everybody on the one,

June 25, 2009 at 6:51 pm | Posted in antihaiku, poetry, sheer selfindulgence, writing | 9 Comments
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Standstill, if you leave a little space
between breaks a sandhill
there’s room between running late
and the desert, son,
he says putting his arm round my shoulders
smelling of salt fish and a sparkling
perfume there’s a reason
for the Cocoyea then lead bass guitar
and for an essential anonymity
of the artist, says Bootsy
handing me his sunnies and
lighting a big fat one.

the keith jarrett riff,

August 1, 2008 at 6:58 pm | Posted in genre isn't dead yet but it should be, music | 10 Comments
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hey, you gotta have a hand jive
bootsy said if we’re going again,
count those silly bubbles,
pop pop pop
deep below some ancient carp is
singing some wild and thrubbing song
and sunonhead is drifting off,
he hopes his work is surely done

hey, Squires he says jangling the keys,
home time frog jumps in beer oclock,
ding ding, Shanghai, we’re here
wake up, says F, slamming his glass down on the piano, jesus man the parties just begun, i tell you you play great but I ain’t hiring you, goddamn junkie dead and done,

he turns from the obvious mirror in which his reflection can’t be seen,
i remember the days, sir ian, in wonderful suits of grey,
pluperfect in green felt hat,
some whiskery comedian,
some less outrageous Monk,

Quick shuffle,

July 7, 2008 at 6:49 pm | Posted in writing | 14 Comments
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You gotta give ’em what they want, said F., banging the glass down on the piano but by now I saw it coming so long ago that I held the right hand together, have to be chops, I’m afraid, said Bootsy looking somewhat pale.

He whispers Caliban’s whiskers in my ear and I know straight away what to play, just look around at the weary room, an eerie rattle, what you guys need is a bit of flat out bum shuffle, the deck lurched, you see, son he said, one arm around me staring out to stern at the flat horizon,

not some wilde ephemera,

May 22, 2008 at 8:09 pm | Posted in writing | 9 Comments
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How then is it possible to contain actual magic in language?

huh? don’t tell me, he says scratching his ample arse and groping for a something in a blur of soft intoxication, not the bloody mirrorson-whatley effect again,

No sir, that was an actual question.

Oh well, she’s alive you see, the language, he says pulling his pants on backwards, created as spoken and by common consent, unruly, haha, truely untameable for which we are eternally grateful,

Yes sir. Oh one more thing. Cook wants to know what you would like for dinner?

oh chops, of course, thursday night every good jazzman got chops, says Bootsy, leaning his bass on the piano and heading for the bar,

or die trying,

May 9, 2008 at 6:22 pm | Posted in podcast, writing | 15 Comments
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Bang, F slams his glass down on the piano but by now i know its coming so i don’t drop the right hand, where’s Bootsy says F. out of the corner of his mouth while watching her cross the room with a trrrrailll of silk perfume, play an old standard he says to me clapping me on the back and filling my glass magically again with a wave of his hand, where’s three card? i’m bored, she wants to go to the theatre, the theatre! two hours of watching other people’s lives instead of living your own, fuck that play something loud and spiritual,
Live at the Orchid Room
more mad experiments with nonlinear time,
rage on, I say,

The Tao of Funk! (everybody on the one!)

September 9, 2007 at 9:39 am | Posted in music | Leave a comment
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“We are all human and I want to relate that message to all people.”
Bootsy Collins

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