‘O stand, stand at the window As the tears scald and start; You shall love your crooked neighbour With your crooked heart.’ It is possible for life to be a bowl of shit. Or it can be a much smaller saucer of shit. Conventional wisdom holds the latter to have the edge over the former, [...]
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Filed in Happening, Poetry, loss
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Also tagged Abelard and Heloise, buttocks, Cannibalism, Catskills, Correard, Friggin' in the Riggin', George-Antione Borias, Henrik Knudsen, Honore de Balzac, Ian Dury, Incest, Julian Barnes, Lavillette, Louis-Alexis Jamar, Not Waving But Drowning, parasites, Paul Cook, Pere Lachaise, Poetry, poo, Raft of the Medusa, Savigny, Steve Jones, Stevie Smith, The Great Rock n Roll Swindle, Theodore Gericault, W.H. Auden
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Monday, February 15, 2010
Bring me my bow of burning gold! Bring me my arrows of desire! Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold! Bring me my chariot of fire! November 13th – shuffled sheepishly through Israeli immigration, enduring a 30-second staring down by an oddly Aryan young woman in army fatigues. Last time an attractive girl looked at [...]
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Filed in disciple updates, journeys
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Also tagged Alex Tehrani, Arabs, Christians, Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Dean Kaufman, Debra Winger, Doctor Who, General Gordon of Khartoum, Islam, Israel, Jerusalem, Jesus Christ, Jews, John Lydon, Micheal McLaughlin, Noah Sheldon, Nuns, Paul Bowles, Perkin Lovely, Philip Larkin, Sarah Wilmer, Sausages, Tim Morris, Via Dolorosa. Austria
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Wednesday, December 9, 2009
It is a rare morning in the lifecycle of the agency that dawns with cause to be proud. Ordinarily it’s a matter of prying open encrusted eyelids to find oneself slumped in the wrinkly palm of last night’s barcalounger, empty bottles of King Shag Sauvignon Blanc scattered like bowling pins across the deep pile, fag-ends [...]
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Filed in advertising, disciple updates, revolting self-promotion
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Also tagged Alex Tehrani, Emil Zatopek, Eurovision Song Contest, Farts, Hanoi Rocks, Henrik Knudsen, Hopenhagen, Istanbul, Joaquim Ladefoged, John Clang, Marillion, Masturbation, Ogilvy, Perkin Lovely, Phillip Toledano, Pilfered, Rem Koolhaas, Stefan Ruiz, Tom Godici, Willem de Kooning
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Tuesday, October 13, 2009
‘Our hunting fathers told the story Of the sadness of the creatures, Pitied the limits and the lack Set in their finished features; Saw in the lion’s intolerant look, Behind the quarry’s dying glare, Love raging for, the personal glory That reason’s gift would add’ What an unnerving and enchanting experience to come round of [...]
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(cont’d from ‘Unsheathed, Perkin Lovely was a Ronnie Corbett Sausage’) ‘More likely they are his-and-hers avalanches of mouldering dumpling mix, with dentures from Minsk, matching unisex carrier-bag breasts and stained, swampy genitals. They’ll greet you at the front door of a tract house in Teaneck wearing each other’s underwear, their rabbi in the background humping [...]
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Filed in disciple updates, revolting self-promotion
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Also tagged Bay City Rollers, Boarding School, Cologne, Convents, Diseases of the Skin, Girlfriends, Helena Bonham-Carter, Katy Grannan, Korea, Opera, Palazzo Pants, Perkin Lovely, Philip Larkin, Poetry, Pornography, Prison, Ronnie Corbett, Sian Kennedy, Swingers, Terre Haute
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‘ … was once fat, with great swathes of cellulite, folds in thighs and arms, blubbery, utterly hairless, cross-eyed with a massive hydrocephalic cranium, no teeth, nonexistent chin, lathered in spit-up and drool, an extremely small penis, no balls at all, pants full of wet yellow shit. Things have improved marginally since. Now have hair.’ [...]
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Filed in disciple updates, revolting self-promotion
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Also tagged A Photo Editor, Anus, Boarding School, Cockney, Guatemala, James Blunt, Michael Ian Kaye, Perkin Lovely, PG Tips, Pornography, Rhyming Slang, Ronnie Corbett, Terre Haute, The Grand National
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(cont’d from ‘Song of the Best Western (I of III)’ and ‘Song of the Best Western (II of III)’) She thought she hadn’t slept, but she was disoriented and vaguely aware of lightning. She squinted at a point of red light in the deep dark. What was it? She could hear him breathing, Philip, half-snoring. [...]
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(cont’d from ‘Song of the Best Western (I of III)’) “Done. He’s off.” She held up the match-head. “Want to see him?” He peered along his chest at the tiny blackened raisin, his face still slung in a protracted grimace. “Did you get the head out?” “Probably. You’ll be fine anyway.” She eased herself to [...]
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Martin tossed his backpack aside and dropped his trousers. “Christ, I’m bloody red raw,” he said, peeling his boxer shorts gingerly away from his thigh and stooping to peer inside. “It’s like bloody beetroot”. “I’m going to take a shower,” said Abigail, “there’s Neosporin in a ziplock in my case.” “It’s ridiculous, I mean, two [...]
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The British are, in their own words, queer buggers. It all begins on the Virgin Atlantic Airbus with the ding-dong doorbell voice of somebody calling herself the Cabin Service Manager interrupting your search for the item on the in-flight entertainment menu most likely to make your neighbour shift uncomfortably in her seat (way-past-her-prime Meg Ryan [...]
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Filed in Poetry, disciple updates, gain, journeys
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Also tagged Blind Spot, Blur, Britain, Eurovision Song Contest, Istanbul, Janet Reno, Jenna Jameson, Ken Loach, Meg Ryan, mollie sugden, Noah Sheldon, Perkin Lovely, Philip Larkin, Poetry, Rocket Salad, Rupert Brooke, Spotted Dick, Tim Morris, Virgin Atlantic
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