Wednesday, 27 April 2011

post year nil / untitled

Londons a silly slum borehole once more
Sorting through cheap
Canned soup
Oh to slurp on some peasant's
My beer smells like an heiress
My piss smells like beer
Working forward, walking toward
Making asses out of clay and scrap saw
Makes as about much sense as
Taking your wife to a brothel
and paying for corkage.

Save water - Piss in bottles.
Coca cola piss is poison.

Once we were Vikings here
living in Turndyke lane
Honoured to die over a trivial thing
rather than face the fiend within
feed the face to the blender-in
(now pikeys living alone in tudor grove)

It ain't 1897
 as if we aren't
Coupled to the Internet whore,
That's right, blame progress once more
For one's dilapidated &
onerus selves.

Casual saxophone
fictitious financies
post-muddy & trenchant,
tortured ambivalence
(Say no to plastic).

Marx unravelled
admitting now
we have too much
freedoms of illusions of european summer
golfgrass and wine,
babes of the industrious & uniform line
hypocrit rose lording over manurities

Seems all this yawnworthy movement
paying one's death duties
in advance
The question is not
whether we exist afterwood
If in life existence so doubtful-
  , when you're
Near The precipice
The query is
What constitutes?
because strangewise I dont have a taste
for existence today.

Thursday, 21 April 2011

Ciao Bella

An old fave of mine on Lambs Conduit St, Bloomsbury.

Good Olives & Parmesan laid on every table, very nice.

I always thought it was at least as good as any pizza express if not better, besides being non-corporate, an authentic entity.  

This stunted memory, I have to now withdraw from.

The 'Napoletana' pizza seemed reheated from yesterday, that telltale hard sweaty cheese that appears oily on the surface.  The anchovies were bristling with minuscule bones.  Service was as I remembered it;  lacey casa-nostra insouciance.  This may be why people regard Ciao Bella as the real article. It is lauded by a circle of pocketbook-conscious uppercrusties as the best Italian in London. 
The sea bream from the specials menu was perfectly acceptable although bony for what is stated as a  fillet.  No matter.

It's individualistic enough but merely acceptable, in Italy itself it would be a dire low tourist trapjoint with pizza express prices, although without the standards. Yes, they have a live piano player inside most of the time, but on a dry summers day you'll want to sit outside. Choose the specials - everything else might be leftovers.

The waiting staff are a masterclass of broken down, autumnal Italian machismo but this is where its uniqueness ceases.  Next time I'm going past to the lovely Lamb pub next door. 

Sea bream special, 'Orata ai Gamberetti' (£15.50)
Napoletana pizza (£7)
House dry white wine (£12.50)


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