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Jaguar_Mark+II

Time to get the Jag fixed up!

In a few hours I will be arriving at the Willow Manor Ball where birthday girl Tess Kincaid and her remarkable guests are partying from midnight to midnight (5 a.m. BST).

Christina Hendricks and her Johnnie Walker went down so well last year that she is once again riding shotgun with a case of Black Label; in fact she has already started.

christina_hendricks_johnnie_walker_9-450x731

Squeezed in the back are Tracey Emin and Eliza Carthy – both party animals. Strapped to the roofrack is an unmade bed which Tracey insisted on bringing.

What to wear? What to wear? This year I have gone for a touch of pink.

solid-satin-pink-vest_jpg_1_1

See you there!

Now that it is all over until next year (!) here is a Christmassy poem by Tess Kincaid

There’s a place for us,
an oasis between fruitcake
and watering the tree,
with hot-and-cold running kisses,
that stretch restless,
from the hearth
out to the snow,
where I push you back pink
and holiday-faced,
knowing this smiling garland
around our necks
links forever compatible.

I return to this blog after a long absence precipitated by my mid-life crisis with good news … the Willow Manor Ball is underway.

Join Tess Kincaid and her guests as they party like crazed weasels.

I am wrapping myself in a trenchcoat as I hear it can get wet and wild in Central Ohio this time of year …

Christina Hendricks is coming with me … together with several cases of Johnnie Walker which she gets free … the only reason I am bringing her to be honest as frankly she has an annoying giggle and a tendency to say “La di da” a bit too often for my liking … but what the hell she has a great rack …

So hurry along to Willow Manor and sign in … I will be there after breakfast … the full English of course …

Yet another goddamn poem by Tess Kincaid.

Somewhere along the line,
the big zero of time
was twisted at the waist,
to become an eight.

An hourglass of days,
slipping slow from the top,
then fast below the belt.

Is it providence,
or a lemniscate of fate?

I like to think of myself as verb
and not as object; chop-chop.

I wait the hours;
I empty my head of winter.

I am frightened
by other people’s fears,
but not of the eight,
an hourglass of days.

I’m too lazy to write a post so here is the new poem by Tess Kincaid … she’s not quite right in the head you know … she lives in Ohio … somebody has to …

I’m too vain to cry much;
my sniffs hide mute

behind strands of my hair,
and layers of waterproof mascara.

With a random hanky-snort,
mine foghorns out a cute G,

not all loud and garble-monster,
like a prehistoric disposer.

I wonder what Matt Damon’s
sounds like, leghorn-straight,

squared off at the end
like Bob Hope’s.

Another poem by Tess Kincaid who lives by the Scioto River in Ohio and writes a blog called Life at Willow Manor.

I sunburn
under your
late-summer eyes,

our tongues hinge,
then come apart
like two rakes,
side by side.

We cull essence,
swallow brine
with the tang

of Russian vodka
in your mouth,
the silvery cold taste
of well water in mine.

Tess Kincaid writes a blog called Life at Willow Manor.

Gone the way
of the phone booth

and station wagon,
the morning tradition

is dunked or otherwise
reduced to an essence

added to the grind,
a kind of tribute.

Time-travel across
the politically correct,

wrap one in wax paper,
dribble jelly for old times’ sake,

the icing so sweet
it makes your teeth hurt.

You can read more of Ohio on the banks of the Scioto River Tess Kincaid’s marvellous poetry on her blog Life at Willow Manor.

Tess Kincaid apparently had a dream that Yul Brynner might possibly have been her father. So she wrote a poem about it.

I dreamed
he was my father;

that I came
from hard water
tucked in his timeline
between New York
and Hollywood,

a summer
of root crops
and soy beans,
wild oats sown
in a Hoosier farm girl.

I craved a king,
some kind of Ramses
from heaven,
to strut clean,
make good the role.

Maybe I understood
the Mongol,
the far-off Tartar,
as not so magnificent
a number as seven.

Black Dogs Defined

This is the best of me; for the rest, I ate, and drank, and slept, loved and hated, like another: my life was as the vapour and is not; but this I saw and knew; this, if anything of mine, is worth your memory.

(John Ruskin, Sesame and Lilies)

Whatever people say I am, that’s what I’m not.

(Alan Sillitoe, Saturday Night and Sunday Morning)

This is my letter to the world, that never wrote to me.

(Emily Dickinson, This is my letter to the world)

Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:
Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!

(Edna St. Vincent Millay, Second Fig)

R.A.D. Stainforth

I was born before The Beatles’ first LP and brought up in the reeking slums of Jericho. I am in love with a woman called Hazel and in love with her daughter, also called Hazel, both of whom I met at Alcoholics Anonymous.

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