Peter’s Posts


well anyway, strop over…

These things sort themselves out.

See! sing I ought when all else is in doubt

Seethings wrought when (difficult ) elves have clout

Have left Kenilworth and the Albion lowers anchor in a decidedly unique roadside tavern. I say roadside tavern….

Photo on 2-27-15 at 5.14 PM

Coventry gig tomorrow

I was shocked and dismayed to discover that the Facebook and Twitter accounts that claim to be my ‘official’ social media outlets have not sent out messages – or ‘pokies’ or whatever the bloody things are called – about the gig , a solo show, scheduled for 9.30pm at ‘Society Nightclub’ (Tower Street, Coventry)…..

It is repeated to be often – and I dispute it always – that these accounts in Facefuck and Twatter are the only way to reach everyone. I knew I couldn’t rely on a backlog of old pals from my time at Nicholas Chamberlaine Comprehensive in Bedworth (North Coventry).
My rock &Roll debut was of course a monumental landmark in local, nay national, nay intergalactic cultural history… and should have been greeted as such.
In reality the 1000+ kids in morning assembly that rainy day long agos veered arrogantly between hostile indifference and sarcastical bemusement.
For weeks afterwards a 15 year old Peter ‘Dock leaf herbal remedy’ Doherty suffered imitation whining noises as he passed groups of kids around the school. The vocal mic had been fed through a home made amplifier/reverb machine that unfortunately fedback and delivered to the whole assembly what I could only describe as an ‘avant grade’ vocal effect.
The beauty of the original melody was , alas, lost forever.
The song was the lost classic ‘The Long Song’ which never passed through early Libertines quality control checks when I met with Carl Barat soon after for formative writing experiments at his East Cheam flat.

Tonight I am already in the area (Kenilworth actually, in rooms above above a chip shop) (quite flash fish restaurant as it happens), and the gig is 100% gonna go ahead whether there are 35 people there (as is currently the sales figure) or the 350 as intended…

27thFeb 2015
Peter Doherty solo acoustic show
onstage 9.30pm
[shitloads of other bands on before] Society Nightclub
Tower Street

video shoot for flags

Photo on 1-29-15 at 1.54 PM #2


it doesn’t hold me

it doesn’t turn me on
BlindBlake playing and I’ll fall to the bed, sober and clean.

guitar lashes swarming shudder’pon
mind makes for staying and while all through the head,
proper and keen

you are asleep and I don’t know what you see
i am awake and this is my silent tap apology


Movie on 11-22-14 at 3.20 PM.export

“for the eyes”
says a blue eyed hoodlum in an all white one tone tracksuit
he looks at the foil on my side of the chair and spits at me.

“slumming Junky hipster prick” He doesn’t sayhe doesn’t say because its not his vocabulary and the word hipster hasn’t been reinvented in that Shoreditchian Kitschian worn leather ‘stand up comedy is the new stand up comedy’ type way
I’m 23 years old and I’ve never been spat at since the first NME cover a month earlier

“Right” I announce ” Get out of the Albion rooms this instant you aggressive ill-mannered cockney turd”
The pill-hammered stripeysock bird stands up in alarm
poshNew York squeaky seedysex voice : “I gotta get my colonic”

John Paul, possibly the most splendid of all the characters in the tatty divine Albionay spread of left-handed Libertines et al, says:
“Are you American?” to the bird (her name is of course well-remembered by your gentle diarist because she had it tattooed three inches high on her waist above a sheperdessesBush -mergeing mural of bright fire coloured flames) (True and strangely unremarkable at the time) (The colonic thing was a shocker to the lower middle class members of the gang – especially the fact that she had it done in chelsea) (oof is basted on the thong) (proof too Jiggles tasted her coz she didn’t look wrong in the dark ) (a sucker in them times for schnapple and racket if ever a hippy’s son sucked pussy gut0)

“where are your socks?” a beehive headed modette demands of John ‘IRA’ Paul

a sweet and sick smile from John Paul

“John Paul don’t wear socks” ( chorus )
living upside round down where’s on a higher ground
colors change to from green white to brown

Alan frowned upon the hard drugs …. my face was quite a picture too.
John Paul wiggled his black eyebrows, denim clad and be -freckled and wiry haired gypsy in a long tall old school body.
“the browns, innit Pete?” he wiggled and no-one giggled as he gulped a gullet full of the beasts’s bile-yellowybrown belly lining
Uzondu pronounced many words in that full mouthed enunciation mouth pout Edmonton-Nigerian LiamGallagher- with- a- Grange- Hill- audition laddish psychedelic black skin’ead all-English afro-Cockney soul boy speech of sounds.
“You dirty junky cunt”

“who’s eyes are for the eyes?” says Big Emma

“you know the apple, babes” says one of the leftHand, possibly all of them

“Bapplesaft” says Emma . “I have English rosebuds , not great saggy jugs”

confusion. Uzondu, Alan and everyone of the boys fancies her.
This caused much tension at the end of the end of the night when the gobby young yobs wouldnt fuck off and me and Emma would be crying or throwing stuff at them and they’d just be plotted up with guitars playing led zeppelin at full volume or singing ad lib (and at the time ad nauseum for this lib..) classics like the ‘lost classic’
‘two lovers dreaming of a quiet life’
I have a snappy snap photo somewhere of emma running out the door and alan is leaning up against the wall asleep and uzondu is in full Sam Cooke mode, all soulful and valleysteep and belting out from the rolling deep. With his eyes closed and his pink fat lips parted and the sweet silver song of the lad rattled the old frames
of the windows to the soul
and of 112a Teesdale street, E2.

before that neighbors would complain – sometimes armed – and carl and I would drunkenly lean out of the window all arseholed and aphorisms.
By the time lefthand appeared any confrontation of any kind became full scale inner city social breakdown.
Carl had enough and packed his duffle bag and depending on where Jude Law was working at the time Jiggler went to stay in Sadie Moss’s house show cabaret .
what a waster was 36 in the midweek charts and the world was round at our cloister.
Having a right ol roister doister.

The great and the good and the ‘bloody hell look at that, he’s got a driver’ descended on our doorstep. Gordon Raphael III lived under the church organ by the window. Doncaster Mik finally spoke to me in public. Pam Hogg did the washing up and a fine bit o food it were an all. PENG TING THAT. Some sociopathic care in the community bod from eastern europe appointed himself ‘amenities officer’, broke in one afternoon when everyone was asleep and cut all the water off. He wore a train drivers uniform (circa soviet rail 1958) and punched a policeman in the face when he was asked “or you’re gonna do what?” after telling a squad car full of filth to ‘set the mind be free and let the kids pardy with their frendsh’

He later changed sides and got a job for the landlady’s family – ‘will be hurting Mr Pete’, he was heard to say.

Fortunately for mesen’ I had been wary of him from the start – ‘Wary’ meaning absolutely petrified of the psychotropic c**t – and as such I had laid out a well-crafted and meticulously contrived role-playing stab-swerving mind-blending charade. He was a little slow up top, and believed finally that Carl was Peter Doherty, Peter Wolfe was Billy Bilo and J the Shotter was an undercover fed.
Consequently, when one eyed Bob caved the ‘slavic psycho train drivers’ skull in (literally threw him out of the window) that fateful night in the pre-eviction apres-21\2nd lib split – and remember too that Bob isn’t the west ham I.C.Firm’s answer to Bamber Gascoigne – [not the firms intellectual match to Paul Gascoigne lets have it right] only saying that out of spite because he once held me out of the window of ‘window’ fame, dangling me by one leg and demanding in gruff slum/essesk borders Billingsgate brogue “i won’t drop you if you cry some more Dokkerty you little poof”
Of course he dropped me anyway – but ‘train driver dickhead bloke’ actually broke my fall (and my phone) (oh yeah, and my face) that evening. When he and Bob had it out [“yoo fakking Bosnian graaarse” “you fat oneeyedfuck I keel you”, probably went the exchange . In fact, ‘being chased by a cyclops’ was inspired by such auto-destructive slavic defiance] {from the Libershambles classic ‘Cyclops’} {when Bob knocked his [amenity Gustav’s] teeth out with the hammer meant for me, the hammer actually used on Carl as he defended Peter ‘is he that Pete’ Wolfe..we got the lyric ‘gummy sucking on a cyclops’ >
The police never found the hammer. But the landlady’s son who was later charged with ‘conspiracy to commit affray, attempted murder and impersonating a police officer’ – he also had one of something. One hand or something. Honestly.
J the shotter ended up doing 3 years in Belmarsh for running over one of the neighbours – he now works with kids with social and learning difficulties in Tower Hamlets. Although I believe he still sells crack cocaine. Joke!

in Bangkok at 12 o'clock they fire the midday gun, not just mad dogs and englishmen put coconut oil on their bum

And the cycle of life continues.

Abie Wassenstein and Trinket Billy Blow
reet petiting up the fight
DENTIST‏ mean and an hour and a half plus 30 minutes to clean the old ‘ampsteads

Peter Doherty 20/12/2014
To: Bent Angelo Jensen – HvE

are you there?
Bent Angelo Jensen – HvE (bent@****von****.com) Add to contacts 11/12/2014 Flag this message


It would be so good seeing You in paradise!

Somewhere from 3rd to 11th of January…

Dreams come true?

double-hugs & double-kiss


Brave Button

Am 09.12.2014 um 00:36 schrieb Peter Doherty:

> that’d be grand ! I’m sure it would… I’ll ask Katia today and write back later. Theres a lovely wee island with most of paradise here or there
> its a dirty’d poison enough country here and there but by god it has a peculiar air of magic about it
> Peter
> (8 weeks off medication)
> > Subject: Re: DENTIST
> > From: bent@herrv*
> > Date: Mon, 8 Dec 2014 14:40:54 +0100
> > CC:
> > To:;
> >
> >
> >
> > Mon cher Peter and most beautiful Katia,
> >
> > – are You doing good and enjoying life in paradise?
> >
> > How long You stay?
> >
> > Would it fit, if S**** and I would come for a weeks visit in beginning of January?
> >
> > Love and kiss,
> >
> > B )
> >
> >
> > Am 11.11.2014 um 18:57 schrieb Peter Doherty:
> >
> > > Hey Angel Breeches
> > >
> > > I’m here:
> > >
> > > Peter Doherty
> > > Hope Rehab Center Thailand
> > > 45/13 Soi Pha Phum
> > > Moo 9
> > > Tambon Bang Phra
> > > Amphoe Si Racha
> > > Chon Buri
> > > 20110
> > > Thailand
> > >
> > > I’m gonna do a good long spell here and so you are welcome to visit …Katia and I would love to see you
> > > and your wonderful girlfriend of course…
> > >
> > > please could you send me some clothes? (and stash a gram of rocko’s finest inside the parcel (pleeeeeease)
> > >
> > > don’t feel you are risking my recovery. I’m really taking care
> > >
> > > Katia lives in the hut with me and we have a tiny lizard called ‘big eyed Bug’…I’m forging a new route through my well worn ‘reward paths’ in the old grey matter..opioid receptors need rewiring I fancy. NA could help. Narcotics Anonymous (with tiude?)
> > >
> > > International incidents, indecent, in descent, on the up, on the march
> > >
> > > on the make? for once, no…. just holding out in the last chance saloon for 1 more chance at this thing life.
> > > love to Hamburg
> > > love to H
> > > Pedro x



just to say i got a bill for 500 quid from having my teeth cleaned in Hamburg….
last week they removed 5 of the fuckers and it cost about 600 Thai Baht – eight quid or something.
I’m telling ya kids, if you are miserable and skint, or just have rubbish teeth – get yourself to Thailand, Laos, Cambodia or Vietnam. The people are chilled and spiritual and true-hearted (for the most part like the british really…except its sunny smile most days a year – when it does rain it rains like in a film noir, heavy, blurred and flood flash monkey sank..] You can get a flat for 20 quid a month – or just sleep outside..
The only weird thing is the common use of the word ‘ferang’. Translates as big-nose, dating back to European (specifically French) attempts to get across the border and colonize the Thais.
The only peoples never to have been colonized by any of the global imperial superpowers (British, chinese or Soviet unionCommunists, Romans, Muslims,Yanks,Chelsea shirts are all over the place alas but my friend Boon supports Stoke City and compares Chelsea’s ‘gangster money’ to the current Royal and Military juntaesque convoluted complexities of national government currently setting up the country for a right set to come the ‘unmentionable’ ( I’ve said too much) noone made Thailand bend to persuasion. None but the elite, in that the working and street people can’t exactly ignore the jutting horizon butting immensity of condominium complex multicorpo TM ration
Shrine proud slums aside office blocks with helicopter landing pads.

just did morning exercise class

pulled a muscle i didn’t know I had

Hammocks are cool

skull a tussle i always knew i had

Albert Hammond Jnr has produced the new view album

QPR pout the bottom 3

somethings they do change
rum things may who strange


love that line ” I got a job in the great north woods
working as a cook for a spiv…
..the only thing I knew how to do was just keep on keeping on
like a bird that flew
tangled up in blue”

good morning from Thailand

It’s kinda purple now

people waking up…

I think I’ll watch ‘Scarlet Street’ (dir, Fritz Lang with Edward G.Robinson and Joan Bennett) on youtube.

Based on La Chienne

Published on –
Scarlet Street is an American film noir directed by Fritz Lang and based on the French novel La Chienne (The Bitch) by Georges de La Fouchardière, that previously had been dramatized on stage by André Mouëzy-Éon, and cinematically as La Chienne (1931) by director Jean Renoir. The principal actors Edward G. Robinson, Joan Bennett, and Dan Duryea, had earlier appeared together in The Woman in the Window (1944) also directed by Fritz Lang. The three were re-teamed for Scarlet Street.

Christopher “Chris” Cross (Edward G. Robinson), a meek, amateur painter and cashier for clothing retailer, J.J. Hogarth & Company, is fêted by his employer, honoring him for twenty-five years of dull, repetitive service. Hogarth presents him with a watch and kind words, then leaves getting into a car with a beautiful young blonde. Walking home in Greenwich Village, Chris muses to an associate, “I wonder what it’s like to be loved by a young girl.” He helps prostitute Kitty (Joan Bennett), an amoral fast-talking femme fatale, he sees apparently being attacked by a man, stunning the assailant with his umbrella. Chris is unaware that the attacker was Johnny (Dan Duryea), Kitty’s brutish boyfriend, and sees her safely to her apartment building. Out of gratitude and bemusement, she accepts his offer for a cup of coffee at a nearby bar. From Chris’s comments about art, Kitty believes him to be a wealthy painter, adding, “To think I took you for a cashier.”

Soon, Chris becomes enamored of her because his loveless marriage is tormented by his shrewish wife Adele (Rosalind Ivan), who idolizes her former husband, a policeman drowned while trying to save a woman. After Chris confesses that he is married, Johnny convinces Kitty to pursue a relationship in order to extort money from Chris. Kitty inveigles him to rent an apartment for her, one that can also be his art studio. To finance an apartment, Chris steals $500 in insurance bonds from his wife and later $1000 from his employer. Meanwhile, Johnny unsuccessfully tries selling some of Chris’s paintings, attracting the interest of art critic David Janeway.

Kitty is maneuvered by Johnny into pretending that she painted them, charming the critic with Chris’s own descriptions of his art, and Janeway promises to represent her. Adele sees her husband’s paintings in the window of a commercial art gallery as the work of “Katherine March” and accuses him of copying her work. Chris confronts Kitty, who claims she sold them because she needed the money. He is so delighted that his paintings are appreciated, albeit only under Kitty’s signature, that he happily lets her become the public face of his art. She becomes a huge commercial success, although Chris never receives any of the money.

Adele’s supposedly dead first husband, Higgins, suddenly appears at Chris’s office to extort money from him. He explains he had not drowned, but had stolen money from the purse of the suicide he tried to save. Already suspected as corrupt for taking bribes from speakeasies, he had taken the opportunity to escape his crimes and his wife. Chris embezzles again to pay off Higgins, but reasons that his marriage will be invalidated if he confronts his wife with her still-living first husband. He contrives a meeting and believes he can then marry Kitty. However he finds her in Johnny’s arms. He later confronts Kitty, but still asks her to marry him; she taunts him in reply. Enraged with humiliation, he murders Kitty with an ice-pick. Higgins, under arrest, reveals the embezzlement to police and Chris is fired from his job. Johnny is accused, convicted, and put to death for Kitty’s murder, despite his attempts to implicate Chris.

At the trial, all of their deceptions work against Johnny and Chris denies painting any of the pictures. Chris goes unpunished but Kitty is posthumously recognized as a great artist. Haunted by the murder, Chris attempts to hang himself. Although rescued, he is impoverished with no way of claiming credit for his own paintings and tormented by thoughts of Kitty and Johnny being together for eternity loving each other.

Bilo’s note:

l;isten out for amazing version of ‘my melancholy baby’ on the classy soundtrack


a mild sedative or emotional suppressant ? can’t be arsed to google it.

anyway, I’m off all medication and ready for ‘phase 2′ of this (in hindsight) remarkable and somewhat improbable recovery from the snidey grips of rampant addiction. The ‘improbable’ would be slipped in as ‘self-defeating ‘ adjective according to councilors (is that the American spelling or no?)

Did I tell you that there is a councilor here who looks like Morrissey? I must have done. It’s 4.32 am.

Maybe I do need some kinda sedative, although quite soon the sky will be purpley and then pink and then pure clear blue and so I hold on for Aurora’s show..

swapping the pink pills for the pink sky you might say.

I feel serene, I’m sure I do. A few weeks ago in group session they asked me how I ‘was feeling’ and I smiled, burst into tears, and then went into manic laughter.

As good a response as any.

One just about able-bodied addict made a break for Bangkok yesterday. Leaping from bush to bush he never quite made it to the highway.

They dragged him back and told him he was a very naughty boy. The Morrissey touch you see.

Normally I would be ‘yeah mamma, take me to the belly of the beast’ but the ghekkos make such a curious noise when the snake approaches.

Listen out for it on new demos floating around my scrambled garageband brain.

Rocking in a corner x

tricky tricky tricky

just for today

5-6-7 days clean

/Users/doherty/Desktop/5 days clean.jpg

meet me on the corner, by Lindesfarne

03 Meet Me On the Corner

moments that break a young(ish) man’s Type to enter text 1: clean time notched up mum…. heart…. Type to enter text finally, after all these years a clean piss-test. HOPE REHAB 7.40pm Thursday November 20 th 2014

is his name

and these are his feet

24 hours completely clean and then…..

a head pops around the door of my little hut…its ——, mind-map guru and 10 years clean h and crakk shotting car jacking southLondon chelsea supportingrude boy type.

“Pete are you alright”

Ive been mostly upbeat I think but now the methadone has stopped I have resorted to the fetal position . Under the white duvet. Moaning occasionally.

“yeash I’m not alright…it’s not just in the mind” is my babbled response.
10 mil of methadone is found…in my little box beside the bed.
“that was for absolute emergencies” I say.
He tuts. Shakes head. Laughs.
“You can’t stockpile methadone Peter..” door closes “we’ll look after you, we have a plan for you….”
“which is…
Door shuts. I lie back. Methadone kicks in. Out of bed. Go to feed ‘Big Eyed Bug’ the pet Lizard absentmindedly. All the butterflies escape. Tis a wonderful sight. He doesn’t eat butterflies anyway. Fussy fucker.

a new friend in Longthorpe time coming

Date: Thu, 13 Nov 2014 09:59:32 +0700
Subject: Acerbic
To: deleted

From the mouths of adult bairns all those words dripped, nectar for the other fucked-up, confused, angry and lost addicts and copious booze debauchees to suckle on. I did the kung fu shuffle on every word that came my way when I first went into the rehabs and the 12 Step rooms. Sycophantic verbal sodomy was all they did, I thought. I watched them lap up the words and then repeat them to each other like Orwellian automatons in the rooms. Each ego bent to receive the next banging and then returning the favour with a Kubrickian “reach-around”. Common decency to at least fuck each others egos. I kept on listening and then gave them my spurious and sardonically barbed rant thinking I had this sobriety and recovery made, the path was easy. I didn’t need their bullshit.

I knew that there was something wrong with my drug use, the booze and my life around it. The fears became preposterously absurd though I believed them. The twisted thinking of a comedown though nonsensical, seemed rational. The drugs and the booze were all I needed. I loved the ighs, the fucked-up rock ‘n roll of it. After all hadn’t some of the best wrote their magnificent scribblings whilst off it. I wanted to cut off my ear for a lover, ride the King Snake baby, sit with Edgar and Hunter and share a grapefruit and have my comfortable envious angst about my Warrington lover that left because I drank and chased the life.

The ramblings I write and speak are from within somewhere. The honesty was where I found it. I still want the old days back. I can handle the hangovers and the comedowns if only they were the same as in my twenties. They aren’t anymore. I sit troubled or curled in a fetal position, each demon of the dark side of my character wrapping it’s knuckles on the spiraling banister of my psyche.

Only after going back to the booze and the lines and pills, living where it took me again, did I then go back to rooms, bowl in hand and I asked for help. I wanted it and I was there because I wanted it. Not because my girl wanted it, my Mum and Dad demanded it through salty tears, the police wanted it for society’s sake. Fuck them. I had to get off this stuff and through it or the jail cell, the sanitarium they put me in for a day, or the one Bangkok hotel room stiking of my own blood and vomit would be where I’d find my bliss.

I had to want it.

The words I wrote in the emails, Pete, are the suggestions to get on The Steps. Only suggestions.

If you do ever need an ear or just someone to let your mind spin on, give me a call or an email.



Ok so we’ll try and ignore the giant cardboard cut out of the Thai bride and her grinning betrothed… letting not my cynical coating be noxious to the salty-spray’s benefits on my sweat sweet skin. Factor 30 cynicism evaporates in the fuzzy sun , milky runs off of and over a glazed tattoo.
“no tattoos in the first month” advises S##, the senior councillor (in age) at HOPE.
“It’ll kill you out there” she normally adds to every piece of advice around getting clean. Not this time. Instead, in place of the deathly maxim, she is teary of eye.
She recently lost a friend back in London who brain hemorrhaged smoking crack last week….No punchline required methinks.

I’m on the first night of my ‘sabbatical’ from treatment. A hard negotiated couple of free days in the local area. On the small island of Ko Sichang …
We leapt bravely across the 2 inches gap from the wooden boat which brings us and the island’s supply of mosquito incense and pepsi cocacola from the mainland. Also a monk, fishermen, a white man and his Thai family…his eyes never caught mine but I swear he was chatting away in Thai for my benefit. “ can be learnt” he seemed to be saying….self obsession kicks in as clean time continues and drug obsession wavers. Probably not, I was in awe of his bill and coo flavoured vowels ‘ohh waaaah’ and ‘ahhh mee bah need boh’

Katia and I secured the loan of a scooter or 2.
No license.
No helmets.
No fucking stress.
The first building you pass coming up the small hill into the ‘high street’ is the Ko Sichang police station. I so badly wanted to go in and announce “I have no drugs with me and aint looking for any”

Such is the novelty
the first baby steps now

like the wild piggy wigs we saw when we started exploring. A fucking huge wild boar mamma with her piglets in orderly snouts-down for a full house caravan behind her.
Its not a huge island but in the dark you can get lost fairly easy.
We zipped down a curious looking dirt track awhile until we came upon a gated slum and a man who looked like a beekeeper crossed with the taliban /ninja vibes waved us away with a fat handgun.



saw a beautiful wooden boat with ‘love is everywhere’ written up the side in fat paint strokes. It is shipwrecked; the annoyed looking tree that it uprooted as it wedged itself into the cliff face is overturned..its roots in the salty wind like a million fingers. Saw a huge millipede crossing the road..they kinda body pop when they rear up on just 300 or so of their legs. This one was big as a small log.
I have to be back by sunday or possibly monday. Must check that up.

Albion overload.

Apologies to anyone who has tried to access the Albion Rooms or or Peter’s blog. The site was down temporarily due to an overload of traffic to a particular video posted on this blog.

Asean flag…red circle with a yellow bushel of wheat sheaf(ish) in it innit?

with a white piping around the edge of the red sun an d a blue background.

Red whites and blues common in flags of the region…. Cambodia, Laos, Thailand, Indonesia, Singapore…

reds and whites all over thew so called ‘Asean’ flags, also yellows and Blacks (see Malaysian ‘stars, moons and stripes in photo next to sheaf union flag)

I have also added a snap of the Brunei flag…. bleeding strange affair from the big man there …. a unique enough flag and that’s no lie

sweat it out, let it in the healing – putting Humpty together again

Sri Racha
near monkey mountain.. between Baeng Saeng and Pataya (tourist sex pest hell soul sinky)

but hope springs eternal in a young man’s chest (remember?)

like rock and roll, left wing ideals and stuffqqz cmnn

I know that some of you have followed me for years on and off. We know each other right…? We all have a laugh an that… an that keeps us…sane? In denial?

we don’t fake deaths around here need for that.

Little girl grow up.

Little boy blown up.

Left back

left bank

centre half

cut in two

stay free

Rory O’Moore

Alas, I don’t seem to live here anymore

but it’s my home

and I rteturn

like myself, only hotter (less worked up

less worked out

more in tune


far out
close in
open up
shut down no?

cannot add p[osts ..please amend however it’s done. Cannot type in ‘word count box

for Tony ca bbjghvljghhnnot add posts

vcgvjhhjkb and what is it that’s different

jghkgjhv/jh ;khjg’ku hvjhvHope Rehab Center Thailand
45gh/13 Soi Pha Phum
Moo 9 nbbvcjgcvuyfg;
Tambon Bang Phra
Amphoe Si Rachvcgvjhhjkba
Chon Buri

Review by Paul ‘enter nickname here’ Roundhill


 Peter once declared himself to be foremost a writer and that music was merely the vehicle by which he hoped his writing would reach the wider world. Peter’s submissions of poetry and short prose pieces in issues 3 to 14 of Ian Allisons brilliant and short-lived literary “zine” demonstrated that promise.Copies were snapped up quickly at the time of publication and will assuredly become highly prized collector’s items in the future for those with the time and income to track down and collect. The life-style of a prolific touring musician is evidently unsuited to the creation of lengthy literary prose so the prospect of a full-length novel or even short stories remains so far a tantalising project for a future. His writing to date would appear to be a preparation for the time when his working schedule allows that kind of commitment.
Nina is a good choice as editor she has status and respect in the music world, revered by her fans for the detailed and passionately loyal portrait of cult guitarist Johnny Thunders, she has been a fan, close friend and chronicler of some of the music world’s darker more troubled talents and she writes with humour, painstakingly researched biography with and obvious sympathy for her subject which is demonstrated by the care and integrity of her research. She has written about Nico, Peter Perrot and Leee Black Childers amongst others.
It took about a year and a half of  trips to Nina’s flat in Barnes before she was ready to to take on the task of removing this albatross from around my neck.  Firstly I had to assure both Nina and Peter that I was happy to forego my role as “self-styled literary agent” secondly  it was required to familiarise Nina with Peter’s idiosyncratic manner and style of business. Once those objectives had been achieved Nina made short work of picking out suitable passages and weaving them together into a cohesive whole. Peter’s subtle accolade to her on the back of this books reveals something of his skill as a writer as well as to hers. Its worthy of the Times crossword puzzle “Watch Nina write, she riots” 9 across: who riots? the STYLISH kid! In five words the bard of Albion slyly complements the doyenne of the gothic and of baroque and roll biography, assiduous researcher, painstaking recorder of crucial minutiae. If you read her biography of her teenage idol legend Johnny Thunders you will appreciate why she has been treated with rare reverence by the Hollywood film company who are currently in pre-production mode
Nina’s task in editing the journals demanded the same technique resorted to by Alan Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac when faced with a trunkful of closely written pages with no numbers or indication of intended order. Which is supposed to be page one and how does one collate the random sheets into some semblance of sequential order? You just assemble them in whatever way seems to work and hope for the best … if Gysin and Burroughs cut-up theory is correct this intuitive assemblage will be an improvement on the authors order of writing. That is how the classic Naked Lunch was put together and Nina’s task was similar, confronted with fragments of indecipherable scrawl in creating this elegant sequence from the random sequence has proved to be a remarkable achievement.
The books of Albion rewarded close scrutiny by the avid fan prepared to decipher the spidery hand-writing whereas for Albion to Shangri La reveals an open secret hidden in plain sight – that this guy can write I don’t know another to equal him in this generation – its a more mature hand,  poetry as prose by a writer of stature who is clearly developing his craft. within the covers of this book one finds the true individual; the expatriate lifestyle with its frequent journeys by Eurostar, domesticity, favourite television characters such as comedian Tony Hancock, Steptoe,  Peter Falk of U.S. cop show Columbo all hang together with  to create a remarkable gentle candidly intimate portrait of the prolific musician and artist.  The usual suspects amongst the now familiar circle of friends are lightly touched upon and there are some surprising revelations including a declaration of love and his intentions to take a life-long partner.
The final third of the book and tour diaries is equally personal but more rewarding for aficionados of Babyshambles and reveals the inside track of touring solo and with the band.
If you have any interest in the man or indeed contemporary culture this book is good value for your money. I recommend you read it.
On Saturday, 12 July 2014, 19:54, PAUL ROUNDHILL <

‘From Albion to Shangri-la’ – a kindhearted review from


 Peter once declared himself to be foremost a writer and that music was merely the vehicle by which he hoped his writing would reach the wider world. Peter’s submissions of poetry and short prose pieces in issues 3 to 14 of Ian Allisons brilliant and short-lived literary “zine” demonstrated that promise.Copies were snapped up quickly at the time of publication and will assuredly become highly prized collector’s items in the future for those with the time and income to track down and collect. The life-style of a prolific touring musician is evidently unsuited to the creation of lengthy literary prose so the prospect of a full-length novel or even short stories remains so far a tantalising project for a future. His writing to date would appear to be a preparation for the time when his working schedule allows that kind of commitment.
Nina is a good choice as editor she has status and respect in the music world, revered by her fans for the detailed and passionately loyal portrait of cult guitarist Johnny Thunders, she has been a fan, close friend and chronicler of some of the music world’s darker more troubled talents and she writes with humour, painstakingly researched biography with and obvious sympathy for her subject which is demonstrated by the care and integrity of her research. She has written about Nico, Peter Perrot and Leee Black Childers amongst others.
It took about a year and a half of  trips to Nina’s flat in Barnes before she was ready to to take on the task of removing this albatross from around my neck.  Firstly I had to assure both Nina and Peter that I was happy to forego my role as “self-styled literary agent” secondly  it was required to familiarise Nina with Peter’s idiosyncratic manner and style of business. Once those objectives had been achieved Nina made short work of picking out suitable passages and weaving them together into a cohesive whole. Peter’s subtle accolade to her on the back of this books reveals something of his skill as a writer as well as to hers. Its worthy of the Times crossword puzzle “Watch Nina write, she riots” 9 across: who riots? the STYLISH kid! In five words the bard of Albion slyly complements the doyenne of the gothic and of baroque and roll biography, assiduous researcher, painstaking recorder of crucial minutiae. If you read her biography of her teenage idol legend Johnny Thunders you will appreciate why she has been treated with rare reverence by the Hollywood film company who are currently in pre-production mode
Nina’s task in editing the journals demanded the same technique resorted to by Alan Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac when faced with a trunkful of closely written pages with no numbers or indication of intended order. Which is supposed to be page one and how does one collate the random sheets into some semblance of sequential order? You just assemble them in whatever way seems to work and hope for the best … if Gysin and Burroughs cut-up theory is correct this intuitive assemblage will be an improvement on the authors order of writing. That is how the classic Naked Lunch was put together and Nina’s task was similar, confronted with fragments of indecipherable scrawl in creating this elegant sequence from the random sequence has proved to be a remarkable achievement.
The books of Albion rewarded close scrutiny by the avid fan prepared to decipher the spidery hand-writing whereas for Albion to Shangri La reveals an open secret hidden in plain sight – that this guy can write I don’t know another to equal him in this generation – its a more mature hand,  poetry as prose by a writer of stature who is clearly developing his craft. within the covers of this book one finds the true individual; the expatriate lifestyle with its frequent journeys by Eurostar, domesticity, favourite television characters such as comedian Tony Hancock, Steptoe,  Peter Falk of U.S. cop show Columbo all hang together with  to create a remarkable gentle candidly intimate portrait of the prolific musician and artist.  The usual suspects amongst the now familiar circle of friends are lightly touched upon and there are some surprising revelations including a declaration of love and his intentions to take a life-long partner.
The final third of the book and tour diaries is equally personal but more rewarding for aficionados of Babyshambles and reveals the inside track of touring solo and with the band.
If you have any interest in the man or indeed contemporary culture this book is good value for your money. I recommend you read it.
On Saturday, 12 July 2014, 19:54, PAUL ROUNDHILL <

did a post-spiel setlist after the stoke underground gig…. 36 songs… The regrouping of

my old band, The Libertines, is  (enter description that allows conclusion of permalink-heading to double up as a suitably celebratory and explanatory note on the massive injection of positive energy – confusion, plots, gentle paragliding through previously rough windcurrents of paranoia – band strolls, meals, columbo watching sessions  – getting lost now in dashes (  ‘ – ‘ )  ( and brackets ) ) ? ……


Miks new blog coming soon,new postings once a week




are you there?







so we’re all playing where….


“Stags Head in Hoxton” sniffs “yeah…

tickets available from”


are you winding me up ?


“no, that’s true. That’s what it is.”


all one word…?


“yeah yeah yeah……


SoccerSixIndie 2013

SoccerSixIndie 2013

I am playing @SoccerSixIndie FRI 15th NOV at The London Soccerdome, Greenwich Peninsula, SE10 0JF

I will not live in the shadows anymore

Paper blank, Empty again.

Brain bruised with anxieties.

Voices quietened

I still recall my eccentricities.

Longing to dissolve this void

Find a way through

Tracing tears that I’ve cried.

Regain my senses

I will not live in the shadows anymore.

L.P review : Helsinki,


to_do list: preserving integrity, looking for daughter, darn the up the ol’ bracketFord…

Must get back to blighty forthwith>… if that is the correct context>

must find necessary  funds to pay off —- — and retrieve all the footage he has of days at Kate’s house years ago. The shame of having to pay-off a friend is not as great as the shame of having the tabloids get hold of any private stuff. Its the one thing remaining that retains me any worth in their smutty eyes…

terrible feeling. Curious too to know what he has after all these years of winding me up, baiting me with said ‘ticker-tape tapes’.

Trust me, its the only way to get the matter dealt with. Pulling off the dusty, hazardous by-way short of the extreme tactic of -__________- ‘gulp’ – the last available option…. last exit to Tickletown etc.


Pay the man and be done with it…


Notebook with illustration of the Eiffel Tower on the cover

‘Truly I can push no more, or I’ll be lying on the floor breathless, death, yes

Nothing more………..

Is this to be the final score?

Seeking strength now

The night at length now

Deeply entrenched allow

The understanding of this deplorable routine…

Now strike, luxurious and loud

Rousing the crowd

Making the rowdy- suddenly rousingly proud

United, delighted

Under melody’s glorious shroud’ (end here)


‘That which never was to be


Wont’ be now will never be

Just as you always insisted

I always thought that somewhere, somewhere, somehow

Love – would – find-a-way’


-‘We need all the evil old souls to die

The young must be strong

Fight for all they want

Liberty and pleasure.’

 Old fragility has bought a boozer in Margate
why has the font changed in dimension…


hither and titrher wedge falliungf


r h i m p l b a x n v s t

can use flags twice, aye…thrice…forever



words:(english&French only)
























aye captain, message received and understood




now sink you fucker


i mean sing, sorry, sing


sorry. love yopu

count Dohna, I.C.O.S

going through them now….



have got:

R    red with yellow st george’s cross

H  white and red divided vertically

I  ‘black ball’ yellow with black circle in centre

M  st andrew’s cross

P ‘blue peter’ blue with white square. hoisted with code flag is the departure flag indicating imminent sail

L  yellow/black quarters

B   red with swallow tail. when hoisted with code flag indicates the ship^in loading or unloading explosives

A  white and blue divided vertically, white half next to mast blue at the fly is swallow-tailed.

X  white with blue st george’s cross

N  blue chequers on white flag: 16 squares

V white with red st Andrew’s also called ‘st Patrick’s Saltire’


S  white with blue square in centre called ‘blue ball’

T   red white and blue (reversed french flag)


unidentified: yellow/ black stripes




before hearing of a compliment from V.C to K d V

there is a purity of


to my sweetheart’s


(an enormity

at the core of she )

charlie whacked in with heroin

violently tries:

to obscure or defile (such sick things!)

charlie chaplin heroine

silently cries:

too poor (but smile!) to touch rich things…

duelheadlines sprayed on stencilled sliced sheets one about stabbing victim / other about a t.v celebrities shampoo dilemma

either a camp,dog or a coughing seagull, such a strange noise that I hear.

morning sits up and flicks a finger at its reflection. kentish town. Nosey ol’ Camden Town tuts:

“dont you know that`s very un-British?” Kentish town looks over at Camden, at the huge procession of union jacks and spray-painted murals to a galaxy of national stars, Miss Winehouse, Dennis the Menace,  Jack the Ripper.

Kentish wipes its eyes -” If you`re after a row can you wait until Mario`s is open and let me have a good strong coffee first…” Kentish farts, discretely. Hampstead laughs from under the duvet

Camden continues: “If you`re gonna abuse yourself please use both fingers. Many an anglo-saxon Bow-Man lost many a digit for you to callously adopt transatlantic gestures of disdain so freely ”

Camden splashes herself gently in the shimmering canal water and makes a low purring noise. Hampstead laughs again and the whole of north london brightens up.


tonight sunday 14th/ monday 15th ‘midnight to 6′ doors 10pm

club Jane

62 rue Mazarine

paris 75006

opening set 10 pm

Peter Doherty

le sparks

plus guest dj’s and poets…



viva le Republic!!!!


please spread the word tell as many people as possible…

timeline/blstoph- to show-1 MANIC on the sheets and on the duvet


london nw5

holding it all in

sweet bitter tang in the burpthroat

that is above under a vest

(slim and soft not wifebeater)

i repeat

not wifebeater

if it pleasya, and takes a rhyme neater into the vacuum

whuch is more or less now



and i keep reaching for to put my hands in productive places as i hear doors crack in the flat, so any visitors into this chamber of low light will see oh how busy with the machinations of his calling he is (i am he, see, listening …oooh quick read a book)


in my fevered pretence i didn’t notice the philosophical dictionary that i was engrossed in was not only upside down, but was in german)(

2: (thunder clap!) neutral nuggin

not nasty no no no

not neverland…



ah fuck

3 –

3 was – is – proper,

ah dear

ah me

delicate craft – artifice that we’ll call fear

desolate laugh – like a battleship captain, being rescued from going down with his aircraftcarrier by a little non-military but nevertheless enemy-flag flying fishingboat

A fat and delirious laugh in the wet too – like the skipper of a sinking battleship being tickled on the belly by a dolphin as his boots fill with water

desolate, hollow laugh – like from a kid who rolls with the bullies at school just to survive, and now hes laughing because everyone else is as they push a screaming childoff a small but steep incline, onto a rock covered in dry nettles and bracken


my head is clear but my mind is now disjointed. you are on the sofa somehow out of reach. let’s see …

Nathaniel Who?

Nathan von Wallenstein Weinstein

drafts from the past

album titles?


5 June, 2013 @ 3:49 [gallery] dillydallying in doherty&martin shop putangG/?.ùù + putain –   + oh        

dillydallying in doherty&martin shop

Ca a commencé par une escalade. Celle des murs des étables de Camden Market. (ah oui, c’est la nuit et tout est fermé)

à la dérive

Puis on l’a trouvé. Le shop 429. Il est parfait. Quasi vide pour le moment. Un terrain de jeu pour pulvériser les bombes de peintures que suzie à laissé

Un vieux carton rempli de vinyls traine par terre, tout pour fabriquer quelques pochoirs et ça y est,  Hancock, les smiths, billie holliday, humphrey bogart et Woody Guterie sont sur les murs

Je me demande qui il y aura demain


(note à moi-même* se souvenir de regarder ‘the man in grey flanels’)



5 June, 2013 @ 3:49 [gallery] dillydallying in doherty&martin shop putangG/?.ùù + putain –   + oh        

dillydallying in doherty&martin shop

Ca a commencé par une escalade. Celle des murs des étables de Camden Market. (ah oui, c’est la nuit et tout est fermé)

à la dérive

Puis on l’a trouvé. Le shop 429. Il est parfait. Quasi vide pour le moment. Un terrain de jeu pour pulvériser les bombes de peintures que suzie à laissé

Un vieux carton rempli de vinyls traine par terre, tout pour fabriquer quelques pochoirs et ça y est,  Hancock, les smiths, billie holliday, humphrey bogart et Woody Guterie sont sur les murs

Je me demande qui il y aura demain


(note à moi-même* se souvenir de regarder ‘the man in grey flanels’)



so i read it to herlet her read it









cmon then you fucked up counts….

you`llwantaperfunctorybrolly)(what with all the rain)/ want a perfect soul (what with dis and that)

so Doherty and Martin and co, shop to pop up and stock to price up – has us deep in discussion and dramatic storming of brains  this evening. re-aligned to my affairs this side of the channel



survivng relics from years of domestic disasters, àrt-auctions`(?), floods (see dom/disasters), freeze-overs (see floods)

a fountain of curiosities, warped vinyl,  clobber, ton of tins, trophies from boot fairs, junk shops, crap shit, cool crap, hot shit, this and that, tons of tat treasure and of course, sailors hats,  h a! i lorvs that

crazy overpriced artifacts from the war on drugs, the great war, the bleedinboer war, scratched richardburton reading warotheworlds,  french revolution, flags, ancient fags, crumpled scripts, blabluaa

Suzi has as ever given heart and soul to follow through on oh the plans we made


meantime, Drew has attended Stephens mixing sessions.

qdS, faubourgStDenis, Paris was where we recorded the fing.

now we mix, (no tricks)

magic they called him

The Street has it that its fucking ace

Newly re-elected Andy Boyd sings along everynight, arms outstretched, heartfelt, sincere, high on song


Mik and I attend yet


pretend to vex hard


tending towards the reverse, actually

19 songs in the unnamed (prequel to the sequel?) to be cull`d shortly, collated and crisply EMI endorsed -whats on the billboard Bill Broadsword?  the arterial splatter of a bloddy overdue arrival – ALBioMn

and an album is being born.

and life allows for all manner of ventures. But life has been lovely of late and now this is a task to be taken to the same of the one of them same


first time staying awhile in london for looong time. Brixton Jamm doesnt really count.

i`ve been in love – jaunting about the pyrenees, Barcelona, PAris, quiet, in love, loving, being loved, shhhh, there my darling, there there, you- boubou,

i love you,

my darling my love


the girl of  (spanish for life)


opposites attracts like shock bodies furiously clasping intwine minds bodies jesus ugh oh bejayzus oh mon couer ma coeur mon amour petite piccolo mon amour

je tàime


that kind of kind


somehow between the beginning and the end, the road maintained itself

traced light paths

heavily made up we will are

tonight playing ‘The Fontania’ bar and tabac, 25 Rue Pierre Fontaine, Pigalle


Nous son

“It’s come to my attention that confusion abounds regarding my management situation. Hopefully I can clarify the current situation. Forget my previous post friends … All new enquiries should be directed to Mr Adrian Hunter (once, previous, future and current) for consideration. Any enquiries directed to any previously named ‘représentatives’ (e.g Messrs Bodin et Duquense) should be directed to Mr Hunter whère they havé every chance of professional considération and onward actioning.”

this is whaT Adrian typéed in my ‘notes application ‘

Well there we go …

Adrian is looking after my professional concerns, once again. although as a close friend there are enormous tensions at times”hang on you”
he continues
“righty tightly  … One would assume that you’d deliver the ‘coup de grace’ … Let me re-read …Why yes Peter, approved. I’ve enjoyed every word of it. Hopefully now the heavens above will pour rain and scorn upon despots
[stops typing and says|
stuff about thatcher,
“and I’ve got a favorite hatchet”
Now, he / I continues … Wonderful action on this hatchet … Pass it over. Pass it … Let me chop it!
damn damn damn …
love and money money and love
heavens above
and below
on with the show!
whyever not!
5 date aAlbion outing coustic tour
&1 more
although SylvieVerheyde is now my acting agent
on the wway to Marseille
straight in old faithful in theTGV
sleep on train
Started with
‘picture me in a hhospital’ then ( in no order )
backfromthedead, dntlookbackintothesun, for lovers, downfortheouting, cantstandmenow, hooligansonE, thewholeworldisourplayground, sheepskinTearaway, whatkatiadid, backfromthedead, musicehenthelightsgoout, attheFlophouse, newsong(untitled) with riff nicked from ‘Tears’-DjangoReinhart song, theHaHaWall ,lastoftheEnglishroses, carryonupthemorning, a bit of’outontheWeekend’ byNeilYoung, also cover of ‘cantstanditanymore’ by VelvetUnderground
finished with new song’fallfromGrace’

Hired gun
22 hours ago – Uploaded by lipstickmelodies

Peter Doherty, Alan Wass & The Lipstick Melodies HIRED GUN [Official Video 


La Fontaine, this friday…vendredi sour tu sais?

ok, Nacer saves and jesus nets the rebound…


plotted up above the tabac, 25 rue Pierre Fontaine, pigalle, Paris 75009

just downhill out front enface the Moulin Rouge.

Chance-ville for mesel’ and meselfishly sityting so set in my wayless ways

wanton along love and loyalty’s broken banks

Principles River

merciless as the Mersey

madder than the sane Seine

Fame’s as the Thames

luckier than the Severn

Culpable and ready to confess (not in De-Nile)

feeling fine

comme ca le Rhine

HiredGun video (Katia de Vidas created and collated and completed and celebrated) now on YOUTUBE

this gauching (gowtch-engg) lip-sparkly upon yon fiddler-forked-out for-futonflopp’dStooge muses on the melee all about

heartfelt longing


Friday 29th March 2013

10euros on the door, which includes a drink….


“You feel that … You are at home…”

Tu sens tu a la maison.



punch ups with paramours ppermitted but not pprolonged not



not that








‘,chasing skirt


apres lever de soleil

heads boot

to thoughts of

the shoot




Dice man style games

if this one goes in i’ll go to her/ qpr will stay up…etc




first of the day last of the night

Tonight: the sequel to the prequel

That’s to be thus|:
French – side release in France of ‘Hired Gun’
‘la Founteine no no ‘Le Fontania’ bar & tabac
25 Rue Pierre Fontaine


Gonna play about 10.00pm
Free entry for ballerinas
All others €10 which includes a free drink

Drinks marked up a few sobs thereafter

For all information contact Mr Kelali


0033 148742197

store st blues

circa 2008?

Marriage of Heaven and Hell

It occurred to me , as I sat awake, gawping mostly at nothing, but for a while at the the unfathomable pitilesness of the old man with the cruel heart who kicked a tramps dog in the head below my window ,t occurred to me that WilLiam Blake also had a fat line or two to say about progress.


Contraries ? Contraries?

Energy is eternal deldelight













death and sin, children of Satan

the fallen messiah? Stole from the abyss…



send the comforter!




apres le deluge, Rodders

Further to my rather personal _more to the point informative and personal _ post ….. there some awkward moments just about due to be cued up and played out, or at least, i anticipate some….


perhaps its all in my head….


i hve ended the long_standing association with ‘LazyEye’/ ‘WolfBray’ management…Mssrs Boyd and Hunter.


I dont want to jump straight into anything  – my usual headless chicken late for a barn dance style of decision making needs to be reviewed… and so the two parties I mentioned hitherto have been – how shall we put this – we have been doing the client/ manager interpretation of the butterfly’s mating ritual. Circling each other in flurries and flickers. Letting the light compliment when it can, flashing hypnotic colours and guarding the dark carefully.

For example…Anais and Cyril came to me with an offer to play the ‘gala’ magazine party for €4000 – two songs only. Jean Louis has contacted me and said he could have got €10,000




and i recieved this message from Cyril, entitiled ‘well well well’

hello Peter,
I tried to talk with Jean Louis . but unfortunately it seems impossible. 
I won’t get into details by emails but It’s hard to believe that this guy wants to defend your interet when I ear the way he talks about you.

I called him just to try to find the best way to be united and to make some good things for you.
He was drunk, insulting me, insulting you … 
We should talk (you & me/Anais) cause he wanted to cancelled the different plans/gigs (and asks me 18 000 euros to be manager lol)…anyway it’s a strange situation..
Let me know..


Cyril Bodin

Directeur artistique / programmateur @ Le Bus Palladium 



sorry Cyril, for putting up a private message put I want to show the minefield that is the chickenlate line of business

announcement regarding management


Andy Boyd and Adrian Hunter are no longer representing my professional interests.


the future is uncertain – [and progression is not possible without deviation of the norm – this is not from me, its from Zappa, via Cyril Bodin]


Cyril, along with Anais Duquesne is currently helping me out with a view to managing me in the future.

My frencvh agent Jean-Louis Schell, will remain a man to trust and work with. Also theres optionsd there.

Any proposals of a professional natrure should go through these guyss.

They all haver other commitments in the wicked world of music and shall we say entertainment.



The future is bright

and what ryhmes with orange?

je n’est sais pas.

Shows tonight and tomorrow night in a small tabac in Pigalle

its the tabac next to the Nouvelle Eve,

at last

labellive spread we’ll call it


not I use THEM very often.

I’m hardly an environmentalist

butbut thats just

not true       scraps here and there and then whallop


Drew has just returned to London after a brief but productive trip to Paris

we have collated all the new and newish songs to be considered for the album recording in march. the full list of working titles of these sessions [IwishitwasSundaySessions] is:

BarbariansLiveDemo01 4:24 Babyshambles Live Demo

2 FarmersDaughter01 6:12 Babyshambles Live Demo

FiremanLiveDemo 1:30 Babyshambles Live Demo

MaybelineLiveDemo01 3:11 Babyshambles Live Demo 1

Choices vox bounce 2 3:35

Cuckoo vox bounce 2 3:38

Dr No vox bounce 2 3:48

Fall From Grace vox bounce 2 4:11

Gamblin’ Man vox bounce 1 5:17

Minefield vox bounce 1 6:37

New Pair vox bounce 1 3:18

Penguins vox bounce 2 3:22

Picture Me In A Hospital vox bounce 2 3:04

Seven Shades vox bounce 2 3:18

Spit It Out vox bounce 2 1:47

The Very Last Boy Alive vox bounce 1 2:27


Peter Doherty performances at The Torriano in Kentish Town

Peter is in London and will be performing twice on Sunday 27th January, a matinee performance at 3pm and again in the evening at 8pm. Tickets are limited, just 50 available for each show, available on a first come basis. There will also be an evening show on Monday 28th, again at 8pm and again just 50 tickets available at the door. All tickets are £20.

“talent borrows, genius steals” – Oscar Wilde “John Lennon’s a thieving scouser” Herman Hesse’s ghost


I’m making time in a roaring furnace

tender joy floods through my arteries when I think of the ecstasy of life


despite the rotten – really, the rotten, ill, prang –

ROTTON ILL PRANG – despite that, I know – and indubitably – that I am in love with life….


the thirst can be quenched?


yes yes yes


the soul’s tender fire;

born towards us from the past: the words that were here and there useless

coming at us from the past : words that are perhaps not arrogant enough to describe happiness, a peniscok

touch and go it can be

as to whether theres a place on the lifeboat for poetry

but then it ends up a no-brainerler  la le la


and and and –

something I was agog to understand

re-reading Herman Hesse

I have a dead scouser’s scrumping to confesse……..


the lyrics – or many of them – to Imagine by his nibs……Mister John Lennon MBE – are purloined from Herman Hesse.

Is this commomn knowledge and muggins here is as usual the last to know>?







wake up, wake up you Eraserhead sleepyhead


just slept 25 hours straight/ Rip van WinkelvMagregor


Dreamt of chasnDave, scottish fans drinking in a beer tent in Haggerston. A housing estate in Islington. waiting in a side street outside 1960’s goodison Park. then suddenly a massive crowd emerges and i’m with an oldSchool footballer in big shorts. something happens.


The mob. Colleoni’s men at Brighton Races. southAmerican moshpits. 




when I have slept so deeply, for so long, I find that I walk really oddly. Heavy, waterlogged feet. I trundle down the dimly lit corridor , always occurs to me I’m walking like the guy in ‘Sean of the dead’ when he first wakes up. Think of Hounslow, CarlBarat, my sister,


losing virginity on a patch of wasteland, the girl flashing to taxi drivers, carry on films hilarity.


Hancock’s morbid expression.


back in reality:


Have a Granadine water with ice, a bit of cheese. rice cake. Still half asleep, nearly pour grenadine water on rice cake. This isnt my favourite brand. too sickly.


Theres no food really, no brandy


cold red wine


where did  hide everything I neeed


to return to oz.


Sit on my bed, on my clean newly purchased sheets. Think about  thoughts.


what is to be done?


THink hard – Stephen Street is coming to Paris. I have just today to organize my new ideas for his perusal. where has the summer gone? where is autumn going?


my dreams are swimming around my head, dangerously close to the plughole.


more of the dream comes back:Being an english student at a california iuniversity Carl had the room before me. Left some drugs there. I am outside. A motorbike gang of black gangbangers are watching rivals. They have a rocket launcher. I am breaking up a slab of blue crystal meth a la Breaking Bad.


I have a motorbike too, a massive fucking beast of a bike. I pull a wheelie and rob a bank and dodge some bullets.




Back at the university I make some new friends and they tell me that all their parents have luxury homes, but their knowledge of european history is not sophisticated. The fridges are packed with frozen meals and each dormitory has a small bar with fairy lights.


Earlier in the dream I am at a car boot sale. I meet a girl who takes me home to her dad’s council flat in Coventry or Nottingham. He has one arm.


I ask why he was selling all his VHS tapes and cassettes -nhe explains that they belonged to his estranged wife who got all the kids addicted to gear. then when they were clucking she gave them a huge hit of crystal meth, He said that when they had an early night feeling shit it gave them a true understanding of what it was to be working class. I look out the window across the estate and observe the crowded but clean blocks of flats.


The father has a friend who is there a lot of the time. they go on hikes together.




[dreamworld in italics]


Gens qui…

Gens qui..

gens qui….

people who have a car? they can lend me? I want to see Noel Gallaghers last european show with the high flying birds……..tonight in Toulouse…

my mate is with me and is fully licensed-up etc….

if you can lend me a car, I’m in Paris(nr Metro Villiers\Rome)

phone 0033 625914014

the train is out of the question. I am currently in discussion with SNCF regarding my accountability for a missing trolley-load of staff uniforms(gaberdine wool mind you), cold meats, cutlery

soggy is the papermache coating the inside of body armour

           is softening from hard to to harmless with the rain made rust

streaks of red and long runs of crystalized orange flake

MissWang’s revelations lead us bright eyed and dear oh dear eyeful-o-thatol’devil Luuuurv [coz yes it is true to myself that I remain when I whisper confessions – ever whimsical and wanton – to the windy wet wind – though whether the weather wants to welcome my warbled woes is, well, – ‘whatever’ -that winds in Paris wayfarers] the confession was that I always wanted Wang

we’ll waltz past the wasted years wanting to weigh her womb with a weight of wee’uns]

thats a crude way of saying something dreadfully lovely

although she says not

oh – now shes tricked me into letting her put her jeans back on before i even settled down to watch ‘beat the devil’

time is making all the breakneck speed collisions

padded bouncing

An ironic parody of purgatory

I think of you again with your glassy eyes

Back there again.

An endless spiral of sweaty steps

To counter act the poison.

I’ve seen you

Rattling around your cabin

An ironic parody of purgatory

Questioning your soul

See- sawing with the devil.

Below you a narcotics ground hog day

‘Cept this time

Your mirror is fading



Where it all began


stripping the rose of the fierce winds

is like releasing a thousand prisoners into sudden tumultuous, orgasmic {release]

hold your breath gentle reader, hold it hold it hooooold it…………

why tears  like burst dams tear down my face

nd here like the first man i steer ’round disgrace

sheer is the the hike, from otherly to this now place

dear is the white, befreckled divinity-led appearance of her grace

dearer still is the carnage-cacophony in the mind – still now in its silence – her complete silence. People dont hlf go on dont they?

she is mute

i feel guilty sharing this with you

i have often used my life like a cheap show, cheap soapopera – dip in and see how distractingly dashing and dirty and devious and doubtful or definite MY life is

of late, i seem to have fallen foul of love and its fuckeries

fantasy fueled by all the facts, copied out with care and corrected of corruptions and calamities

chinawhite found its way into my backside

er, yeah – my little life

i am mostly in the arms of this new bird.

i blush.

you see, we all like to crack on with what it’s not unlovely to live along the lines of right? like in onlyfoolsandhorses when DelBoy is approached by an extremely posh shop assistant who asks:

“and what is sir’s pleasure?’

“er.. birds and curry i spose, but i wanna buy some clobber etc..”

got the most unrelenting pulse of parcels, proper trinketry and antiquities oblivion, and binies [pr. ‘been-eeze’] pussie, like, cuz, i mean…my cousin, nay, fam, my family, MY BROTHER my sister

lowlit langour, slow, smudged eyes of the moscow girls as they fling about our now ritualistic triplesome – our mad silly threesome

me [huh, me, imagine me!] trying to keep it low lit

the taller of the two [3? gosh] trying to keep the lights light

the dark haired one , the smaller one, who is unfeasibly misleading in her clothes. like, brother oh my brother the spleet-rousing,ruckrousefucking castle cutting down walls and all huge walls knocked through kicked in firestranglingfury of desire that forms like circles in the spittingguts when a girl pulls you on to pressure the point, to pull the undull dobba into stupidly warm heats and hip close waists, sheets drained of light

sometimes the word russia alone has me spaffing in my Bjorn Borg breifs

spunk, weed, spit, vodka, faint birnt foil under fat bugs of brown brilliant is the foil in the marble cave of gold and marble that is the bathroom

colapsed horror spun over and sorted right out/ banging away

tender in this other gaff

debauched in Derry, Dublin, Dieppe, Dunleary, Deptford, Dorset, Devon, Denmark, Dijon, down the end of the street, Dresden,

er, yeah, all that kinda caper is over

one woman man me,

aaPrescription: A walk on Hampstead Heath

As the branches breathe

Through the blackened veins

Of my thorney existance

I see…

Skeletal etchings of those faceless wonders

Who wandered here before

All remains, their lonely souls

Whispering in the winds


An ol one for the Parisians

A lonely lover lays upon the River Seine

He whistles

‘Its so empty here, without a somebody to blame’

And the dark ladies in their lipstick

Listen to their cigarettes

‘But I’m here still alone- don’t forget’

Perhaps the sky’s are lying to the world

And I’m really…not really here

…. And the Eiffel Tower is just

An unfinished game of chess

The Gods played in Paris

K x

pote wrote to a flying muse

the camden town adversemental hideout, where LonelyVillein and the Dog torment themselves with the sight of each other,., was cleaner than usual.. or was it just barer?

The place has, i fancy, muffled the light of its last weekend. very Dickensian: evicted at christmas. Convicted and pitiless, convinced that the wits are shredded sulk threads the scenes, smiles tight and stinging. Hands shake, tremble

the only occasion it resembles is yesterday

castaway, but alas not lost or forgotten….

rocking onthe lumpy sea’s surface

the huge foaming gape of the dog’s sorroe was somehow full of the surfsea andscumflot dsam of enthused singing.

hold a chicken in trhe air and ‘sitting on the dockothe bay’Still John Robinson IAMTHERAIN’

breiflyayway aye only that

you can feel as if you’re rot in fear04 I Can’t Stand The Rain

ideeas’ere’y’are baddlydaddlydidya ruin it?







been so wrong

each day

dull old sallow grave

shallow flamelicked pot of

thicklysickly swag

chuck in 5 bags


senses retreat

from the mean and vibrant, the scene is wideopen private



pushing boats out

ripping throats out

endless streets anything can happen



‘see had again

should we look the other way


solemn grinding misery

noone can touch you

or hold a candle

20111228 013529

wallopers/ be arranged : al that coming together, rer ter ter


see – listen to mannered men

studied in deception

i am my only mothers son

and a flustered one

flagged mind down

thinking back

would that i had your poise

but so awkward in mind

no use hiding away pretending to be

the price of oppurtunity


jack hit the road

the road hit back

didnt half give him a whack

off his head on crack

one way or anothr

did the daily grind

see him hit the wall

scooping up shards to spit in clumps


1coulditbearranged‘music brings people together’


lamely i confess

[lame in the main

because i stress

the lameness

just as it is surmised

that only the truly wise [and highly-intellectual]

acknowledge that they are ignorant and  mentally ineffectual

so , you can track us down [each clown] and then thank us

for admitting that they are paraphrasing Mr J—-n C——-cas

i feigned a less -than cer-tain /guess at wherefr’m

the wallopers / bearranged

A muse to a dying poet (part 2)

Who ever said it was written in the stars
Tonight it’s written on his feet
An invisible map
Points to where lovers meet

Lines fading fast
Ink running past
Tears on the pavement

Stumble upon a
A conversation between
An educated drunk
And a Camden punk
Un phased by this predicament
Round these ends it’s not unusual
A candy shop of crazies
Lazies, who wake at dark
Greeting narcotics
Wish they’d stop accusing  me of popping anti psychotics
Give up trying not to be so stereotypical.


So infectious
And utterly precious the gift you give to me when you are near
A muse. I am Fastidious.

I got a pang for you tonight
I got a pang for you tonight

Love ignites through velvet sky’s
Our bodies a million miles apart
Our Spirits side by side
If its the same moon we see tonight
Look for me
Look for me
I’ll look for you

Draw our names in the stars
Our company… a gentle strumming of guitars

I’m not that far away

Look for me
Look for me
I’ll look for you


Young girl, old fool

I’m looking in the mirror I used to be you

Young girl, in the mirror

Now I am that fool

Fiction – think to fix him like a glove ripped 43days ago 3rd November

There.. That was easy enough.. Ok I’m on my way..
well I’m in a taxi.. do you live in a hotel?
the driver seems to think so ..
No a building, its just before the hotel
your English is getting quite good..
You really have ‘a large and comfortable bed’? Did you research this description in a dictionary?
I’ve always wanted a large and comfortable bed
I didn t search in a dictionary! It s comfortable, and not really large, just normal size , sorry..
ha! more deception 
You will see..
is there a code? Floor? Door?
I think my phone Is gonna die 
Code A1369, on the right 4 floor
I m at the window
I’m at notre dameAh!
Where’s you?
In my bed
on the sofa at Phillipe&cedrics
Ooohhh I m alone in my large and comfortable bed, and I needed kisses all of the night and you are on a sofa.. It s ashamed 
‘its a shame’ is the expression you were looking for? 
Oups yess!
Upside your head
well you didn’t need mykisses did you.. My phone was off but you could have phoned Andy or Sylvie or phillipe.. not difficult …
Whaaat??!!! You know I was there! You left really fast, you didn t search me , I was just there..
You left that mean you didn t want to see me!
really ? Is that whatt it means?
At the gig! Where!!
don’t you ever see how fucked in the head I am at gigs, how it takes hours of calm, calm , calm to come down..
So I came to Phillipe … Went through all my things that are here .. And when I turned my phone on I texted you straight away .. ah I don’t know why I bother explaining . fuck it.. It’s always me having to defend myself. Kissing you in front of everybody was the most powerful statement I could have made.. And you can’t see that. I’m throwing myself at you . 

take it, remember I tried
And fuck off
you always reverse the situation, I really really really want to see you, it’s frustrating
oh come on Madamoiselle, behave!
I never know how to act with you
So, is it the end of the discussion? You want to stay stuck on it?
oh just tell me what to do
It’s easy, you know I love to see you, you know you are in my heart, you just have to call when you want to see me
And even you decide!
so where are you ?
Still in my bed
oh where..?


Oh dear I would love to my sweet boy, but i’m at work. I shouldn’t be here cos i’ve been ill for days but my manager said she dont care the only way i’m going is if i’m on my deathbed she’s a fuckin bitch
no fuck all that 
You don’t believe that’s all
Just say that don’t tell me about deathbeds

Pure young and beautiful you rule the world 
You don’t take shut from anyone 
you rule the world..
That’s funny cos i’m taking a lot of it recently
I think I have glandular fever again, my glands are huge, the dick comes in says “you look like shit don’t even think about having any sick”
no no no no no
I’m telling you but I can’t
Make you …
So it breaks my heart and I cry like a soft get but aye you have to show some fucking vestige of faith.. 
I hope you’ll think of me sometimes
Think of you sometimes? I think of you all the time and how one day your gonna break my heart
Just pack a fucking bag and come on get on with it 
Life an that
Oh yea as if little miss is gonna unstick herself from me
You wont even tell me what it is I mean to you, constantly wondering
ah I must be ill – 
It must all be a sack of nowt
you must remember the first idea about love an Telford and what might be..? No..?
But then you tell me your going off to paris and you were over there with some girl you liked.. No? Few mixed signals man I dont know how to feel. I just know I really wanna be with you somehow, i’m terrified your gonna hurt me
What are you talking about? I’m saying come on, come with me, be with me.. what are you saying ? 
Im saying I want too… But it’s not that easy today
so I’m off
Off where? Fuckin hell why are you doing this to me? The only way I can get out of here is by bringing joanne with me, then I get done for kidnapping. Why are you trying to upset me
oh please. 
Lets hope this missed period is a scare cos it wont be no good when your out in paris shagging. French women
???then I will expect your companionship immediately..
That was below the belt.. I’m sorry
You staying over tonight ?
I’m sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry
What work?


I just dreamt I was in my senseless adelphi tipat the time 
“Scarcely sixteen ” said the interested eye-sore of a slutasked
And i in turn asked about the word “scarcely” and i was put in a clock’s way already I no longer remembered my chilling few days at the mercy of bullies, hard nuts and sarky cunts alike

I was 16,000 leagues from my real dream (hoopsa!) qpr and fa cup glory
I faced the panel with a particularly pretty little look of perfect impassive (but pleading and needing in my final fix of the motherly woman’s eyes

I was in Moscow, in the city of a thousand and three belfries and seven murders a night in the dark unlit straights of winding streets
And they weren’t enough for me, the seven sets of seven railroad stations and the thousand and three towers
For my adolescence was so blazing and so mad
That my heart burned in turns as the temple of Epheseus, or as Red Square in Moscow
When the sun sinks.
And my eyes shone upon the ancient routes
And I was already such a bad poet 
That I didn’t know how to go all the way to the end.

The Kremlin was like an immense Tatar cake
Crusted with gold,
With great almonds of cathedrals all done in white
And the honeyed gold of the bells…

An old monk was reading to me the legend of Novgorod
I was thirsty
And I was deciphering cuneiform characters 
Then, suddenly, the pigeons of the Holy Spirit soared above the square
And my hands also flew up, with the rustling of the albatross
And these, these were the last recollections of the last day
Of the entire last voyage 
And of the sea.

But I was a very bad poet.
I didn’t know how to go to all the way to the end.
I was hungry
And all the days and all the women in the cafés and all the glasses
I would have liked to drink and to break them
And all the shop windows and all the streets
And all the homes and all the lives
And all the wheels of the hackney cabs turning in a whirlwind on the bad cobblestones
I would have wanted to thrust them into a furnace of swords
And I would have wanted to crush all the bones
And to tear out all the tongues
And to liquefy all the big bodies strange and naked under the clothing that drives me to madness…
I sensed the coming of the great red Christ of the Russian revolution…
And the sun was a bad wound
That split open like a burnt up inferno.

I was in my adolescence at the time
I was scarcely sixteen and already I didn’t remember my birth
I was in Moscow, where I wanted to feed on flames
And they weren’t enough for me the towers and the railroad stations that studded my eyes like constellations
In Siberia the cannon roared, it was war
Hunger cold plague cholera
And the muddy waters of Love pulled along millions of carrion
In all the railroad stations I saw departing all the last trains
No one could leave any more for the tickets were no longer sold
And the soldiers who were going away would have very much liked to stay…
An old monk sang to me the legend of Novgorod.

Me, the bad poet who didn’t want to go anywhere, I could go everywhere
And also the merchants still had enough money
To go and tempt fate.
Their train left every Friday morning.
It was said there were a lot of deaths.
One merchant carried away one hundred crates of alarm clocks and cuckoos from the Black Forest
Another, hatboxes, top hats and an assortment of Sheffield corkscrews
Another, coffins from Malmoi filled with canned food and sardines in oil
Then there were lots of women
Women renting between their legs and who could also serve
They were all patented
It was said there were a lot of deaths over there
They traveled at reduced prices
And had an open account at the bank.

Now, one Friday morning, it was finally my turn
It was December
And I too left to accompany a salesman in the jewelry business traveling to Kharbin
We had two coupés in the express and 34 chests of jewelry from Pforzheim
From the German peddler “Made in Germany”
He had dressed me in new clothes, and while boarding the train I lost a button
—I remember it, I remember it, I have often thought of it since—
I was sleeping on the trunks and I was very happy to play with the nickel-plated browning
that he had also given me

I was very happy carefree
I made believe we were robbers
We had stolen the treasure of Gloconde
And were going, thanks to the Trans-Siberian, to hide it on the other side of the world
I had to defend it against bandits from Ural who had attacked Jules Vern’s traveling acrobats
Against the Khoungouzes, the Chinese boxers
And the Great Lama’s enraged little Mongols
Ali Baba and the forty thieves
And those faithful to the terrible Old Man of the Mountain
And especially, against the most modern of all
The hotel rats
And all the specialists from international express trains everywhere.

And yet, and yet,
I was as sad as a child
The rhythms of the train
The “railway marrow” of American psychiatrists
The noise of the doors the voices the axles screeching on the frozen rails
The golden railing of my future
My browning the piano and the cursing of the card players in the next-door compartment
The splendid presence of Jeanne
The man in the blue glasses who nervously paced the hallway and who would look at me as he passed by
Rustling of women
And whistling of steam
And the eternal sound of wheels whirling in madness in the furrows of the sky
The windows frosted over
No nature!
And behind, the Siberian plains the low sky and the great shadows of the Taciturn Ones rising and falling
I am asleep in a blanket
As is my life
And my life keeps me no warmer than this Scottish shawl
And all of Europe glimpsed in gusts of wind from a full steam express
Is no richer than my life
My poor life
This shawl
Unraveled on the trunks that are filled with gold
With which I trundle forth
And I dream
And I smoke
And the only flame in the universe
Is one poor thought…

From the depth of my heart tears rise
If I think, Love, about my mistress;
She is but a child, whom I found so
Pale, immaculate, in the back rooms of a bordello.

She is but a child, blond, blithe and sad,
She doesn’t smile and never cries;
But deep in her eyes, when she lets you drink from them,
There trembles a gentle silver lily, the poet’s flower.

She is meek and silent, and without reproach,
With a drawn out shiver at your approach;
But when I come to her, from here, from there, from a party,
She takes a step, then closes her eyes – and takes a step.
For she is my love, and the other women
Have nothing but golden dresses on great bodies ablaze,
My poor companion is so lonesome,
She is completely nude, she has no body – she is too poor.

She is but a candid, frail flower, 
The poet’s flower, a slight silver lily,
So cold, so alone, and already so wilted
That tears well up in me if I think of her heart.
And this night is like one hundred thousand others when a train presses on in the night
— The comets fall —
And a man and a woman, even when young, muse in making love.

The sky is like the shredded tent of a poor circus in a small fishing village
In Flanders
The sun is a smoky oil lamp
And at the very top of a trapeze a woman makes a moon.
The clarinet the piston a sharp flute and a bad tambourine
And here is my cradle
My cradle
It was always next to the piano when my mother like Madame Bovary played Beethoven sonatas
I spent my childhood in the Hanging Gardens of Babylon
And skipping school, in the railroad stations in front of departing trains
Now, I have made all the trains run behind me
I have also bet on the races at Auteuil and at Longchamp
Paris – New York
Now, I have made all the trains run the course of my life
Madrid – Stockholm
And I lost all my bets
There is now only Patagonia, Patagonia, that suits my immense sadness, Patagonia, and a journey to the South Seas
I’m on the road
I’ve always been on the road
I’m on the road with little Jehanne from France
The train makes a perilous jump and falls back on all of its wheels
The train falls back on its wheels 
The train always falls back on all of its wheels

“Blaise, tell me, are we very far from Montmartre?”

We are far, Jeanne, you’ve been on the move for seven days
You are far from Montmartre, from the Hill that nourished you from Sacre-Cœur that cradled you
Paris has disappeared and its enormous flame
There is nothing but continuous ash
Falling rain
Rising peat
Whirling Siberia
Heavy rebounding sheets of snow
And the bell of madness that quivers like the very last wish in the bluish air
The train beats at the heart of the heavy horizons
And your sorrow sneers…

“Tell me, Blaise, are we very far from Montmartre?”

The worries
Forget the worries
All the railroad stations cracked askew on the road
The telegraph wires on which they hang
The grimacing lampposts gesticulate and strangle them
The world expands elongates and retracts like an accordion tormented by a sadistic hand
In the shreds of the sky, locomotives in a fury
And in the holes,
The dizzying wheels the mouths the voices
And the dogs of misfortune that bark at our parcels
The demons are unchained
Scrap iron
All is in false harmony
The broom-room-room of the wheels
Bouncing back
We are a storm in the skull of the deaf…

“Tell me, Blaise, are we very far from Montmartre?”

You irritate me, of course you know very well, we are far
Overheated madness bellows in the locomotive
The plague cholera arise on our road like burning embers
We disappear in the war completely in a tunnel
Hunger, the whore, clings to the clouds as it spreads
And battle droppings are in rancid heaps of corpses
Do as she does, perform your craft…

“Tell me, Blaise, are we very far from Montmartre?” 

Yes, so we are, so we are
All the scapegoats have croaked in this desert 
Hear the screech of this mite-infested herd Tomsk
Cheliabinsk Kainsk Ob Tai Shan Verkneudinsk Kurgan Samara Pensa-Tulun
Death in Manchuria
Is our last stop our last lair
This voyage is terrible 
Yesterday morning
Ivan Ulitch had white hair
And Kolya Nikolai Ivanovich has been gnawing his fingers for fifteen days now…
Do as she does Death Hunger perform your craft
It costs one hundred sou, in the Trans-Siberian, it costs one hundred rubles
The benches in fever and red flashes under the table
The devil is at the piano
His gnarled fingers arouse all the women
Perform your craft
Until Kharbin…

“Tell me, Blaise, are we very far from Montmartre?” 

No but…get the hell out…leave me alone
You have angular hips
Your stomach is sour and you have the clap
That’s all that Paris has put in your bosom
There’s also a bit of soul… because you are unhappy
Feel my pity feel my pity come towards me unto my heart
The wheels are windmills from the land of Cocagne
The windmills are crutches twirled by a beggar
We are the cripples of emptiness
We roll on our four sores
Our wings have been clipped
The wings of our seven sins
And all the trains are paddleballs of the devil
The modern world
Speed can’t do much here but
The modern world
The faraway places are just too far
And at the end of the journey it’s terrible to be a man with a woman…

“Blaise, tell me, are we very far from Montmartre?” 

Feel my pity feel my pity come towards me I will tell you a story
Come to bed
Come unto my heart
I’m going to tell you a story…

Oh come! come! 

In Figi spring reigns eternal
Love swoons couples in the tall grass and hot syphilis lurks under banana trees
Come to the lost isles of the Pacific!
They are called Phoenix the Marquesas
Borneo and Java
And Sulaweisi in the form of a cat.

We can not go to Japan
Come to Mexico!
On its high plateaus tulips bloom
Tentacular creepers are the hair of the sun
Could almost be the palette and brushes of a painter
Colors deafening as gongs
Rousseau went there
There he bedazzled his life
It is the country of birds
The bird of paradise, the lyrebird
The toucan, the mocking bird
And the colibri nest among the black lilies
We will love one another in the majestic ruins of Aztec temples
You will be my idol
A checkered childish idol a little ugly and grotesquely odd
Oh come!

If you wish we will go by plane and we will fly over the country of a thousand lakes,
The nights there are immeasurably long
A prehistoric ancestor will be afraid of my motor
I will land
And I will construct a hangar for my plane with the fossils of mammoths
A primitive fire will reheat our paltry love
And we will love one another conventionally near the pole
Oh come!
Jeanne Jeannette Pipette nono niplo nipplette
Mimi milove my dovedew my Peru
Sleepy me zeezee
Moor my manure
Dear li’l-heart
Beloved li’l goat
My li’l-sin sweet
She sleeps.

She sleeps
And of all the hours of the world she hasn’t swallowed a single one
All faces glimpsed in railroad stations
All clocks
The time in Paris the time in Berlin the time in Saint Petersburg and the time in all stations
And in Ufa, the blood stained face of the cannoneer
And the foolishly glowing dial in Grodno
And the perpetual rushing of the train
Each morning we set our watches to the hour
The train advances and the sun retreats
Nothing to be done, I hear the echoing bells
The great bell of Notre-Dame
The shrill bell of the Louvre that tolled Bartholomew’s
The rusted peal of bells on the death of Bruge-la-Morte
The electric rings of the library bells in New York
The Venice countryside
And the bells of Moscow, the clock of the Red Door that counted for me my hours in an office
And my memories
The train weighs on the revolving plates
The train rolls
A grasseye gramophone a gypsy march
And the world, like the Jewish quarter clock in Prague deliriously turns backwards.

Strip the rose of the winds
Here murmur unchained storms
Trains roll on in a flurry on entangled tracks
Diabolical paddleballs
There are trains that never meet
Others lose themselves on the way
Stationmasters play chess
Pool balls
The steel-rimmed track is a new geometry
And the soldiers who slit his throat
And the galleys
And the vessels
And the prodigious engines he invented
And all the slaughter
Ancient history
Modern history
The whirlwinds
The shipwrecks
Even the Titanic, I read it in a magazine
So numerous the visual associations that I can’t develop them all in my verses
For I am still a very bad poet
For the universe overwhelms me
For I have neglected to insure myself against railroad accidents
For I don’t know how to go all the way to the end
And I’m afraid 

I’m afraid
I don’t know how to go all the way to the end
Like my friend Chagall I could make a series of insane drawings 
But I haven’t taken notes on my way
“Forgive me my ignorance
“Forgive me for no longer knowing the age-old game of poetry”
As Guillaume Appollinaire says
One can read everything about war
In the Kuropatkin Memoirs 
Or in the Japanese journals that are just as brutally illustrated
To what end document myself?
I abandon myself
To bursts of memory…

From Irkutsk on the voyage became much too slow
Much too long
We were in the first train to circle lake Baikal
We had adorned the train with flags and Chinese lanterns
And we left the station to sad strains of the hymn to the Tsar.
If I were a painter I would pour a lot of red, a lot of yellow on the end of this voyage
For I believe that we were all a little mad
And that an immense fever bloodied the worked-up faces of my companions on this journey
As we approached Mongolia
That roared like a fire.
The train had slowed its pace
And I noticed in the perpetual grating of the wheels
The mad accents and the sobbing 
Of an eternal liturgy

I saw
I saw silent trains black trains returning from the Orient passing like phantoms
And my eye, as a headlight, still runs after these trains
In Talga 100,000 wounded were agonizing for lack of care
I visited the hospitals of Krasnoyarsk
And in Khilok we came across a long convoy of soldiers gone mad
I saw in the lazarettos the gaping gashes wounds that bled to the bone
And amputated limbs danced around or soared through the raucous air
Fire was on all faces in all hearts
Idiotic fingers were rapping on all windowpanes
And under the force of fear the stares burst open like abscesses
In all the stations all the wagons burned 
And I saw
I saw trains with 60 engines escaping at full steam hounded by horizons in heat and flocks of crows that afterwards took hopeless flight
In the direction of Port Arthur.

In Chita we had a few days of rest
A five-day stop since the tracks were blocked
We spent it with Mister Yankelivitch who wanted to give me his only daughter in marriage
Then the train took off.
Now it was I who took a seat at the piano and I had a toothache
When I wish to I can still recall that interior the father’s store and the daughter’s eyes who in the evenings came to my bed
And the lieder of Hugo Wolf
And the Gobi sands
And in Khailar a caravan of white camels
I am sure I was drunk for more than 500 kilometers
But I was at the piano and that’s all I could see
When you travel, you should close your eyes
I would have liked so much to sleep
I recognize all the countries with my eyes closed by their odor
And I recognize all the trains by their rumbling
European trains have four beats while those in Asia are at five or seven beats
Others move softly and these are lullabies
And there are those that in the monotonous noise of their wheels remind me of Maeterlinck’s heavy prose
I’ve deciphered all the wheels’ chaotic texts and I’ve assembled the disparate elements of a violent beauty
That I possess
And which compels me.

Tsitsihar and Kharbin
I am not going any further
It is the last station
I got off at Kharbin as they had just set fire to the Red-Cross office. 

O Paris
Large glowing hearth with the crossed pokers of your streets and your old homes that hunch over warming themselves
Like forefathers
And here are the posters, red and green multicolored as my brief yellow past
Yellow the proud color of French novels sold abroad.
I love to squeeze into moving buses in big cities
Those of the Saint-Germain-Montmartre line bring me to the assault of the Hill
The motors bellow like golden bulls
The bovine twilight grazes the Sacre Cœur
O Paris
Central station last stop of desire crossroads of unrest
Only the merchants of color still have a little bit of light on their doors
The “International Company of Sleeping Cars and Europeans Express Trains” has sent me their brochure
It is the most beautiful church in the world
I have friends who surround me like guardrails
They are afraid that when I leave I won’t return
All the women I have met tower on the horizons
With gestures full of pity and the sad look of traffic lights in the rain
Bella, Agnes, Catherine, and the mother of my son in Italy
And the one, the mother of my love in America
There are siren screams that rip my soul 
There in Manchuria a stomach still throbs as if in labor
I would like
I would like to have never gone traveling
This evening a great love torments me
And despite myself I think of little Jehanne from France.
It is on an evening of sadness that I wrote this poem in her honor.
The little prostitute
I am sad I am sad
I will go to the Lapin Agile to again remember my lost youth
And drink a few glasses
Then I will return alone


City of the inimitable Tower the great Gallows and the Wheel. 

Paris, 1913

oh behave..behive

Long lost night

Long lost love

Last stop…

A meeting. Long over due

So there he stood, a dark figure in the door way

His silhouette so familiar

She ran to him in her broken behive

Into his forbidden arms

Into his den and the big bad wolf

It was if time had stood still for seven years in that room

Different walls, same contents

Interrupted by this beautiful creature

And with that his guitar….magiC

She wanted to hold him for all the hours she’d missed with him

Sat there subdued, eyes in slow motion

Nothing to give him, no words

So lost, so lonely

Frantically picking the skin around her thumb nail until it bled

Insanely rubbing it against the grubby walls as she left

Wondering if there would always be a small space for her

in his den…his world…his heart for her.



View in new window

demo on chewyube WillesdenHarlesdenborders/ soul’shotcoals note to Peter: redo vocals on chorus ‘only love can heal the sickness of celebrity…’

demo engineered/produced by AdemHilmi[see photo]

trasckwrit’dby Suzi Martin/PDoherty

alliances, subSPIT IT OUT

20110404 171242

20111103 063356

20111102 102755

ever give in note awry01 spitiout

parachute with me into paranoia

(they give abouyt a secondf away

elspeth?upstairs? unbleivable

i thought hed finaslly lost it and the ‘wallop’


my moonkissed seaside salt and blush

from the thought of crawling in therre(bloodstained like i am)

and having his dough away…


right pair of brahmas

who’d othought it werent a another yarna

so many spun

since the strange discovery

that everything what you sing comes to be

a fine thing to suddenly announce mid- verse ,

mid ‘Im a rat you see

i can spread more disease

than the fleas that nibble away at your window display

like the ones in the song i stole this from today”

freefall for charity

we’ll see:

“oh dear, we’ve a couple of right..

entirely exquisite english roses

i dreamt it tonight:


we scribble and plonk

and into my hammock they’ll plonk….

“is it all arranged…

[could it be


move right in

to my heart

to my portugese cloth canopied


to my fort under seige of an uncle ned

its abundantly clear

the blank space looked like it was burnt on

coulditbearrangedtickerswung thhrough incredibly good intentions
even picking up dropped h ‘s these days
french/cockney alliances in the war on gobsput
the shapes of all the lips, w=a=yaa
beautiful lines
mouths that pout psmile spit scream shush sh
sounds sho , show
the low mumur was murder the low murmer was wired

caution:release into releif.
relying on he old reality

the world and that cave

jeesus – is that stuff even allowed its insanerly fucked up and twisted is the world at large

oh really?
And, this is new to you..
Kind of, yeah…like this, this pointblank intense-resolution- slowtime replay of the violence and suffering
steal not so much anymore
wary of the laws
the ones unwritten
shin pads
matters of import arent evaded ( on the openingliningly unlikely chance that

reflected the sick,
oily puddlesick splintering seams of sorts of thoughts
caught myself cheating of recently accepted decline

[note:how come i know so little abt cars. even girsl] note: englishgirls. think on

anyone reading this has a broad knowledge of modern european politics, european/middleeasternglobal religious issues


God i remember the many disastrous (sometimes wildly unsuccessful) attempts to get to Stoke, to Hanley..

Pat Walden and myself, convincing a taxi driver to drive us to the gig ..he hadn’t heard of Hanley.. or of Stoke, or of ‘the potteries’.. I mentioned that it was near Newcastle-under-Lyme and he nodded with conviction and renewed confidence:

“you boys look tired, get some kip and i’ll wake you when we’re there”

I suppose you can work it out..

By the time we had got to the venue via Tyneside we were advised not to leave the vehicle as a disgruntled mob of ticketholders had been charging about fuming. The police had cancelled the show.

In the end we chanced it and got a hotel for the night because it was more dangerous in the cab: the fumes from endless pipage had disturbed the balance in the mind of the previously narcotic-free driver.

I really dont know what it is about playing the underground in Stoke/ whether it is some much-hushed up debt that was incurred to a Potteries ‘security company’. But it’s one of the most frequently visited venues in my gigplaying adventures. And certainly one of the , shall we say, more eventful places.

anyone remember a rowdy ol’ do way back when ..where I [peter doherty] played a solo set, followed by The Libertines…followed by Babyshambles.. possibly not in that order and with I think, a few a support slot from Adam Green. Very strange.

It was too much for some people to take lying down and the ensuing riot saw the tipping over of a mobile chip-van(which was on bricks anyway, not really mobile] and Biggles and myself sat on top of the band’s (er, our) van belting out timeforheroes and other popular compositions.

Shambles were shithot that night. It was dark, wreckless times and the music that came spilling out of the live shambles set-up in that period was in turn, disturbing and very powerful..

as was the ‘welcome committee’ that greeted the tourbus one time..the legendary ‘firestarter’ who had got it together to build a bonfire which he maintained outside the tourbus for the duration of our stay (including the day off we spent parked there). I think it all ended badly that time.. although the bloke in question went on to become less of a nutter and his son had a cool band on the go last i heard. Fireman was the manager.

last night was undoubtedly the mellowist show i’ve done at the underground. And discounting the wee matinees at theblueskitchen..the first outing since the sentencing, prison, tag, sequence that just ended..although the sods haven’t yet removed the actual tag..

So i was bound to be a little bit, er, rusty..?

trust me,

they’re lining up to cuss me

and its a must that i brushup and get it dusted and sussed or they’ll write me up as fucked and maybe have me stuffed

the gig was shambolic and i was at something of a loss.. just playing songs as people shouted them out.. didnt try out anyof the new ones or my trio of covers that ive prepared.. but even so, i cant tell you the sense of relief now i’m finally free to crack on with my lfe. Its been a rotten old few months and i dont mind admitting it.

deep sigh

I think the setlist for Stoke, Underground wed24thAugust 2011 was: (not in order)

  1. east of eden
  2. cantstandmenow
  3. beg steal or borrow
  4. tell the king
  5. for lovers
  6. lastoftheEnglishroses
  7. get thee to a nunnery
  8. at the flophouse
  9. what a waster
  10. delivery (abandoned)
  11. music when the lights go out
  12. smashing
  13. Albion
  14. balladofGasconyAvenue
  15. dontlookbackinto the sun
  16. lustoftheLibertines
  17. whatKatiedid
  18. never, never
  19. TheGoodolddays

completely ballsed up my plan, and left out loads of tunes that i’ve been thinking of doing live again like sticks&stones, 32ndDec, gangofgin, sedative,

must remember..tomorrow i wanna try KolleyKibber. seems like i’ve been writing it forever.

i have been told that there is a crazy new invention called ‘the set list’ that allows you to play the songs that you intended to. Mind you, there was talk about ‘hoverboards’ a few years ago. And what became of that idea?

fuck all, that’s what.*

*Unless you believe that they used real hoverboards in ‘Back to the Future’ – the film about time-traveller Doctor Emmit Brown (inventor and frequent user of vintage exclamation ‘great scott’) and Marty McFly (who is the spit of a young Michael J Fox)

back on the road – back online

Sour the trace of memories: The Rape Suite ,

And the clear bias against the Police force, who entered the night, the flat, the motherfucking dragon that was the story – a story sadly so true  – up until now. Dragons of course being extremely destructive, monstrous, sickening to touch and smell, fiery and dangerous – like our….  like our night, like life was then to become.. somehow the metaphor has to work…

^^^^^^^^for pete’s sake:

The police were keen to stress that my girlfriend was perhaps dressed a little provocatively.. that any guy might have been led to believe his ‘attention’ and ‘intentions’ were welcome. can you imagine my response… i was completely distraught, as was my heroine who by now had been clinically examined and told that although there was evidence of a struggle, and of sexuasl activity.. there was no proof that rape was exactly  the correct term.

Of course, rather than be stabbed to death and brutally crashed down on, my love was completely still, and completely compliant with the brute.


As it  continues to develop, we are to learn with tremendous gratitude and  pleasure that at a certain point a particular detective takes charge of the case -Import numerous similar sexual assaults\attacks/rapes have now occurred in the same area of Fitzrovia/ Holborn /Camden   in a 14 month period – and 2 years after the night of terror for my sweetheart, an American college professor is arrested for multiple sexual assaults including rape, and …

previously doubtful ‘friends’ with theories that conclude  that my commitment in the relationship were waning and she did it to keep my attention and love….are given short shrift as they are told of the true horror – that she was dragged into Bedford Square at knifepoint and raped. The police had tried to explain how the height of the railings made it impossible to drag another person over whilst holding a knife to them..

this was one of many weird and frightening police ideas that basically aimed to reveal my girlfriend as a terrible liar and a nutcase.

In the end they offered her £5000 compensation  for there was seemingly no arrest in sight. When she refused the money, giving it to a charity, the police seemed to change their attitude.. it was then that the aforementioned detective got involved and wallop!  an American academic was nicked under a media blackoput, a media clampdown on this completely anti-American horror story.

Strange, but understandable in a way, unlike the propaganda campaign launched in the Robyn Whitehead coverage… now who would like a little insight into that? I think perhaps even her devoted and inconsolable sister[s], her gentle and heartbroken mother and her extremely angry and misinformed father would be surprised buy the lengths gone to make it look like i was responsible in any way for the death of one of my best friends in the whole world…

A girl who I was never lovers with during a friendship that saw us share a bed for many years… a girl who once told me that I was the biggest inspiration to her in the thousands of videos, photos, collages, poems, letters, paintings, songs, dances, dressmaking, and adventures that she was at the creative centre of during the years that I allowed her to live and work rent free in my house, paid for a dark room, paid her a weekly wage  – a girl who didnt have tuppence in the bank despite media reports that she was a ‘society it-girl andfully privileged member of the elite Goldsmith jet set’ .

In the making of her films, including the documentary that footage from which is being used to keep me at the mercy of the courts… I gave her free run of my life and concerts so that she may  film freely. Indeed.. in the very dvd evidence they are using to charge me with possession you can observe Robyn asking me for a pipe – we have a lengthy argument as i refuse to give her any drugs…

despite this the media have been allowed to angle it so that she was being led astray by the ‘manipulative drug-control power trips’ of the ‘sick Doherty’.

Robyn was using drugs when she was 12 years old. she was a heavily involved recreational user and abuser of substances. I did not lead her astray at all. I loved her. I left her the day before she died pissed off that i wouldnt give her any drugs. Print that you twisted bastards. Print that she asked me for years to inject her, to score for her, to sleep with her on acid, to get into blackmagic sex rituals…. never, never , never (once i banged her up, four years ago, when i found her doing it to herself with a blunt needle and dirty spoon and i made sure she did it safely as she was doing it anyway. That was four years ago. After that i refused to allow her to use crack or heroin or drink to excess which was her main danger.)

Or perhaps, Mrs Blanco, so vocal in her condemnation of me in relation to her son’s death.. perhaps she’d be interested to know exactly what occurred that night?

Perhaps it is a good time to do away with the perverse and degrading silence that truth has been forced into –  that serves only to let the people with an angle  get their manic voices heard.

I have said nothing about any of this up until now. Even the words attributed to me are incorrect. I’ll tell you how I feel:

Sick to my heart with sadness for the parents and family of both Mark and Robyn, for different reasons, although in both cases the relatives have suffered due to the unprincipled media’s insistence that foul play and the ‘evil junky Pete Doherty’ are to blamne for two tragic deaths.

Mrs Blanco. Your son was well-liked and well-loved and many respected him, for his wit and his talent and his intelligence. I met him on two occasions. The night that he died he was intensely agitated and extremely hyper-active and intoxicated. He was ejected from Paul’s flat because of his aggressive and loud attempts to belittle me and assert his view that i was a hyped up popstar and he was a talented actor about to star in a play called ‘accidental death of an anarchist’. Paul was dismayed that his friend was showing me this side of his character when in reality we could have been friends and exchanged ideas, combined creative energy and generally used the sometime ‘crackden’ as a thriving studio of literary and artistic output that it occasionally was.

WHEN HE LEFT THE FLAT HE Was alone and when he fell or jumped he was alone. THAT is what happened. he either fell or was making an extreme point about the nature of life imitating art .

I need to think . I need to explain. I need you to know that these families are torturing themselves in the quest for sinister plots and answers that are not there.

Robyn’s father texted me that i am a ‘coward and a runt’ and that i am to blame. She talked constantly of her father Peter Whitehead. She worshipped him, his writing, his filmmaking, his character, his life, his constant fight for justice and truth and beauty and aye, love in a capitalist sewer, in the rigged and puny cultural and political scenes of western society. She would be broken hearted if she knew that i was not even invited to the funeral.. she was my best friend you deranged old silly. There is no cover up.  We are broken me Alan and Wolfe. the media has been despicable and you are falling into their hands.

“The RapeSuite this way, er.. sir….” look at me like a i dont know what and direct me to , jesus, a door up the stairs saying ‘Rape Suite’ on the door..

So all that silly stuff before. I’m lost.. gone from there.. still since the third or fourth or fifth song tonight in the Manchester Academy when i burst intotears and spent the next hour trying not to make a balls up of everysingle line i splutter’d out and into the swirl of young, frantic here nasty, here merry mob of northern youth. the odd coin thrown, many hats thrown, a peace symbol, a leter or two a spliff, a demand for ‘you’re my waterloo’ [ ohmydays theres no way i would have got through this in that mood ’tis for sure and i’m sorry forthatforthat was the song that the befreckl’d Austrian girl requested th’t afternoon

the rare occasion i slump with a tele on: rape is jeered reforms are cheered, my heart is afeared/ the past rears aye rears up..demanding arrears.. bouts across the rowdy house of  the commons. Our parliament. Generic, speech-gripping  men, all deliberately bland and  from the same schools. Now a woman speaks with somehow righteousindignation and a manner that say “I’m a woman talking about rape and noone can interrupt”. Guilty pleas, leading to lesser sentences…

I think of whatawaster,

writing it in the then Albion Rooms -poet Jem Roll’s flat- dans Ilford House, N1, at a messy old desk piled with books, books, books rusty old silver screw-out lead pencils, a saucepan with a crab in it from a chinese geezer called Peter who swapped me the creatures for sly halves of guiness when the Kings Head still stood proud and the dive bar below it in Gerrard street, Chinatown.

Ilford House, off Dove Road. A block of flats that in 2001 or so was ready to either be redeveloped or crumble.

these days its one of Hackney/Islington’s less unpleasant estates . back in the day the scaffolding allowed ScarboroughSteve and I ample angles for scum activities along the awful line of aggrevated spidermanesque access to ajoining , perpendicular, upper, under-ling and random flats all around across the green-nettingweb ladder&plank adventure playground for amateur burgulars. our one minor success was to break into a flat that was sealed at the front door by a fuckoff big steel panel. Inside the unlocked balcony window was a stale old gaff full of dust and the squalid atmosphere of pure sadness. we found a box of letters from the guy who was the tenant. From him to his wife over the years. All from different prisons. he was a rapist. At least, we worked out that hehad been in 1967

I was writing what a waster and it was an ever so melancholy, slow ballady affair with a long lost verse about the chase around the corner.

I played it to Carl and John and they liked it and we rehearsed for a few hours

Ah, fuck, its 11 pm or so and my love was calling from a friends flat in Covent Garden

“you’re not coming to pick me up my love? Ah, never mind, you see Carlos and  rehearsals?’

“Yeah and its alright. Tonight’s been cool. Carlos likes what a waster but not for the set. Anyway.. but we’re gonna do a couple of other upbeat ones…. I might stay on a bit here.. can you get a cab back to the Essex road darling darling?”

“i’m skeent Peeeter” in her delighhtful Latin-dashed accent.. “No money for cab. But I walk, across town, from Dury Lane, is warm night my love. Is ok. I can wait no more. I tired. you play finish playing and i see you at home. Ti amo, amore ”

“Oh sweetheart, i’m sorry, i should pick you up” Had a crappy old yellow van at the time….

“No I walk, you come home i meet you there..ok..unless you can come now..”

“I said I would didn’t I.. but we dont get together much and we’re all getting on tonight.. Razzers is coming down in a bit..”

“Look, you do what you got to do and I will be ok. I like to walk that way ”

“ok my love. I’ve only got about a fiver anyway. I’ve got enough for some fags and a bevvy so i wont get petrol and razzcocks can giz a lift after. he’s on his way”

We played in John’s basement until 2.00am and I got a lift off the ol’drummer to the flat. Up in the piss-skank’d lift, passing through the batallion of mini-g’s on the landings.

“Yo blood how much to fuck that Brazilian bitch you got there?” A dark blue hooded head grunted at me

“Yeah she’s fit dat one , sheet, i’d ff-u-..”:

“she’s not Brazilian, and you can give me a blow job, and let me fuck your mum again, then i’ll thnk about letting you have a wank over one of her passport photos you little fuckinCretin”

laughter and the sound of a mouth making a gun noise and a fist coming at me.  I screamed and threw myself into a fakerage as i was keen on doing. Lost in a wild fucking mentalfucking fit of twisted apocalyptic spasms. “you fucking want some you dirty little two bob cunt, you fucking rat? You touch my gir l and i’ll fucking kill’ and then suddenly smile “you get me blood?’


“yeah easy bRO”

The hoods disbanded in laughter and bravado and fright and confusion and pity. They regrouped and passed a spliff round. One of them waited and sold me a bag of weed.

“where is she anyway?”

“Fuck off..” i started

“nah bruv, just asking coz she wanted some weed.. she not with you?”

I felt a jolt of something approaching calm terror..

“she came back earlier. You  seen her no? How long you been stood here?”

“hours” “nah two hours” ” yea moreless doesntit?” “yea suminklikeda”

“she must have come back hours ago..”

I leaned on the wall and breathed in the furry green calm and colour and swirling heavycurlingswiftsofsmog

Steps on the steps. a pair of soft white tighted feet padded on the sparkling concrete and newspapers and dry leaves. she had her shoes in her hands, and looked fucking terrifying so beautiful was she. In proto-Hoxton stripey socks, shortshort denim skirt and sixties cotton shirtblouselacetight summer turn

“hiya darlin” I said

“where have you been? I was waiting on the corner by the bins near there squat house til you came back..”

“You what?”

“come one..Inside lets go”

everyone looked at her and at me and laughed and muttered and laughed and said she was a joker and they all fell away like bowling pins as she said ” I dont wanna come up here on my own with all these guys..”

We got inside the 3rd floor flat and she turned to me:

“where were you? ”

“i told you i was playing with the band at John’s house. Oi.. giz a kiss..” she ignored me and went into the bedroom  and put on some music, it was a grungy band, all distorted guitars and bleak melodes and i felt appalled.. I went in and braved it.. got undressed and into bed, argued my point [balmy evening, love’s divine form, her eyes, her skin..] and put billie holiday on the old  hifi. She kicked it over and it garbled into silence

“fucking hell”

“oh well…” she stripped and we fell into each others arms and i was so into her, i had fancied her none stop since we met and most of our time was spent in each others arms, sweat.. but something was going seriously awry here…

the hifi, for one thing, and then the way she was pulling me on into her, ad suddenly i saw her face, wrenched away from me wet with tears, pulling me into her but all her soul and spirit was saying ‘no get away i hate you’…

I jumped out off her” what the fuck” I was feeling like a fucking weirdo, amaking love to someone who wanted me off her.. so fucking sinister. I was getting ready to get dressed and go, such was my pride hurt.. she grabbed my arm with her nails and cut me in a storm of tears and sobs and blubs

Now she was shaking uncontrollably and silent;y screaming, in a shocked state, curled up, her stripey knee socks on and nothing else. I covered her up. She was now screaming. That fucking cunt, fucking cunt, he’s notgonna affect me . my life..

“What the fuck…?’

she told me point blank:

“I was raped tonight. At knife point. In the west end. Near Bedford Square, Tottenham court road”

I heard her words, I knew and loved this girl, this woman. whatever happenned afterwards i always thought back to this moment and the absolute certainty i felt that she was telling the truth/ even when it got to the point of a police chief and a doctor telling me that it was probably a lie

I went for the telephone. She screamed at me and ripped it from the wall and said ‘no! no! please, no.. I dont want him to touch me.. to have any power over me. No police’

I didnt know what to tink. But I knew i wanted this guy to be caught. how else would it happen . I wanted to get this guy myself at some point. for 5 mins even.

I ran downstairs and phoned the police.

Then the real darkness settled on oh our lov, the descent with the offifers who came to our wonderful, dirty, rizla strewn, rok and roll dole era arcadian splendour and general bohemianbed-in of iniquity and sixties freaky feel…. The officer who led us to the car was a fucking monster.

He said to me: “does she always dress like that?”

The woman officer looked around the apartment and i could hear her mind ticking overtime.

At Stoke Newington Police station the officer pointed us up the stairs:

“to the RapeSuite sir…” and my god, he was unfeasably dubious about it all.. and my god there’s such a place called the ‘rape suite..’  !

and we entered it. Continued, when i’ve mopped up my head

ok updates..

no mixed feelings.. Passion is absolute, and ever so pure.


the paroxysm

of the



fascinated by the strength of her own texts,

by the desperate beauty

by the depth and maturity

and as for me:

she says:

“Peter, your attitude is tiresome. Your heart is a stone. This is not attractive.

“I prefer to think that your mind is altered. Goodbye Peter. Madness awaits you”

And I suddenly feel a chill, even as the room heats up over the measure of comfort, above and beyond a pleasant atmosphere.

all alone awhile, hurriedly alone.

walking 2 paces behind myself at the soundcheck.

Feeling superstitious, as ever I am: as i ever are am <?>

Luckily i cant tell the difference betwene crows, blackbirds, magpies and the like but upon seeing pennies all fall out about and in my deranged pile of cases and dirty tins on the bunk below my bunk… well, really and truly i shouldnt kiss them and cross myself. But i do. I have to. I only say this because today I am going to have a sound check  [2nd of the tour] and traditionally having a good soundcheck does not bode well for the night’s performance. Absolute twaddle of course but we cling to these ting and tings.

anyways, that’s not what i wanted to say. i am indeed all of a bothered state. Of course, tis ‘l’amour again’ -ie bird trouble. Its not enough that recently  i have been sentimental about the royal Kate wedding, and the other Kate wedding forthcoming – notwithstanding the seemingly ubiquitous  image of the latter Kate  this Manchester morn.. even to the exasperating point of shutting the Peter St Radisson dayroom door behind me only to see her face innocently staring up from the in-house magazine, so i turn it ovber and aside only to reveal the front of today’s Daily Telegraph and yes, a photo of the very same. Hmmm. Meanwhile my phone is flashing from the bottom of my upturned bag. I have not checked it this 24 hours past and now a recently devoted soul in  a most impassioned entanglement has decided that i am ignoring her. So it goes from me being a ‘mediocre liar’ to suddenly being hated, warned never to contact her again and of course, explained in detail of my lack of ‘sentimental education’, ‘refinement’, ‘delicacy’ and ‘class’ compared to ‘French dandies’ and in particular 1 ‘wonderful boy’ she has suddenly become  acquainted with.

Meanwhile her fiancee/ not sure what occurs is furiously texting me that i have manipulated her into coming to Manchester and that I do not fool him. Also he is suggesting that ‘Voici’ [a french tabloid??] will pay my £$30 000 debt with an interview i think he suggests.

spiteful dog!

he also says i cannot be friends with a girl.

I phone her and she screams at me to ‘shut up’

fucking idiot, lovely adorable, divine ever so divine fucking idiot.

my leg is sore and throat crackly dryfry. Manchester is up to Let . Court approaches. so does Bonehead and a lift to the soundcheck????? standby for namedrop mania


right lets see how we get on.. with honesty I mean

what do you lot think? should i make up for this vast, vacant- lost,

Elastic is snapped back and we scrape something or other [lethargy, sloth, creamcrackerdness in general] off of the moleski  cover we se what went through a mind here on ‘wednesday 30th March 2011′

‘There is a funny snap in my mouth or is my head a bag that suddenly filled with air, concrete edges rounded in to fold not a bag – a whole world or a room closing in? stagger up the aisle, as we fling up he sky. I know the lass in the SAS pretty little hat perched

she was a high class hooker and a nurse. from years ago, she used to get me things – clean works and diamorphine – and i did likewise – i sold a little weed back then and we’d have a smoke together and a little chat until one time we kissed and held each other warm and close and then then i asked her how she felt about selling herself, how she was gonna be .. how how how why what? and we cried together and then we kissed ever so tender and then she stuck a finger up my arse i ran away and she stood still and shouted ‘ its not like what you think you like, just relax’

nah, like playing ‘grrertcha ratbag’ and  the steptoe theme tune next door room to John Lydon. He came pout prowling and said to Mairead ‘bloody spicegirls’


‘SAS’ – scandanavian Air Services, eversopredictable am i as the britisherRokstar piping in the kharzi, and likewise the mostly blonde and tanned sort in the trollydolly role, formerly  5grand a night and £5per hour on the sink, biting my face, cracking the lid, dancing on my tap, gggling and licking  a salty tearor something alongthose lines off of her two wet lips that are natural,

like a norwegian forest – lips gasp as i hold on to a bucking mechanical yak spinning and kick fling whiplashing crashing about in the centre of a big safety inflatable bouncy bounce bed to break the fall of contestants in the yak rider. something of a serious sport, with a whole cast of bearded and smooth limbed nutcases all eagre to show how long they can cling on for dear life to a mechanical buckin yak before being flung off like a flopsy bunny rag doll from a dripbloodtooth’d hound’s mouth

to Norway! moonshimne, sausages and a still, cruel stillness in the heart of a merciless customs official

aye to norway

grand it was coming over to land in the Norwegian lake-locked-land upon the sea all clear clear waters under cool still skies. some of the little green islands are as big as a few footy pitches and dont even have a stone hut for a lone fisherman to stoke his burner and crackle a dry twig pile into blazing fire or fires.

Some life there – and i could manage it. the odd lost eternity or so splashing a little boat between isles and straights betwixt slabs of mainland: the blowing in of rain in pattering beats on the tin topped brick shacks and rainbowing sheets of light arching across horizons. We sloop down from the clouds into the tiny airport of Stavanger.

All arcady is upon us! urges resisted number 1: the need to kiss and tell. Enough of the weary wandering warrior of words and wenches and whimsey and wantoness – banging up metallic in another cool hotel – scoring in another slum stairwell in sheffield or slovakia or southcentralEindhoven – rocking up shit coke – cooking up bitty rock – rocking and rolling all apres-midday in a chainmail hammock – dropping your left shoulder and throwing a right belter to show a fat titted steroid-pitted flatcock’d doorman you can be bounced but not without a flailing stab in the dark to defend your honour. i get duffed up in old street , he gets a dead cheek. too much

to Norway [yesway!

]i love freckles,

its akin to the sickly lick of salt all sweet on a sun-soaked skin, close, close, under waves, drying in terribly close heat on suooo hot sand that ends up all in shoes and then tangled hair, also salty and sweet , the soft crinkly skin on hands that have been in the water too long

Lads pose and young ladies pout

some clutch poetry, some are lager louts

but thats all ago..

i was in a cab and heading nowhere in the dark early early a.m. and she just ets in.

says i’m to stop playing that fucking guitar and come on, and down this way, and its proper dark and now take your clothes off, and mind out for the mmmmm-

– for the wha’?

-for the mmmmm-

– for the  what?

– for the …. raaaaaaaaergh! a proper shriek scary banshee shriek pitiless, cold cruel fright and then a wet slap of long limbs on the still lake

so still

skinny dipping in the lake we fall into oh where on earth did she come from anyway? appearing in a sheepskincoat, white tights, red fifties heels. nothing else. curious accent

from 13th March 2010:

‘certain fragments of a dream flcker about my bonce ‘all the day’*something about dalston in 2002 writng ‘up the bracket’ at maireads kitchen table, the cool numb numb feelingless motion of hate feeling more like vermin, drenched in ugly ideas, desperate for melody to hurry up and save my life.. a cry in the dark! geeeertartofit!

robb’d the gentlemen.

raped myself

*fucking annoying trait of many french birds i know, its ‘all the day’ for ‘all day’. Also, ‘products’ for shampoo and suchlike similar bathroom essentials. And ‘i had them cut’ for ‘I had it cut’ – apres le hairdressers. Aussi: ‘footing’ for ‘jogging’.

for all of the none listed above

but but vacancy ..please sarah [and all confident young literary tigresses raring to flash their credentials] feel free in yourself to have a pop. but really can you mimic this, ready, catch!….:

the heartfelt, creepy melt down the thin walls of the Tyneside Mal Maison

the staggered inept *crawl around shows without new ryhme/true reason

the vast blank nowt where once was an arcadian stalwarts’heart (akin to treason]

the everkeen zest in the quest for arcady that remains constant all the seasonn!

*thats not the inept who are crawling around shows.. it is a particular inept individuals staggered crawl (ie mine) , if you know what i mean                                                                                                                                CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCXXXXCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC

Sir – you dishonour my family name with these fabrications

I would draw your attention to Bourg en Bresse’s premier rag – Le Progres.

Alize makes an exhibition of herself:

clutch pre-Raphaelite miniMachine, scrape greedily the lathered barrel, deeply inhale..and…[yes the phoyos are old

Photo-270.jpg\of all M.W’s endless, peerless recitals of life and death in anecdotal Shambolia, the one story that i never remember the punchline/s to is the tale of Red’s Laburnum drain-pipe-dangling and the flopping through the window directly onto the unsuspecting bonce of a startled, mute French girl

“what the fuck are you doing here?” he yelled ‘and who are you?”

“I live here. Who the fuck are you?”

I think thats how it goes. I never remember because by the time that the great orator has conjured up images of pitch black Haggerston streets and the arcadian fall-out that was the theme of the then AlbionRooms, I am lost in a reverie of recollections concerning the heroine of the story, and indeed the heroine of a soon-to-be-confirmed exhibition in a Parisian gallery: celebrated novelist, photographer, artist and lover: Alize Meurisse.

Its a beautiful name.

A name surrounded by assorted scandals and implication. The most pressing of which I shall address in this piece: the idea, the coincidentally true idea, that she is, in herself, notwithstanding impersonators, plagiarists, exploiters and publishers, all in all and not by the by or around the bush but indeed straight to the heart of the matter an exceptionally gifted young lady who at the tender age of something or other has already blessed the world of art and the art of the world with a considerable wallop of masterful and original works. Her paintings and photographs – her drawings and designs – are dark and obsessive. By which I mean to say they are bright and hip. Tender. Sorry, cruel. Moving, inspirational, bafflingly intricate and explosive. Jesus, it pains me to actually admit it but I ransack her folders excitedly jealous of the rich store of beautiful and beautifully presented ideas.

When an image is required to rescue a mediocre surge in a project – one phones Alize.

When you want to see how patterned tights should be worn – phone Alize.

When you need a pattern: phone Alize.

I think a pattern has emerged over the years. From the those early mono-lingual observations of Hackney street life, gang warfare and minstrel oblivion (captured in the first Book of Kerbibble) to the recent front cover of my solo album ‘Grace/Wastelands’ – Alize Meurisse has never failed to deliver work that obliterates the divide between the limitless imagination and the traditional restraints of the formal art-world.

She appeared from nowhere and set about putting to shame the vast and vain-glorious volume of self-styled so-called artists in EastLondon  who could only balk and squalk as she actually and precisely put her ideas and the ideas of many great thinkers into challenging practise. Her work was keenly observed, simple and bountiful. Her colours were uninvented and her inventiveness bright, scraping curling hunks of blackness off the mirrored floor of our silly little lives.

Alize Meurisse – or Alle-zee-yay as the yardy bone-slingas greeted her – has immortalized my friends, joined the dots around my fantasies and shadowed the features of injustice and divinity alike with ink and blood and celluloid.

She also did a grand portrait of Wolfie and a can of Special Brew

Alize and I. in some albion rooms or other.


Get the lowdown on my Director…

Octave? Brigitte!

Today the Director had to shenann in some technical shennaigary and so for the first time in this production Charlotte and I had to appear on camera – digital and 35mm for the boffmongers amongst you, the choice yet to be made between the two. I of course am planning my own edit and so here’s a wee glimpse…. production}Confessions – Mobile

also… see a run through of some of the script with Phillipe as Degenais..

ok, no laughing at the back

Today I had my first Waltz lesson, in preperation for the forthcoming film: ‘Confession d’un enfant du siecle’.  My character must display natural grace and poise – as was expected of a young aristocrat and dandy of 1830’s French society. I was going to film the lesson, but it didn’t seem appropriate. The teacher was just as I had imagined – straight backed, horsewhip in hand, and a brutal perfectionist. What a day! O.k, and 1-2-3 4-5-6 1-2-3 4-5-6 1-2-3 4-5-6

Filming starts on 27th December. I hope they have allowed for overtime on the maskedball and waltzing sequences

a bien tot!-3-4-5-6 1-2-3-4-5-6


finding some mental stuff as i sift through a decade of impossibly fuck’d up laptops, cassettes, dictaphones, innerlinings and dented armouredunderbellies.  i mean.. where the hell was it that we came out of a lift onto the dancefloor – to muted accolade -and then chanced upon a stage. must’ve been switzerland i’m sure. only switzerland.


any way the whole point of this post was to play you ‘3 blind mice’ –

re wind to slow sudds that hard’n and darken – forwards we go forwards – we hasten back

and so like a sometime ruby rind now dry and dust is made of the wet laces of  blood in time, because i cant get to you this way, I must skirt. Skate about the drifting ice. Take swipes and potshots and swipes and longshots

sunday is edging away, can hardly walk.. the fug of spidery webb’d  fuzzy unpleasant sensation that is pinsandneedles. The cramp i mean, the cramp. As if the rough, tight, ‘ampstead chatter wheeze of lung grating thin-spraying jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjrough and tight is right enough

the shite that coughs up


Sunday spent itself , clean if cloudy  the living soul, the sieving of really hard to bear hatchet jobs on the Bilo’s media mask.

A day spent in unconscious  [oblivious not obliterated] pursuit and exquisite enjoyment of Arcadia, arcadian revelries, and the recently unwritten array of adventures piled up in the mess of memory and madness that the mind ‘s ship trunk ancient Albion halfdeadman’s chest of treasure terrible skulls rot best forgotten

A day spent in pent up derision of the unfathomably unpleasant person that the British media made flesh. Saggy overhanging folds of soggy flagging flab. Suddenly France would appear to be my home. I’ve been living here a year. Been doing the film a year and a half. Quick on the draw as ever, the assassins – and thank god on this his quiet day.

The river in Paris has few rivals in Europe for really being the city’s bobbbing  pulse; the in close lapping noose and flow of the Seine. So clean, aussi. Life even! Flustered waves of bright green rushes and freshwater weed and the quick spurt of a fish here and there.

All the while, gangs of musicians and petty thieves patrol the walkways – the paths that allow one to follow the water all the way along the meandering cobbled tide. Ancient cobbled walls

Anaïs Nin famously had a house-boat on the river, La Belle Aurore, I believe. Thats my cue to flutter my singed wings and circle the narrative with flights of flesh-salted sheets warm to the bodies and the artificial stench of a throbbing cheap radiator. Making waves, lovingly serenading the dawn the pretty dawn – from the stuffy one room of a little wooden barge.

All else can and does go to ding dong dell!

The back of the green panelling is striped with scratches in the paintwork. From crashing doors forever. and from callous cruel[?] but unavoidable conclusions to frenzied drunken alleyslaggn

I stand on the 9th bridge and flob a gobful of gunk over the low ewallsplinters of black metal in a light lime paste

I was going to tell of Paris and her sons and daughters  – find them any day or nighty with guitars and banjos and drums, sending out melody andhythmn  from under the alcoves. instead muy back throbs me into alerting you to the

reigning pandemonia over  hours when sleeplessness – the now infrequent  dynasty – spreads itself all over stiff panic, intravenous splinters of light, ever-decreasing confidence in movement and momentum mirroring ever-escalating  waywardness of jerking pulses and spasms,  stagnantreflexes and deviant snatches of energy

“So quietly flows the Seine that
one hardly notices its presence. It is always there, quiet and unobtrusive, like a great
artery running through the human body. In the wonderful peace that fell over me
itseemed as if I had climbed to the top of a high mountain; for a little while I would be
able to look around me, to take in the meaning of the landscape.
Human beings make a strange fauna and flora. From a distance they appear
negligible; close up they are apt to appear ugly and malicious. More than anything they
need to be surrounded with sufficient space – space even more than time.
The sun is setting. I feel this river flowing through meits past, its ancient soil, the
changing climate. The hills gently girdle it about: its course is fixed.”
— Henry Miller (Tropic of Cancer)

OOh the stalk lacks petals! Folly silly!what a waste

the weight of the riddle has exhausted the cripple

the inertia has crippled conversation – the weightless lump of time and the heavy clouds of exhaust fumes [later back on my back at the dump, I’m reading through this Monsieur Pepe le Poherty and I trust that even in your exaggerated spasms of lower sixth stylee stabs at creativity…I trust that even then I am not a weightless lump of time] [Why Gladys I’d be on sick form and sicker from suckling the sicklysour syrup that stiffens in the veins before it can feed the body’s thirst by the second until less than a third spills fourth like filth, the haters in seventh heaven]. Time slumps anyway, there’s grit under my tongue and flab all across my belly in jelly slabs.

A jam of shapeless cars.  Slowly, converging on the industry ideal – ganging up on the future. These designs are as detached from the inspired and individual models of yesteryear as their drivers are from their hairy, huntergatherer fathers’ fathers.

.her jaw is grinding itself out of smiles. Her jaw is winding me up.

and in allbutstill freeze frame time with the bleedin stagnant fucking traffic. Paris honks itself into a tetchy mood

Nigeria, Italia and India have  spat out wide streetful swarms of rainsoggy crowds. shades of still-warm bodies, bundled up to make the world here look busy, people paid in paltry euro-palmsful of piss-all. Serving dead chicken, cloth, plantlife dried and rolled with finest blends etc. A taxi stops too suddenly beside us

‘fucking idiot. aaah, putain’ she speaks shreikily almost shreiking

A small boy peers over the edge of the taxi’s front bumper, his mother just behind him all shawls and releived hysteria. The taxi driver spits venom at my Jaw-chomping companion and then waves his arms at all angles in the general direction of the mother[who has turned and kicked her child, before scooping him up and away into the smelly mess of sad birthdays and bruises that is to be his life]

Turkey, Tangiers and Algeria bustle and hawk and hump sacks of mince and sell bootleg prince. She does not comment on her extreme and exceptionally misplaced rage. I look sideways at her. Its no good, I cant seem to catch a glimpse of the girl she was earlier on. Somehow the congestion and the comedown have ushered us  into a godawful scene of tense paranoia and discomfort.

Buildings  are fuzzy and stoop down into our way. Sleepless nights work like the opposite of holidays and shatter the heart and scatter the city into the rain dashed wind , colours and contours melt and smelt like oily blisters now burst

Frowns and Pouts in Paris and London-draft1

[voice from cupboard]Fame is a food that dead men eat,—

Movie on 2010-06

-29 at 15.54

I have no stomach for such meat.
In little light and narrow room,
They eat it in the silent tomb,
With no kind voice of comrade near
To bid the banquet be of cheer.

But Friendship is a nobler thing,—
Of Friendship it is good to sing.
For truly, when a man shall end,
He lives in memory of his friend,
Who doth his better part recall,
And of his faults make funeral”

And it’s yapping and yelps all about the Paris afternoon – in the heart of the happy district am I. Leaning out of the window. Barks in the street. Daedalus’ god, J’s old man, that’ll be. Leaning into his doorframe like a lazy god, smiling to himself as the crowd of Raginiron-by-numbers men parts like the red sea for a young dark-haired fashionistaeater\ a creature of slender and long lines and lickspittlelips\ one puppydog eye, one serpent wink\ a fiver and a wad of sprung obscenity – ecstasy in the right hands, ecstasy in the wrong hands. Unreliable fella,

bad speller,

In love with his girlfriends brother but hasn’t the heart or balls to tell her.

Honour? in the right light

Grace? Like a paperplane in flight

Features? Looks sly, sculpted,  high,  and bright

What can he teach us? How to run, rim and kite

Loves: suits torn and tight

Loathes: having to end every night with a fight

Hair? Immaculate

He stops outside the Hotel du Mairais and hears the leaning lurker break wind like the giant sound of a bucket of pigs falling to a forest floor.

and now for utter dirge followed by a request for the name of an actor from yesteryear

did you ever hear the one about the hypochondriac with a persecution complex? no? Lucky you. I’ve heard about little else since innocently initiating a conversation with my devilishly maligned right side of the split personality i discovered whilst racking my brains for the name of the Italian looking bit part actor with the ‘tash who pops up in Hancock’HalfHour and i think plays the spiv one in Dad’sArmy etc

Ones to watch:

Nerve endings in hands, mental anguish and irregularity – lack of sleep\[opposite of] lack of susbstance ingestiom

Irregular breathing/ heartbeat/ dust and residue on lungs/

Vacuumized veins/ collapsing infrastructure

Rotton teeth/ spot on chin/ hair on shins being slyly eroded by tight socks

Bonjour Tristesse

Hear the cawing, crawring

reminds me somewhat of the Seagullinabox that wallhadheras ‘always thought it stood for something’ etc. Someone said the bird’s name was Ali, but the bird insisted that was no name for a baby seagull.  Could have been an albatross..

Wonder what went on in that womb there. If you’ll grace me with the generous gift of the suspicion’s benefit – [new paragraph]

She didn’t half strain my faith\ and i’m supple in them strains too i swear

my trusting  heart drained to dregs \ by the be-witching ways of Miss ‘Pleasedtohear’

Miss Pleasedtohear’s casual cull\

of a patient father’s hope and pride

executed with a thud so dull

it stiffens all the blood inside

the blood inside the skin outside the bones inside the strap of rolling slabs of dna the sole ransom my soul might be sold on, a bold one her if lies line the now ancient texts all mummsylike oh mercy the agony a girl might fake a womans nature and take the shadow of a creature and use it as the main feature in her assault upon the poor sod who bought the lot of it –

‘you’ll be pleased to hear you unborn baby is dead’

lovely little line to liven the long day.

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