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

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34 Responses to pote wrote to a flying muse

  1. The Lonely Greenoakian says:

    remember Greenock? ( the second coming).. awaiting your third return P. I promise to be of good behaviour and relatively sober this time… and defo no stage invasion.. haha.. those burly bouncers sure threw me to the dampened streets that night eh.. arse in a puddle! anyway will be seeing you again soon.


    Take Care.

  2. banannie80 says:

    Voyeurism is a strange thing indeed. I began reading, “The Books of Albion” and felt a strange pang of guilt that I had lifted these personal journals. The quality of the images are too realistic and nothing I’ve ever seen published to think otherwise. However, I powered through the guilt … I suppose the inner-voyeur took over. My new-purely selfish wish/dream would be to spend an evening with Big Eddie Beale, Little Eddie Beale, Peter Doherty, and Mary Cane-Honeysett (because she is simply the cutest and it’s my fantasy, so why not). It would be Albion meets Grey Garden or more likely Grey Gardens in Albion. I cannot begin to imagine the witty conversation and creativity that would ensue. It would be magical! Too bad this can only take place in my imagination. Unless….I worked some film magic and combined their three respective documentaries… HA, if only!

  3. Mara says:

    Peter just come back here on the blog..just talk with us, we do really miss your words..
    It’s sad…but true and by analogy truth is sad. You know what I wish for? I wish for an impromptu gig, like back in the good old days. I’m anyway coming in Brixton at the Jamm for the 2nd acoustic set. You’re a beautiful soul. x

  4. Rory says:

    I bumped into you yesterday around Camden lock and wanted to say how fantastic it was to meet you.
    I was struck and tongue tied and didn’t know quite where to start and stop. Thank you for introducing me to some of the great poets and writers. I’m a huge fan of your music and love seeing you live whenever i can: the first time was yrs back in Koko, magical night and every time since has been a treat.
    You looked really well and am sure you will have a great 2012.

  5. Blue Crow says:

    Not Clifton.

    And so, without knowing it at all: Here I am on the bridge.
    It is like waking into a dream of soft feathers.

    It is not Clifton. Not at all.
    It is so beautiful. It is beautiful like you never once so much as dreamed beauty could ever be
    Even in the wildest of freest dreams, in the never-endingness of hopes
    And desperation.

    And you can see so far, so far, and beyond what it should ever be possible to see
    Or dream
    Or desire

    It makes you want to hurl your arms into the air and twirl and twirl
    Complete in that moment, in that incredible light

    Where even the traffic stops,
    Totally dumfounded in the face of it

    And nothing can ever be but what it is.

    • Gail says:

      Not Clifton 2

      And in fact not even Bauhaus – because let’s face it, that’s exhilaration and life.
      Hope. As are you.

      And it really is, really predated (as if) (but yet somehow lasted)
      You (him, me)
      On the bridge.

      You (as in him, not you) fucking cunt. And the police. Yes. In the fucking house.
      You fucking cunt. Yes. In the fucking house.
      Talking at last finally about how ‘a body’ being found
      And ‘documents therein’ which indicate: YOU, DEAD.

      And I just asked this fucking human person: So how the fuck did you find the car?
      And he just said, basically, in effect, everyone parks in the same place, it’s really just try the key.

      I appreciated truth. He was so young, he was kind. They come in twos. They weren’t the same, but I really cannot fault them, hard as I might want to try.

      My Dad when I identified him that day was gray and had blood in his hair and a bit on his face, which to this day I still don’t understand why they didn’t clean up. But it wasn’t as bad as you might think. I knew already how he’d died, before. I’d thought his face would be smashed in, but it wasn’t, so I guess he fell backwards maybe.

      I think of him often – both good and bad. I did go to Bristol and to the bridge. As it turned out, when I did, I met a homeless man wrapped in a blanket. So, really, you cannot make it up.

      Apparently now, someone who happened to be in the Bristol Smaritans told me, and I checked it out, they’ve put up two-meter high barriers to stop people jumping. It seems to have helped.

      Gail x

  6. julot_lunaire says:

    The journal of the last few weeks would read as the http://soundcloud.com/thorntonpie/clashing-murmurs-stir ( why undo the HTML bit?)
    \ The stick has come, you’re not what I was hoping for , alot, you seem to take the path of the lost, where the lonely/ hide, in huts, that beat along the river, where they waive, to the carrion flock.

  7. billiella says:

    Come back

  8. OceansAndOceansOfLoveAndDevotion says:

    With nothing to do and plenty of ink, I thought I’d write you a spell. I had to do something to get my mind off of nothing. You know, I’m beginning to feel like a salty old sailor now; I can’t get rid of your picture. You don’t mind if I stare at you like I used to, do you? Darling, I’d give anything if I could talk to you, and say the things I want to say. I think I’ll stop doing everything but writing to you. I’d probably write you tree months even if I didn’t hear from you. Don’t try my though, I’d be nuttier than I am now if I didn’t hear from you for three months. I thought I had lots to tell you, but it looks like I’ve run down, so I’ll turn off.

  9. Оля says:

    I want to listen to you a lot of many years, so you have to quit accepting, just try it, it is a pity that I can’t talk to you,I like what you simple and closer to the people,

  10. lechat says:

    ”Oh and when the grass is cut… the snakes will show mr..” ”…and what snakes could you possibly be speakin’ of?” ”Yours; no pun intended…” ”Oh, I see well, you’ll just have to come and find out” ”On my rocky way.” ”See you” ”See told you, snakes… all over your bloody lawn.”

  11. Ohlala says:

    pote? pete? ami? poet?
    oh and what a fantastic song, great taste xxx

  12. UneAmeSolitaire says:

    I hereby declare Mister Peter Doherty as the cutest and most charming man of all of Albion Kingdom. Possibly of all the planet. Why? Cause I said so! =) If they can’t see it, they’re all blind. <3

  13. netsta says:

    Dark skies
    Snow-lit ceiling
    Retrograding … serenading, from the mantelpiece … the ticking out of silence
    Floats in ivory isolation
    Spun in ghostly circles
    And drifts of time
    Slowly pacing, perimeters and parameters
    In softly creaking floorboards

    Encircling pavements punched with blood and vomit
    Shattered glass, abandoned suitcases

    Don’t make me go out there.

  14. Gail says:

    Once upon a long time I went to an Art Fair in Islington. I forget the name, but it (as I remember) was in Bath and later then London, Islington. I went a lot, I had the t-shirts even (which one of my mates ended up covering with paint, and then not wanting to show me that, how mad is that – he is here now, right now, in the house! So long ago)

    So: you see how memory is so selective: Actually, once, a long time ago, I went to an Art Fair in Bath.

    But it’s always Islington that I remember. Calling into a side-shop for a coke, drinking it. Going in.

    There were just so many amazing paintings. I went with John. He liked the picture that spilled out of itself, made you not believe, yet believe – that’s perspective. It was 3-D./ Awesome.

    There was a picture there of Shakespeare I think, Bottom perhaps
    Or, I don’t remember: maybe it was the Golden Ass.

    Anyway, it was a sad person appearing through the neck of a horse.
    It broke my heart, to see it.
    I went back to it, and back to it.

    And, in truth, then, I could have afforded it.

    We weren’t even living here then, so it was and even now would be so fucking impractical.
    Anyway i made the decision

    If I had my time again though, I would change that move.
    Yes, I would.

    • Gail says:

      Hello you
      Just got back to a stinking fridge but also (much nicer!) a most delighted cat! I think he missed me, God love! Rotting strawberries – not at all a good eau de whatever! Yes indeedy, on New Year’s Day we had strawbs and champagne, for breakfast, courtesy of my sweet painterly friend, bless, but didn’t manage to finish all the former (however, the latter of course went down a total treat!) He is a kind man, I am lucky to have such a friend.
      Incidentally, what is happening with Confessions d’un Enfant Peter? I had a fearsome long wrangle with Touscoprod (only just site access problems) for a couple of months, all resolved now, but the deadline’s been extended since, so I’m assuming release has been put back? Anyway, great that the funding was secured – I knew it would be. This was never not going to happen and I truly truly truly cannot wait to see it. I was truly gobsmacked by the clips thus far I honestly cannot tell you; I know I am a fan, but I can stand outside of that too, and you really were absolutely unbelievable, amazing, truly beyond awesome. I know I have said this before, I know, but I admire you more than it’s possible to express for taking that fresh path, and for all that that entailed; you truly are an absolute inspiration.
      It’s late, I know, but Happy New Year – t’will be a goodun for you I believe. And you so deserve that.
      Gail x

  15. Gail says:


    Thank you for your beautiful, sad, impenetrable verse. You still have a lot of fight left in you though, I believe.

    Seeing the songs in their evolution is extraordinary – maybe like watching a painter paint, or a stranger shape a horse from pure sand, or a magic trick. All of which I have seen in my life, and marvelled at, been enchanted by, been delightedly bemused in the extraordinary gift and skill of other people. So yes, seeing the songs in their evolution – and maybe even now evolving still perhaps I guess – really cannot wait to see what is this song that Piers mentioned you are in the process of recording – what will it be – which one?

    Me, of course, I am hopeful for the one from Brixton Jamm – such kick, such twist! And at the same time yet so speaking – although I suspect more likely it will be Could it be Arranged, or at a push Spit it out. And most certainly Not: High upon the numbers! Hahahah! Anyway, irrespective, it will be amazing. And it will. And everyone will feel it. Because no matter what you say, and no matter how easy or how difficult, you always strike a chord. Always.

    I keep trying and trying in these pages to read between lines where there are only walls. It’s like a maze that leads nowhere. Not in, nor out. So I don’t know at all if you are in an okay place or if you had an alright Christmas. I don’t know if you like people to pay attention to all this, or if you don’t, or if maybe you only want certain people to do that, which is fair enough.

    So in the end, not being able to tell any of this, I can only say: I hope so much that you are in an okay place, even though I am not at all sure that you are right now. And also that your mention of eviction at Christmas made me fearful that your time at home was perhaps not all good. But which I hope I am wrong about, and was maybe just another yarn, or another – whatever.

    But even if that’s not the case, and things really are hard for you right now, please do not ever forget that life really still can turn about. I don’t know how you feel about the drugs, or the celebrity life that you have, or getting older, or just your human soul and the basic difficulties of living. There are so many things that we just cannot change. And yet we can still alter things. Or, at least, can try. And it doesn’t have to be the things that you don’t want to change or don’t feel that you can, so just live with them. It is okay, it is not that bad, living with them, truly. It is about what else you could do and where else you might be, even still being that person. (I think!)

    I am going to climb out of that side of me, that side that still cares what people think, and makes it all out to be different to what it is and tell you: all I can say is the shrinks say to me: think about what you want. They ask it over and over. Not what is realistic, not what is attainable, just: what do you want? What do you want, and what does that say, and could you move anywhere near into the vicinity of something similar.

    Anyway, on a brighter note! HOW I ENJOYED your Andy Boyd this arvo – was not innerested at all, but chanced into it, deliciously surprised, enjoyed, enjoyed, enjoyed. Gosh, he’s posh too, innit? Nice wall behind him also, I noticed, oooh how I desires that wall!

    Gail x

    PS: they asked me why I write to you; I said I felt you understood.

    • julot_lunaire says:

      g I’ve done with humans, and also, well, I don’t mind, the posts not the posts, dignity seems to rule these fuckers.
      Spit the gum out and the Jam song were dillers. What. I’ve tuned in a weird way and it makes me really sorry that I tuned your guitar up that time. I feel regret, say, as you, that things could have turned-out; cell phones are magniphilia.

      I’m OK. I thought about yhou over Xmas and New Year. It is still difficult. Parents are fuckers of the wort kind, let them have your life, they are hardly theirs.

      It really is OK, I think in usual diffidence bounded by you know. I’m raving, with my guitar tuned in FFGAF7D. CoGNAC. You

      Across the bay of yourwonder I am a human too.

      • Gail says:

        I’ve read later stuff also, as well as this, and it’s okay, really – it is. I didn’t want to ask anything from you ever. And I still don’t. I’m just so sorry that by the sounds of it Xmas etc was hard. You never deserved that. And you really don’t. It makes me so sad. Everyone is fallible, this is so hard, I know. Possibly the first lesson I ever learned after dredging myself finally back out of the hell and the bottom of the ocean to a point where I could actually hear what anyone said at all, was that parents, yeah, are generally human fuck-ups also.
        I have no idea about anything, whether this will help, whether it will make it worse, what it will do – everything feels explosive, which is ok, but I just don’t know. But I guess what started to become clear to me from the help that I had, and still have, was that these other people can be fallible, fucked-up people too, and their judgements and actions, which you could never control, are truly not your fault.
        Me, for example, I knew my entire life how fucked-up my father was, how badly he hated and struggled with his existing life, how desperate he was, even as at the ssame time it was all just totally normal. I always actually believed I fucked up his life. Simply by being born. Because he didn’t want that closed-in fenced off shit, wife and kid, it was not who he was. He needed more freedom than that, and when you get fenced in, it all goes mental.

        So: it goes mental.
        I understand that, that part, actually.

        I actually care deeply for you, but this kind of place that we are in here is only a slither of who we are, do you not think? Just the old Locarno Bauhaus: Slice of Life? When I was but a kid. Oh God, but it was good!!! And God it was amazing to go back then to the (now) O2 in Bristol. I had been so ill, but still I made it! And OMG that was The Best.

        I will try my hardest to be honest. Because we are being honest now, almost, no? I like you. I would like to meet you. I know that what’s been said here is not binding, maybe is not even real. And that’s okay too. Maybe it’s easier, even better, to leave it like that, do you not think? I have a life that I have not told you about, as I am sure that you do also.

        I can only speak for myself, I dream of sharing my life with you, and I really do. I am so afraid, I have always been so afraid.

        But that’s alright. I can’t ever express or convey how much it means and has meant to say this. You have become important to me.

        I will like you forever; there are no rules
        With love
        Gail x

        PS: don’t ever ever ever hate yourself, because it’s not you, it’s not you at all. I don’t believe it either, but it is true. And I know it is. And I know it is even more when I look at you.

      • Gail says:

        Christ, did you not think I already got that you are human? Kind and decent, caring, sensitive etc. Why the fuck do you think I do this?
        Sorry – it’s the anger makes me different, mad, etc. I am not a person you would want to meet. And I really am not.

      • Blue Crow says:

        I love you

      • Gail says:

        I keep coming back to this. Trying to speak. Sick to the skull of not being able to speak without sounding like some tosser. Keeping it back. Not keeping it back, pushing people away. Not pushing people away. Knowing nothing at all about anything at all but still wanting to say to you so much: please do not let them have your life, not your life. Their life is theirs, that is fine, but yours belongs to you.
        It is yours, and not just kicking in the gutter of their (their) dreams and hopes that they maybe tried to live through you. Or even, as I don’t ever really believe in true hatred and sadism, maybe I have something to learn there, who knows but I don”t think they really meant you true harm. Doesn’t mean they couldnt be significant harm, for all that, and on the other side then always always wanting to be seen and understood, that is how I felt at least. Why was/is that so hard for them to see? Why can I not just be me?
        Why could I not just be loved as me, that is what i felt.

        I talk to nobody like this.
        I feel bad because I started off trying to talk to you and yet it seems it just still became about me. Inthese eliptical moments, when I can actually see that, I feel truly lost.

        I am really not a good person.
        But insofar as I am really not a good person, I truly like you, as you, insofar as not knowing you at all that can ever be.

        I dream for you of a life of hope, and connection, and promise fulfilled
        And true love.

        In this mad, wild, crazy space,
        where like nowhere on the planet it is actually possible to speak this
        And for which I will never be able to thank you enough,
        Just to be able to walk around, free, and feeling,
        and speaking

        wanting to be alive

        I know you will find it.

        No-one on the planet knows where it is
        And if it’s here, well, that’s great, but I dont really think it is here

        It will come when you least expect
        But i know you will find it.

      • i know you says:

        Not appropriate, I know, but I just feel this huge affinity with you. It’s true, what everyone says, that someone like you who speaks, an artist,
        you tap into what so many million people feel, everyone feels it.
        it’s been a wild path, this, lots of mistakes. In the oddest way you’ve made me feel okay about writing crap etc, really, and not ultimately worrying too much about that.
        i wonder sometimes about meeting you – it wont happen, I know, and if it did, how terrifying, to risk being that disappointment and then never ever to be able to get back to this. But in the end I would risk that. Would you?

  16. BloodyNarcissists says:

    Lauren Bacall that husky voice I just can’t find out there.

    To have and have not.

    I think about that often co-actor Humphrey Bogart and his trips to Isleworth Studios which now resemble nothing of their former glory.

    The hotel in the Congo which was used to film African Queen with Katherine Hepburn. A shadow of its former self since Belgium rule collapsed.

    Past glories and trodden paths which most do not even see.

    Undoubtedly I walk the way of many similar, but they’ll never be me.

    Does sentiment get lost or do individuals suck it up and carry it within them.

  17. A says:

    I’M an outcast and pretty much all the mentioned above! I’m banned from society, it seems?! Hahaha. And the best part of it all, is, that I couldn’t care any less. As a matter of fact, I quite enjoy it like this by now? Also, I’d rather talk to/befriend the bum in the street than a bigwig, snob… and/or whatnot.
    Viva freedom! Viva orginality! Viva anti-mainstream! =)

  18. inarcady says:

    Everyone loves Lauren Bacall! The new tunes sound great!

  19. Peter says:

    Also John, if you see tbis, i didnt realise it had the ‘bitter blue nose’ stuff on it.
    ! ha ha
    gotta love the merseyside ‘sense of humour’ [cruel , clever, razorsharp genetic trait of being very cruel in matters to do with abusive language, pisstaking and scrapping