll leave you with Wendy Cope’s Wasteland.  Now there is an unacknowledged genius.  When I am famous I will sing her.

Love always

L x

No more now

I’m not going to write about these weird psychotic nightmares on this blog any more – I shall keep them for my diary. Like Bertie Wooster, I am consulting a higher power about all this.

I can’t go wrong with this – or so I fondly imagine.

Going to the chalet tomorrow so won’t be posting for a day or two.


(more in our occasional series)

speleology – the study of public speaking

exudate – going out with a former partner

Bulletin no 3 for family and friends

Captain’s blog, stardate 19.9.08

It’s life, Jim, but not as we know it.

still orbiting planet zen.  The spaceship is encountering considerable turbulence – yesterday we sailed through a cloud of asteroids and recieved a few hits to the fuselage.  Repairs are ongoing and the crew have had very little sleep.  As I write this I am swaying in the effort to keep upright.  I wish we’d never come on this trip but we had no choice.  My orders are to go where I am sent.

Had a very bad trip this morning when orbiting the planet Leicester – we skirted close to a black hole and were nearly sucked in to the event horizon.  But we have stabilised now and I was able to speak on the radio to No 1 at Mission Control, who talked me through these bad times.

I have no idea when this trip will end.  It seems to ba an ongoing nightmare but the highs are extraordinary and there are moments of clarity when my whole life stands out in incredible relief (and it is a relief!).  We seem to be getting close to the heart of our mission, which is to find out the purpose of our presence here in the universe.

Send me your thoughts and prayers – I need them



OK since that last poem was pure genius…

I’m going to say this again.  god knows if anyone else showed the slightest interest in my stuff, I wouldn’t be putting it on here.

To Anyone Tempted to Steal Poems from this Blog

You should be aware

these poems are bombs

any attempt to put one in your pocket

will detonate it

and that’s a real

suicide bummer.



stealing poems

is a tacit admission

that I am a genius

and you are not.

This is a truth you should ponder

in your heart.


I bind myself by these oaths:

to enter the Highcross centre

only to destroy it

to do 2 hrs of yoga each day

between 3 and 5 pm

or whenever the desolation strikes

to do meditation night and morning

and whenever the need arises

to repeat this mantra of surrender:

I will go wherever I am sent, I will do whatever I am asked

I have no ego



Nascent poems

I stood at the threshold of hell

those halls where the famous do dwell

I said “Let’s up the ante

– You Virgil, me Dante”

There’s a market that we need to sell.

(That last line is reminiscent ot a quote from Thatcher, reportedly speaking to arms dealers: “there’s a market there – get out and sell”.  That woman made my blood run cold.)

When I am Famous

When I am famous

and I come back here

to my old ground

(I was more stamped upon than stamping)

When I am asked to speak

in the halls of de Montfort

I will raise my voice

I will say

“I lambast the city of Leicester

for that they have ignored the voice of Orton

for that they forgot the two cultures

and buried their father Snow

for that they thought Townsend’s Mole was a blemish

for that they merely tolerated

the brothers Attenborough

who remembered them so much:

and I will say this –

these are our demands

that you take out the Curve and name it Orton

that you honour your father Snow

now that his beard is white

that you build an Adrian Mole trail in the city

(I could map it myself)

and that you garland those brothers

and thank them

for their name

And when I am dead

you’d better do the same for me

or I will burn down your malls

and piss in your beds:

(I have been awoken

by rage)

(Leicester’s literary history – comprehensively ignored. authC2D9C28A18dac23605uLr31DC862

The time has come, the guru said…

to tell the story of Preston.

Once upon a thousand years ago when I was living in an outpost of hell called Leigh, Lancashire, I had a visit from Peter. He had been invited to Chris’s party and also to mine. He was on his way to Chris’s which involved changing trains in Preston. Somehow on his way to Preston his train got diverted and he ended up in Leigh. So he was always after that introduced as “this is Peter. He’s on his way to Preston.”

In Northampton where Peter was stationed at the time, the pubs shut at 2.00 for the end of lunchtime (time is an illusion, lunchtime doubly so)

So Peter drank up for 2.00. Then he realised they were still open so he drank up for 2.30. Then he decided that it must be three. Finally it occurred to him that he had the power of speech and he asked me what time they did shut.

– 3.30, I said.

that was one wild party. I think he ended up sleeping in the bath.

Ah, Leigh, where are you now? Fizzer, Hairy Dave, Malc, Glyn, Tracy – where are you now?