sunday8pm.

sunday 8pm.

yes, the album by faithless. i think maxi priest is a wordsmith, y’know. last night is this music coming through my earphones, or even earlier, at david s place, with the fake tropicality in the back garden, buses, buses everywhere, and everyone thinks they know how the world works, but i still contend nobody sees the bigger picture, and i will never be an activist again, because they are just as cruel as anyone else.

my surprise at being told to keep my mouth shut, in my own home.

this morning – the roofs that run between our squatted buildings, the tomato plants dangling with green bodies, the cat is pregnant again, even the squirrel is trying to catch flies, cabbageless moths, the dull and obnoxious thudder of overhead helicopters, the neverend of traffic along commercial road,

jack kerouac makes me want to write. ‘desolation angels’. on the cover theres a junkpile of uhmericana, lucky strike typewriter virgin mary saxophone. maybe someday soon i ll get myself that tenor i ve been promising myself.

jack kerouac, desolation angels, 1960: ‘part two: desolation in the world……. the very first thing i noticed as i arrived in SF with my pack and messages was that everyone was goofing – wasting time – not being serious – trivial in rivalries – timid before god – even the angels fighting – i only know one thing: everybody in the world is an angel, charlie chaplin and i have seen their wings, you dont have to be a seraphic little girl with a wistful smile of sadness to be an angel, you can be broadstriped Bigparty Butch sneering in a cave, in a sewer, you can be monstrous itchy Wallace Beery in a dirty undershirt, you can be an Indian woman squatting in the gutter crazy, you can even be a bright beaming believing American Executive with bright eyes, you can even be a nasty intellectual in the capitals of Europe but I see the big sad invisible wings on all the shoulders and i feel bad they re invisible and of no earthly use and never were and all we re doing is fighting to our deaths………..’

jack always strikes a chord with me, but then, so does charlie chaplin, the great dictator, machine men with machine minds and machine hearts, but we re all angels, yes even the suits, even the sluts and the junkies, even the activists, and this is the message no-one wants to hear. tom waits sings big rock mountain in his ginsoaked sleep.

untangling what is real and what is not, again, proves difficult, i am making mad daydreams in my head and wishing for things i shouldnt – the laws of magnetic energy – i want, i want, i want to write oliver a poem that will allow him to cry –

i bump into simi on the way back from trombone jerome s place (and theres the slippery tree i ve been trying to scale, jerome, not simi, hah) she s in stamford hill for her methadone, we chat in the chemists as she is served her slammer over the counter, the chemist is locked on, simi is smiling, hercules the dog is well the hole in his paw from the bad splinter is healing sure –

a full bottle of laphroaig single malt ends up in my possession. g gets back from ireland, so we re sharing a room again, hopefully this will not end in the near-destruction of our friendship like last time. P goes away to South America mid-September so I can stay at his place for a month, but really, I ve got to open a new gaff, I really do, I m just being useless about it.

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