Here are the names of my lovers,
The women I sleep with, whom
I use, like they use me.
Spent, they discard me, for when their pleasure needs
Satiated, they climb aboard another man.

What they do not know,
Is that in my mind, in my ears,
everywhere,
I did not let them, or you go,
We are still romping,
For I
Take them as needed.

I need them all,
For my pleasure needs, like my unshaped heart,
Addictive, endless.

If your is name is here, I do not
Apologize.

Pink
Adele
Lilly Allen
Anna Nalick
Bess Rogers
Beyonce
Brandi Carlisle
Cat Power
Colbie Callait
Duffy
Eva Cassidy
Evanescence
Alison Sudol
Fiona Apple
Florence Welch
Grace Potter
Ingrid Michaelson
You
Joni Mitchell
K.D. Lang
Kate Nash
Kate Voegele
Leona Lewis
Lizz Wright
Madeline Peyroux
Marie Digby
Mary Wells
Norah Jones
Regina Spektor
Sara Bareilles
You
Sara Haze
Taylor Swift and Tracy Chapman
Tristan Prettyman
Vanessa Carlton

So many others, used so long ago, I can't remember the faces,
Which can't be googled.

Use them hard, use them often, more than daily.
Bluntly, I tell you
Your name is on my list,
Even if I do not disclose it.

just a girl with an odd skin disease
should i cry should i laugh
opera houses and speckled faces with masks on
covering your face in a banal masquerade
while you're looking like an actor with an  odd skin disease
perfect in  your on ways with glitter on your face no one else sees
as a music box nearby sings a dreamless tune
opens up the case with dangling jewels for you to caress on your skin
the last rays of the sun touches upon you from the windowpanes,
allowing the radiance within shine for one last moment until night falls
and the dangerous erroticism of the sun finally releases as it nears the horizon
like the necessary evils of the full moon as it draws in the horrors of the night
a child you once were with less worries now beckons the dark in your jewels
glittering in the dark
stranded, alone and yet free
of the banal masquerade.
maybe they'll watch you maybe they won't,
in your parade towards the clouds.

~

steps beyond his stalwart hedge,
white pickets lined with flowery speech;
’cross a boulevard of words,
the shade of tree-lined poetry;
he’s drawn to her celestial sound,
seeks comfort in her sultry voice.
pandora's lounge, her nightly stage,
in every breathy note she sings.
their presence here he’s prearranged,
respires her palette’s offerings;
each tapestry-a-washed crescendo,
her every soulful whispering,
incites his heart to joyous tears;
his ev'ry sense engulfed, aflame,
her afterglow, like sun's refrain;
to hers, two eyes an opening,
his ears to sounds beyond;
the tongue to taste, a bounty waiting,
her touch too sweet, his blood is racing.
spellbound by her bluesy song,
raptured by her fragrant breath;
to her rhythm his heart beats strong,
he's captured in her blue’s caress.

~

post script.

i make no apologies in the admission that i'm easy prey for a bluesy voice, the feminine variety in particular.  add a British / Euro tone and my soul may just melt.  Norah’s... i’ve a jones for hers!

~

*Come Away With Me
Norah Jones

Come away with me in the night
Come away with me
And I will write you a song
Come away with me on a bus
Come away where they can't tempt us, with their lies
And I want to walk with you
On a cloudy day
In fields where the yellow grass grows knee-high
So won't you try to come
Come away with me and we'll kiss
On a mountaintop
Come away with me
And I'll never stop loving you
And I want to wake up with the rain
Falling on a tin roof
While I'm safe there in your arms
So all I ask is for you
To come away with me in the night
Come away with me

lurking within sparkling feat condense\
hour glass illuminate woe genesis mass\
fabricate sound electrify time travel\
grow dull glow dim dose off luster surpass\
darkness insusceptible elate jubilant realm\
levitate gem regal helm oscillate plane black\
whole Elemental sprite Marvel excite knight Orion\
recite incite twinkle twinkle tittle star ajar\

Come away with me in the night
Come away with me
And I will write you a song

Come away with me on a bus
Come away where they can't tempt us
With their lies

I want to walk with you
On a cloudy day
In fields where the yellow grass grows knee-high
So won't you try to come

Come away with me and we'll kiss
On a mountaintop
Come away with me
And I'll never stop loving you

And I want to wake up with the rain
Falling on a tin roof
While I'm safe there in your arms
So all I ask is for you
To come away with me in the night
Come away with me

Not one but many,
Only few would differ,
Right about all,
And yet wrong about many,
Hopeful to be what you once believed to be ordinary.

Some guy's picture on the inside of a book sleeve
told me that he could help me write something other
than the worthless crap I'd been spewing for the past couple months.
Takes ten steps-
normal stuff
like
1. Clear your mind (which means you have to have a mind to begin with).
2. Don't be afraid
3.
4.
5.
Poetry is like this.. writing a poem is like that..

6. Pick a subject that means something

I mean all the real stuff you need to know
you should know by now, right?
Well I didn't **** anyone. My innocence didn't die when I was fifteen.
In fact, I still pretend two water drops are racing each other
when the fall down my car window-
and like a real contest I take bets.
I bet on a lot of things
like how long it will take me to get to the point-
the point
so how am I supposed to write beautifully about tragic things
I never experienced?
Worst thing that happened to me this week
was I put too much mayonnaise on my sandwich, making it mushy
and no one wants to read about that.

So the book then tells me, once I've scraped tediously through chapter 7,
that I should use bizarre words in real conversations
to spark my "withheld creativity"
because I'm "too scared" to let it show.
Here's a tip the book doesn't tell you-
don't ask your two best friends for help
because they'll come up with things like
"sparkling parachute pants"
or even "scented paraffin"
and who the hell knows what a paraffin is.
Then they'll start calling themselves your "muse"
and you'll never hear the end of it.
But they'll buy you drinks to make you feel better about
how ****** you feel and the ten blank word documents you have at home.
So I guess you probably should ask your friends after all.

Chapter 10 is when it gets really weird,
because it starts wondering which side of the brain writes what-
telling me to start writing things with my left hand
because it's "neurologically different" then what your right hand would do.
But last time I checked, I didn't write poetry with my right hand
because it surged some hidden message onto the page.
I did it because I'm right handed.
I advise you just completely skip chapter 10
unless you're a shrink and need some Sunday pleasure reading.

The final chapter becomes really inspirational-
reminding my tired heart how much originality I possess
and there's still lyrical words "hidden up my sleeve."
(they use a lot of clichés like that).
It will tell you how every great writer has been there.
How they all started just like you.
How "hero's get remembered, but legends never die"
Wait sorry, that's something else.
See what these books will do to you?
They'll make you crazy
you'll start drinking things like chai tea and reading soap opera magazines.
You'll stop going to the bathroom entirely-
and they'll tell you to do stupid **** like that
because they understand that right now
you're so desperate to write something
ANYTHING
that you'll start romancing about the stuffed animal in the corner
or the piece of lint you just know is under your bed.
Before you know it you'll start listening to Norah Jones on the weekends,
not shaving,
wearing glasses
snapping
the whole bit,
because that's how empty you feel
because writing
is like breathing
and when you stop writing
you stop breathing-
it's that easy.

But I advise you to finish the book.
It'll be worth it.
However, you won't start writing a **** thing
until you laugh at all the prose sections in a book
meant to tell you how to write poetry,
but here's the secret they don't tell you.
No one can tell you how to write poetry.
You just have to do it.
You just have to **** for a good while before you start writing
something better than "seasons farewell" or the other Robert Frost snippets
you've been scratching on pages lately.

What I learned
after 398 pages of poorly constructed criticism and self help
is that the reason you aren't writing
isn't because you're scared you won't get published
you can't pick a subject
or you don't have any time.
"Don't try to dissect the moment, or it'll be gone."
The reason you can't write right now
is because you won't let yourself ****.
Be bad, have a beer, and eat a lot
it'll make you feel better
than writing something flawless the first time through.

I mean you already know everything you need to know by now.
So just write
and **** at it-
it'll be worth it.
Trust me.

i want you in your purest form.

i want you on the couch in the window on a Sunday afternoon after lunch.
i want you humming along to Norah Jones, stacking pipes and radiating good energy.
i want you playing with my hair, and watching the flutter of my eyelashes.

i want you to kiss me so hard your jaw hardens up and your breathing gets loud.
i want your hands clumsily pulling at my shirt and your heartbeat in your throat.
i want you close enough to hear what you're thinking.

take your time.
take mine.

i want you. nothing else.

Oh how we lay
after a night we are now asking for forgiveness
next day, new breath
we lay together
relaxing with the sultry sounds of Norah Jones and others alike
that's my kinds of night
the night i know you're by my side
oh what a wonderful night
for hours non stop, each others comfort enough to blight
blight with lust or any of the kind
oh how we lay
i hope we always feel this way
though in my heart you will always stay
its too good to be true
you must be an angel
my angel
oh how we lay

Si pudiera llorar de miedo en una casa sola,
si pudiera sacarme los ojos y comérmelos,
lo haría por tu voz de naranjo enlutado
y por tu poesía que sale dando gritos.

Porque por ti pintan de azul los hospitales
y crecen las escuelas y los barrios marítimos,
y se pueblan de plumas los ángeles heridos,
y se cubren de escamas los pescados nupciales,
y van volando al cielo los erizos:
por ti las sastrerías con sus negras membranas
se llenan de cucharas y de sangre,
y tragan cintas rotas, y se matan a besos,
y se visten de blanco.

Cuando vuelas vestido de durazno,
cuando ríes con risa de arroz huracanado,
cuando para cantar sacudes las arterias y los dientes,
la garganta y los dedos,
me moriría por lo dulce que eres,
me moriría por los lagos rojos
en donde en medio del otoño vives
con un corcel caído y un dios ensangrentado,
me moriría por los cementerios
que como cenicientos ríos pasan
con agua y tumbas,
de noche, entre campanas ahogadas:
ríos espesos como dormitorios
de soldados enfermos, que de súbito crecen
hacia la muerte en ríos con números de mármol
y coronas podridas, y aceites funerales:
me moriría por verte de noche
mirar pasar las cruces anegadas,
de pie y llorando,
porque ante el río de la muerte lloras
abandonadamente, heridamente,
lloras llorando, con los ojos llenos
de lágrimas, de lágrimas, de lágrimas.

Si pudiera de noche, perdidamente solo,
acumular olvido y sombra y humo
sobre ferrocarriles y vapores,
con un embudo *****,
mordiendo las cenizas,
lo haría por el árbol en que creces,
por los nidos de aguas doradas que reúnes,
y por la enredadera que te cubre los huesos
comunicándote el secreto de la noche.

Ciudades con olor a cebolla mojada
esperan que tú pases cantando roncamente,
y silenciosos barcos de esperma te persiguen,
y golondrinas verdes hacen nido en tu pelo,
y además caracoles y semanas,
mástiles enrollados y cerezas
definitivamente circulan cuando asoman
tu pálida cabeza de quince ojos
y tu boca de sangre sumergida.

Si pudiera llenar de hollín las alcaldías
y, sollozando, derribar relojes,
sería para ver cuándo a tu casa
llega el verano con los labios rotos,
llegan muchas personas de traje agonizante,
llegan regiones de triste esplendor,
llegan arados muertos y amapolas,
llegan enterradores y jinetes,
llegan planetas y mapas con sangre,
llegan buzos cubiertos de ceniza,
llegan enmascarados arrastrando doncellas
atravesadas por grandes cuchillos,
llegan raíces, venas, hospitales,
manantiales, hormigas,
llega la noche con la cama en donde
muere entre las arañas un húsar solitario,
llega una rosa de odio y alfileres,
llega una embarcación amarillenta,
llega un día de viento con un niño,
llego yo con Oliverio, Norah,
Vicente Aleixandre, Delia,
Maruca, Malva Marina, María Luisa y Larco,
la Rubia, Rafael, Ugarte,
Cotapos, Rafael Alberti,
Carlos, Bebé, Manolo Altolaguirre,
Molinari,
Rosales, Concha Méndez,
y otros que se me olvidan,

Ven a que te corone, joven de la salud
y de la mariposa, joven puro
como un ***** relámpago perpetuamente libre,
y conversando entre nosotros,
ahora, cuando no queda nadie entre las rocas,
hablemos sencillamente como eres tú y soy yo:
para qué sirven los versos si no es para el rocío?

Para qué sirven los versos si no es para esa noche
en que un puñal amargo nos averigua, para ese día,
para ese crepúsculo, para ese rincón roto
donde el golpeado corazón del hombre se dispone a morir?

Sobre todo de noche,
de noche hay muchas estrellas,
todas dentro de un río,
como una cinta junto a las ventanas
de las casas llenas de pobres gentes.

Alguien se les ha muerto, tal vez
han perdido sus colocaciones en las oficinas,
en los hospitales, en los ascensores,
en las minas,
sufren los seres tercamente heridos
y hay propósito y llanto en todas partes:
mientras las estrellas corren dentro de un río interminable
hay mucho llanto en las ventanas,
los umbrales están gastados por el llanto,
las alcobas están mojadas por el llanto
que llega en forma de ola a morder las alfombras.

Federico,
tú ves el mundo, las calles,
el vinagre,
las despedidas en las estaciones
cuando el humo levanta sus ruedas decisivas
hacia donde no hay nada sino algunas
separaciones, piedras, vías férreas.

Hay tantas gentes haciendo preguntas
por todas partes.
Hay el ciego sangriento, y el iracundo, y el
desanimado,
y el miserable, el árbol de las uñas,
el bandolero con la envidia a cuestas.

Así es la vida, Federico, aquí tienes
las cosas que te puede ofrecer mi amistad
de melancólico varón varonil.
Ya sabes por ti mismo muchas cosas,
y otras irás sabiendo lentamente.

i was serious about the Anglo Renaissance -
                     it has peaked -
            it's forever in a state of groundhog
day repeat... which isn't a necessarily bad thing...
              the internet has changed
   or rather restricted how we get fed culture,
an odd statement... but the internet doesn't
actually prescribe you cultural dietitians -
          i'm talking about people, getting paid
to sift through music, or other works of art:
not the critics, but the cultural dietitians...
     John Peel owned the radio back when
it was still prog rock and punk and what
became punk: grunge, and what became grunge:
indie...
                     oddly enough there is still one
cultural dietitian out there: Jools Holland...
                   cultural critics are dialectical shrapnel,
or should i say: agitators
                            that rarely enter dialogue -
           but Jools is the kind of cultural entity that
showcases new acts you might otherwise omit -
and probably will, given that it's sometimes to
forage the algorithmic trends and berry bushes of
search engines...
                                to me that's the worthwhile
side of television...
                                      but you have to sacrifice
a Friday night and watch the program...
                  my latest discovery?
                   Declan McKenna and a decent song:
Brazil...
                       obviously the band Slaves are
not knew to me: what is new to me is the fact
that the drummer is using a stand-up minimalist
drum kit (never seen them live) -
                i still lament that fact that the music
magazine Mojo disappeared from shop shelves...
      it didn't adapt as an electronic magazine -
                  but people need this sort of outlet,
where someone is professional adapted to having
enough dosh to spend his celibacy in music shops...
             and to later showcase it
for your eager palette to lick up a fancy of a band
or two...
                     but boy oh boy: to be constantly plugged
in like that?
                                  so many people have so many
interesting things to say multiplied by the variation
of presenting those said things -
                           no wonder menial tasks seem
debilitating, everyone dreams about never using
a hammer...
                        at least in political systems akin
to authoritarian communist states: only one person
is allowed to say anything remotely interesting...
             and that never distracts you to dream -
in all sincerity, the western motto is: be polite...
         because there are so many sad examples
of how people should have been taught to be content
with very little...
                                  to be the shadows of society
that are better protected from what i find to
be despotic in democracy: art.
                                             simply because it has
to be there... not physical health... art...
                art governs everything in democracy,
many people dream, too many...
                                   if i didn't have that ******
brain haemorrhage i'd be content as my father is,
day-to-day: on the roof, simple task
        perfected over time till it's like spreading
butter on hot toast than tar on concrete...
                        with the motto - zrdowie na budowie
                 (health on a building site) -
  of that i am jealous as ****-knows-what -
                    i wasn't born an entertainer - so these
poems are not intended to be performed,
   hence shying away from poetical conventions -
                 i always wanted to be in the mass of
social shadows, the people behind the curtains doing
the necessary things to oil up society...
                                this is a practical joke given my
background in chemistry...
                                           next best thing?
the Faustian myth.
                                               but still: the ivory tower.
            but we are in dire need of cultural
dietitians: the people who prescribe us art...
  oh forget the radio... the radio is not the radio
of the 1970s...   video killed the radio star...
   (famous song)... but this one slot on television
with Jools is what every aspiring contestant
  for the X-factor should watch... to simply sober up...
otherwise my prediction about how Axis powers
   allowed post World War II celebrations to
take place over 5 decades... but have started to wane
and karaoke is the standard norm -
if ever someone could have said: only Japan,
i'd gladly like to listen to Celtic folk in pups -
but no... autocue...
                                   so i guess i'm right with that respect,
           we don't have the necessary cultural
dietitians in the major forms of art...
                         the needle drop guy doesn't
compare to Jools Holland... not the same league...
            not enough music... and this is the reason
why certain aspects of the internet will not catch on:
needless to say: the internet has become a fixation
for cat videos and poems...
                                                static - static - static -
  we need cultural dietitians more than
people telling us to loose 4lb and take more vitamin B12...
                    in literary terms
television is crap...
                                             but in terms of music
the internet is just as crap...
                                the radio is just another excuse
for billboards and advertisement posters...
                    i'm telling you... Friday night,
BBC1, later... with Jools Holland...
                                        did anyone notice how ****
Norah Jones has become? a full bodied woman,
a ripe peach and pear and all the things that
woman are: fruits...                     the skinny girls
       deluded by flowers...
                           but the real fleshy girls
        by fruits. bombshell, that Ms. Jones.
1st of october... and i'm thinking whether i should
stop going to the shops at night wearing only a
t-shirt and pyjama bottoms (like your typical
English girl) -                        
                                             but then this exquisite
numbing of not thinking, slightly cryogenic in a sense
of massaging nerves and veins...
                         i'll give it a week's worth of
debate in my head, before i'll put on a hoodie.

Notes passed in class
notes scribbled in ink
Notes to remind
notes to forget
yesterday's to do is tomorrow's regret

Tell me they will remember me
Tell me the song they play at my Ending will be cool and not that one by Norah Jones.
Play my ashes Hey Jude, or,  I Get By With a Little Help-
from my friends,
Who will know when I am gone?
I got the invite in a song at a wedding in Mobile bay,
Maybe CCR or the Fleetfoxes gave it away:
the hints in these notes passed in class,
notes passed  on from the verse
notes to remember, letters to address,
yesterday's to do is tomorrow's forget.
And all I can say in my defense
(of this regret) is that I wanted
One song more, the one that wouldn't end.

You know those nights?
The ones when you’re driving alone in the car and the radios playing old songs like
               “Dust in the Wind”, Kansas
               “Come Away with Me”, Norah Jones
You know, those ones?

and there’s this feeling of loneliness
                                             sadness
                                             emptiness
but they aren’t bad—
Just Comforting
it reminds you of a rainy day

as you drive you can see into the windows of the houses you pass
they stand out against the pitch blackness
    the smothering darkness
    the wool blanket that covers your head when you’re cold

stars shine soulless white
which contrasts with how you feel
but it’s nice

and you know you can’t touch it
you can hardly imagine its vastness
                                           its endlessness
                                           its infinity
all you can do is ponder
    ponder the midnight navy blue sky
    ponder the peculiar comforting houses and what they do inside

Do they laugh?
Maybe they're watching your favorite TV program?
a child could be crying, or trying to stifle laugh
    Maybe their mother is asleep?
    or baby brother?
Perhaps no ones home?
they just forgot to turn off the lights

You will never know
Although you can ponder
                                 dream
                                 imagine
                                 wonder
                                 think
and you want to go inside

Perhaps... its best to keep driving

Nursery Haikus  

A selection of poems inspired by children I worked with throughout my time as a Nursery Practitioner.



Circle Time

If I had one wish
I would become the person
that you see me as


Theo

Happiest outside
Stomping stars, building, making
creating your world.


Norah

Come back and see me
In your bright new uniform
and tell your stories

Pre-School Huxley  

I remember when
Our mornings always began
With tears, then stories.


Baby Huxley

Tutu in my lap,                                                                                                                                                                sequins in your pockets shine                                                                                                                                         but we shine brighter

Eadie

You take my hand like
I belong to you, and for
The next term I do.




Rudi  

Your contagious smile
Made my darkest days brighter;
light reflected back.

Lily

I watch you make art
and remember how it feels
to see true beauty.


Maya


Strong as your namesake
excited by the world and
the people in it.


Esme


The world is waiting
for you to come and change it
like you changed mine.


Pearl  

The moon and stars are
waiting for you to take aim
and echo through you.


Cataleya

If only you knew
The power of your laughter
My little treasure.






Career goals

Glorified Nanny?
Early Years Practitioner?
They love me the same.  





Jade Wright

I stayed

When I knew you were burying me
Convinced myself I loved the smell
Of the earth you piled over my grave
“Sometimes you have to get your hands *****” I laughed
I wasn’t the only one laughing

When I came to see you last
I didn’t know I had invited myself to a funeral
You didn’t close my eyes
You didn’t cover me in the funeral shroud
Neglected to inform me
I had died
“Miskeena”* they said

There wasn’t much of a crowd that day
You said you tried, you really did
The mourners reassured you
You did, you really did
Bisous, bisous*

You left without saying my final rites
But the water, snow, and hail
Washed my body clean without you
And I adorned my own body in white  

By chance
If you see me again, please don’t be startled
I’m sure you’ve heard stories of how pretty I am
For a corpse

And when you come close
Don’t expect a stench or a rotten tongue
My skin would make the argan trees weep with joy
Yes, I smell just as good as I used to

You should have already known that I’m the kind of girl who can grow flowers
Even in a grave.


-Norah Khardaji

I have better things to do than wait for you to get home.
I could watch Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist... again.
I could put our baby's pacifier back in his mouth.
I could scrub the bathtub,
I could fold your shirts,
I could even think about what's keeping you....
But I have better things to do.

a heart full of Norah Jones
but the pounding staccato is
not soothed by breathy velvet

built under a cerulean sky
bones of Tori Amos
soul of Fiona Apple
*** of Erin McKeown

make me a sapphire woman
hard edges and smooth plains
build me up and let me shatter:
Stevie Nicks untouched.

inky midnight colours me
drowning in its conflicting
warmth and chill
and still my veins sing the blues

One of my first jobs was as a waiter in a Thai Restaurant
Run by a scary Malaysian who'd taken a liking to me
We went to a rave once
And he gave me 400 AUD for Chinese New Year
Bless him

But one night a tall Singaporean guy called Sunny came in
He was a musician too
He played in a rock and roll band
The Suns

Sunny lasted one night
But he told me about an open mic run by a girl called Michelle
And we stayed in contact
----

Gom was in the year above me at school
Gom was the only African at our school, he and his brother
Goyte also went to our school, he was in Gom's year. At school I was smart and cool, played bass and was friends with everybody. School was sometimes an escape from home life.

Marcus took me to Gom's place once where he lived with his girlfriend Nikki
I took my guitar and Gom and I jammed in the bedroom
A singer and a rapper
----

The first time I ever played live was at a place called Yah man Rastaraunt
It was a Caribbean Restaurant on Hoddle Street, South Yarra, Melbourne
It had that black feeling, of warmth and mystery. Or maybe that was youth and ****.
But I played, and some of the girls were crying
I'd found my thing
I went back the next week and froze up
----

There was a place called Pure on Smith Street. This was where Sunny said the open mic was run by Michelle. In those years, Smith street had a sacred vibe. Maybe it was the presence of an Aboriginal community or the fact that gentrification hadn't yet taken hold. But things were elemental, exaggerated by the warmth of summer nights.
I loved these open mics, the people I've met. I'd invite my work crew and friends. Sometimes I'd pack that venue out, for 3 songs!
----

Gom and I started a band
Melbourne was hip-hop, music, life and Fitzroy was Mecca
On Monday nights you could go to a place called the Laundry and see B-boys doing backflips on dancefloors!
Open mics, Latin Culture, losing my virginity
I was living and working as a waiter in beautiful Carlton, Melbourne's Italy. I love the parks there.

I flew interstate to study jazz
To smoke more ****
Then less ****
To wander like the wind, to bend like the rain, but always circling music and its hubs

I moved to London in 2015
I worked in a cafe and met a guy called Stefan from Austria. He is still one of the coolest and nicest people you can meet. I'll have to link up with him in Berlin one day soon.
He introduced me to Stefano from Italy who played the drums
We set up a band and had a few gigs
We had Hakan on Trombone and Bahadir on bass
Stefano had all these connections to the Turkish musical community
Because of the fact he plays in the Oddbeats, a psychedelic Turkish Band, one of the long standing hippie bands round these parts

I worked in a cafe called Music and Beans on Green Lanes, London's Istanbul. It was run by a musician who played amazing violin and also ran a music school. I lived in a tiny room above the school for a bit. On Green lanes there was a place called Jam in a Jar where you could see all kinds of music, from Mediterranean to Irish folk. It had a festival feel to it.
----

I go to open mics and jams like I did back in Melbourne,
It's very jazzy and jammy in this city. I like going to blues jams sometimes.
But I do like to remember those first gigs and musical experiences I had back in Melbourne
The meditation and wonder of it

I see Lloyle Carner at the swimming pool sometimes
He comes in with his daughter and wife
There I work as a lifeguard
On the days when I'm not working, I'll be working on my music, playing guitar, piano, writing, listening, learning, humming, singing, reading...
Stefano and I set up a house removed from the noise of traffic, replaced by the sounds of birds. There are trees everywhere and a lake nearby.
I've dedicated myself to being able to sing that great song in great condition, so that keeps the number of joints, beers and cigarettes down and the number of kilometers run and minutes meditated up.


I would cite Stevie Wonder, Bob Marley, Aston “Familyman” Barret, Jimi Hendrix, Nina Simone, Miles Davis, The Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Flea, Michael Jackson, Marvin Gaye, James Jamerson, Donny Hathaway, Lauryn Hill, Sam Cooke, Bill Withers, Frank Sinatra, John Coltrane, Salman Rushdie, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Carole King, James Taylor, Norah Jones, Nick Drake, Bjork, Portishead, Radiohead, Aphex Twin, Squarepusher, Burial, Flying Lotus, Fat Freddy’s Drop, Aphrodite, Charlie Parker, Chopin, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Nick Cave, Paul Kelly, Jeff Buckley, Jaco Pastorius, Eric Dolphy, David Bowie, Charles Mingus, Herbie Hancock, J Dilla, Tupac, Juicy the song, Nirvana, Crowded House, Metallica, Black Sabbath, Prince, Parliament, D'Angelo's 3 Albums to date, Blackstar, The Roots, Adele, Beyonce, Aretha Franklin, Eryka Badu, Hiatus Kaiyote, Nai Palm, Muddy Waters, BB King, Ben Harper, Joe Cocker, Cat Stevens, Paul Simon, Van Morrison, The Rolling Stones, The Doors, Led Zeppelin, Janis Joplin, Joni Mitchell, Mavis Staples, The Beatles and tapestries more as inspirations and influences

Dear Norah,

I mark this paper with words of remorse towards my former self
I write this with pain in my heart, and regret for my past actions
I apologize for the discomfort in my own body
But more importantly.. I apologize for the aching of my soul
I'm sorry for still not becoming the person you had thought I would become by this age
I'm sorry for still suffering mentally..while trying to search for my identity
I'm sorry for not understanding myself to the full extent yet.
There are a lot of things that I'm disheartened about..
But at the same time..
I'm a better person today than I was a few years ago
I'm a more reliant and independent individual
I'm myself, and I am proud of me.
So past Norah, I'm sorry for not being mentally stable enough to handle myself
But I have grown.
And as my parents always told me..
With patience comes progress
With time, I'll thrive.

To my next boyfriend..

Hi I'm Norah.
I don't like onions and I don't eat pork.
I think you're the most handsome man I've ever talked to
I reiterate things when I mean them
I'm an artist and a big lover
I spend most of my days over-analyzing every thought in my mind
I know I'm weird, but I love that about myself.
I got a big *** head.. but with that I got a big *** heart.
I deal with disorders like depression and ptsd pretty heavily
Sometimes I have really bad anxiety especially in large groups
I have this mindset that everyone is out to get me
Which makes me want to be isolated by myself most times.
I try to learn how much I'm such a contradiction but maybe you'll learn to love this.. part of me.
I don't want this relationship to start on emotions, I need this relationship to start on decisions.
I need you to decide if you truly want me, because emotions can always differ.
I need you to understand that change is going to happen, we are going to change into two different people
And though I am not a fan of change I've come to terms with the action.
This relationship may not end in marriage, and it may not end at all but if it ends.. it ends in peace, not hatred.
I need you to be completely open with me the same way that I need to be completely open with you.
I need you to be understanding because.. some days I don't know myself..so I know I'll be hard to recognize.
I need you to understand that the way I feel about you, is a representation of how kindly you've treated me
With the most respect.. and I need to know, that it will always stay that way.
Otherwise I don't want it.

Laying here almost asleep
I feel the shift in the energy
Thunder cracks, lightning strikes
What a beauty in the dark of night.

Crack a window, feel the breeze
Smell of the rain sets my heart free
Booming enough to shake my soul
Illuminating a tale you’ll never know.

Norah Jones is on the radio
Soothing to a heart set on coals
Chills along the back of my neck
Oh, how did I ever forget?