Goats Head Soup

More insomnia, more Rolling Stones, more much maligned Goats Head Soup and standing with a slack guitar in one hand and a cigarette in the other with my back to the speaker - can you hear the music? - and letting the heat build humid like the thick scented air from Montserrat - "We got a nice view of the sea didn't we?" glancing up from the grand piano.
"Yeah we did."
And the sun beating through the curtains, another sunny afternoon for the boys - this is a playground after all, just ask the war weary women peering through the yellow haze. "I think - I don't think - but I was - there, I think…" Amnesia as self defence - invisibility cuts both ways. Revenge comes from the ones already exiled – Marianne Faithfull who will make more important records than the Stones a few years down the line. Invisibility cuts.
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Peter, the Spider and the King

This story was told to a group of very young children.

Part one: In which there isn't a spider or a king - but there are goats, that's something at least!

Young Peter was known as the scourge of the territories, the worst thief and burglar to ride the four winds, sail the seven seas and walk the nine realms. Yes indeed, he was known as such and called as much – “Have you heard?” people would mutter, “Why that is young Peter, the worst thief and burglar to ride the four winds, sail the seven seas and walk the nine realms.” And a call would be passed along, “Quickly, quickly, lock all your doors and bar your windows! Keep your lanterns bright, for here is young Peter, the scourge of the territories, the worst thief and burglar to ride the four winds, sail the seven seas and walk the nine realms!”
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a spontaneous splurge after seeing patti smith at the cinema

old soul old soul so young and pan dimensional
panegyric pan of action encircled by threads from sails
sailing that old wooden ship with a cruciform mast
lit out for the southern cross
old sister sister sweetly sing
sister of mine old mother friend and bastard child
a soft cat sits content behind its window a wild
street cat brawls in the tumble and decay
each brittle moment hangs like spittle from the horses mouth
and that's you sweetly singing
get the news kids straight from the horses mouth
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