Thursday, March 10, 2005

The Man Who Would Give Ring?

Pete and Kate Engaged?
KATE MOSS is back with troubled lover PETE DOHERTY--and sporting a ring on her engagement finger. Kate showed off the band for all to see and sparked rumours that junkie rocker Pete has popped the question.

Guardian Article On Pete's Poetry

Pete Doherty makes a surprise appearance this weekend: using his own blood to create a painting for the cover of a free literary magazine. Currently observing a strict curfew as part of bail conditions for an alleged robbery, the unpredictable former lead singer of the Libertines has donated the striking image, along with a poem and a short piece of writing, to Full Moon Empty Sports Bag. It marks a prolific week for the 25-year-old, who has also read poetry on BBC radio, performed at the 100 Club in Oxford Street, London, with his new band Babyshambles and shaved off his hair. A regular contributor to Full Moon, one of a new generation of intelligent urban magazines springing from east London's literary scene, Doherty also suggested the theme of the latest issue: the self-destructiveness of fame.

(thanks to Graham for the link)

Here are those poems, as found on the .Org Forum:


Waking up alive in London beaches of muddy iron filings
Bubbled under
Puddles of rain
Soaped wet water
Fitzrovia splashes in the dips
Of her curbs as I slip a folded fifty
In to a clammy glove
And skip
Off the pavement by the
'Kebabish City'
lick lick fry chick chat
does fixing up rot your teeth?
What about mine
In the sweet by and by my crooked smile
from one too many sad goodbyes no longer says hello
(the west end is piles of rusting pedals and blank metal stares)

Nearly all of a sudden

Almost all nearly all

'I've already put that down.' This last line repeated by muffled red Sally who takes the typist's chair and with that very same thing as that view of which wrote a letter that made me feel the opposite of better some years ago when I first met her. I say "up the morning".

The days are dripping with blood and hungry without hunger. What meagre meals I do scoff are peppered with bullet holes and garnished with Christ-knows-what. Oh you my book, so new take me deep inside you, deep into your trusted heart and hear me scream and speak sorrow for it is all I can do to hold the pen to the page... the day staggers in to the shabby hotel room, breathless and dripping with blood aright. Start again. Dripping in blood are the days changing in to evening wear and so London is a night time pipeline red alert and dead dirt in the sticky spoon bubbles up a sweet ancient perfume steamed form the spoon and as the stopper props up the droper the drop the shot, that will pop rock a'flame and rolling bones in a sharp dressed ghost's freefall through the peaceful minutes at the beginning of the night.

Moments that break a young man's heart.

Number one: somehow I would never play for QPR and therefore never score QPR's winning goal in the FA Cup Final (a brick wall is my closest companion, friend, the only witness to me clenching a season of domestic and European silverware maybe wegerte style) beat 14 men and then running rings round 11 men and then lets see in off the bar so it somehow wedges in the angled netting of the top left hand corner of the onion bag 'from the moment it left his foot'

And now we return to the olivelli hotel, store street, wcl. It's of course, upon this page I mean to say I write is the place I might still be honest with you whoever who are if indeed anyone is reading this. Hello? 'op yurs yiz borstaye 'rare' my throat dry like gaffa tape a gaping bracket like a hole in the road that trucks pull up and dump loads of food, fags and iced tea in to every couple of minutes. These days I have axed the smoking middle man and spike right from the bloody heart of things flooding up the hole in my soul that someone seems to be on the latch by way of that 20 second catch (the need to fill the hole comes from the hole……that comes from knowing that there is a need to fill a hole that...)

Whether a poem be 'true' (as true as a poet be true) or a poem be 'good' (as good is critically understood) is down to the poet’s concern for that which he craved in to wood and the words that he wrote with the red of his blood.

deeper than bloody hell. Open like the (blotch of me veins scotch). Oh the obscenity of the sea though I pursue innocently the city’s whims teeth cleansed for the first time in weeks must get my act together the pair of us my sweet? My tongue flavoured gossips of the scaggy raggy jagged underworld we inhabit. My oh my all living dead like we wander the wards of my oh my.