fixing my hair in the river thames

The men and women who walk across the major bridges of London; Hammersmith, Waterloo, the ugly looking thing between the Southbank and Charing Cross; these men and women seem to rush frantically to their nothing nothing jobs, soggy worm rolls and their toilet water lunches. I on the other hand, today, being Monday the 15th december, am in no rush at all. I glide across Hammersmith's solid, emerald beast, skip across the southbank's glittering half pipe in all its 8 year old birthday party splendour and find myself along the river at Vauxhall.
The air is cold and spiky, it attacks my nostrils and i manage to spit firmly off the bridge into a passing steelworks chugger. Francis Bacon's greatest hits are over there on Millbank so i decide to have one last look before they bugger orf in January.
The people who go and see his paintings these days, the fans, i suddenly realise on entering the first room, are, on the whole, sweating large industrial size buckets of vanity. This is not an assumption built on the fact that they have rabbits tied around their necks and foxes keeping their sour, jumped up little spindlies from being as cold as their hearts, but the very fact that Francis framed all his paintings in the most spotless, gleaming, polished glass, thus creating the narcissists perfect mirror. They stand there decorating their egos, ruffling their sloane squares with complete disregard for Peter Lacy's distorted face lost in a foggy jungle of thick blue mist.
I read somewhere that Bacon used this glass on purpose to usher the viewer into some kind of of prison of self assessment, to make them quake in their boots of vulnerable meat. Im sure that it has had the desired effect on many fans and punters, but to be honest, in the last 4 months of this show, the majority of these shmucks would be better off in the stinking changing rooms of Brent Cross' Primark.
Anyway, its interesting to see and im back on the bridge freezing, searching for some kind of bunny or graveyard dwelling fox i can stuff my hand up and get warm.
Looking forward to recording over christmas and new year. And performing live too.

CLICK HEREfor photos from the 'timeless, mild, beguiling island of a town' that is Laugharne, home to the 'Laugharne weekend' which i visited last march, to drink,walk,do a reading,present camusflage krokodial,eat, drink,visit the graves,laugh etc, and will try to visit again this march.

//||\\

other things & glossolalia channel utube

my friends at LONDON WORD FESTIVAL (where Camusflage Krokodial, that monologue i wrote last year, was first shown) have created a page dedicated to The Fib - which is a poem based on the Fibonacci sequence. CLICK HERE and go to the Fibber's Gallery at the bottom of the page. Then, when you are ready, you, the very merry public, are invited to submit your own. Go.

also

www.youtube.com/screamingbody14
video diaries and films
i will update the page as i sort thru my computer
there are many videos from pilion to laugharne to texas to

live at the paradiso

so we travel thru the night into the city of red lights..around 3am we stroll up to the top deck and look out at the channel as we skulk across it. the air is warm and fizzing so we open our mouths. we do that and take photos of eachother leaning over the edge. start talking with a guy called mustufa who says he is a moroccan travel agent..i spend a while thinking about what he really meant by that.
we drive thru belgian countryside which we all agree is really fucking dull and arrive in the city at around 8am. we have breakfast, do the tourist thing and then try and get into our rooms for a sleep. the thing is my room isnt ready so i have to sit there, while everyone else sleeps, being 'entertained' by this gaunt freakshow of a receptionist. he shows me his films which are, on a very basic level, just photos that he has lifted off google of animal cruelty. he calls them 'shock docs'. i cant help but laugh violently. i dont even realise im doing it until alice points out that im dribbling all over the mans keyboard.
after 20 minutes of sleep, not sleep really..more just having my eyes shut, we soundcheck and then stock up at the drink shop, which is in between the knocking shop and the coffee shop.
later on we play a show. its the first show with this new live line up and, as i leave the stage, i feel it has gone well and turn to the others and hug them and say " guys, i think that went well..so...you know..well done" they all feel the same and we laugh and shout for hours. i spend the rest of the evening outside by the canal speaking with people and spitting into the water. i dont even see any other music which i regret now as there was some interesting stuff. the only thing i do see is this very tall looking boy with about 10 jumpers on called fyars. he is good and we all nod in agreement as his set draws to a close. we head back to the canal and leave him to sweat it out.
after a few hours we head back to the hotel and catch the final hours of children in need which is pretty fucking out there. benji rolls thru the hotel doors at 5 ish after being removed from a restaurant by our tour manager for offering himself up to amsterdam in some kind of abstract sexual sacrifice.the next morning he puts it down to miscommunication.
anyway, we finally get home and eat pasta at the flat and continue celebrating nothing.

pangames//||\\