Tuesday, 31 July 2012

Show me way to the ,tekke, by the Beyoglu Gate
Where the Koshogi dervishes gather
The musicians play,the danseurs turn
Rumi,s sons dance ın excstasy
Tears stream from my eyes.
The Bosphorus Blues- or leavıng Istanbul.

Buy blue fısh fresh from the Bosphorus
As Arkshan,s call comes from the Mosque so Blue
Let ıt stıll my unstıll herat heart
Then the smell of charcoal from under my door ashall come.
A basın of lemon water
Our fıngers to clean
Frsh bread soon delıvered,
Let us eat together
And banısh these Bosphorus Blues
Istanbul 28 July 2012

Tuesday, 24 April 2012

The silence in my heart
The stillness of my soul
Tells me a storm is coming
Too still at the centre
Smell of the wind yet no wind brushes by.
The birds are still , nest has fallen down
A red snake has slid along the ground
Jackals cry from somewhere near
Crows gather round.
The Water Gourd is dry, a cinnamon taste
Red red sky far away.
Lightning startles my eyes-
Mountains shake, the tumbleweed blows
No destination this side of the road.
Be ready, nothing is written yet,
Djinns and angels bargain for my soul
Which can win the shadow of a man?
The emptiness so huge
(hush, a piano is playing a Love Supreme)
The high notes are flat, it’s way outta tune-
Like so many among us this side of the moon.
Pass me a spoonful of that hope only a woman can have
The twinkle of an eye
Before the storm comes by.
My knees are bent, my back is brown
My Herat Prayer rug lies empty on the sand.
Fill me with nonsense,
tell me lies as is your want
A moment of pure emptiness is hard to find.

 In my arms.

Swimming into your sex
Like a fish I breathe your waters
Tasting the sea smells that pour forth
Touching your back I become a tiger
Lay claim to what has become mine
As I have become you.
You neck going backwards, your lips wide apart, your legs so open
Joy inside my heart.
Lips that lick, lips that bite, lips for loving
I’m yours tonight.
Black eyes, they open and close
Hair tossing everywhere
Your love you tell me as I glide within and without,
Let me lie inside you this night as we start
Feel me throbbing in your secret places
Moving like a snake,
Breathing growing shorter, mouth screaming
Empty sky above-we’ve become two falcons
Soaring on currants of hot air,
No shadows on the desert
No sounds so high up in the air.
If you touch paradise, keep us there
For you are Woman, all women inside one
Isis and Anubis, Nefertiti & Aphrodite
Rolled into one soul-
Touch it & never be the same
What’s between us is no game my love
Leave me a space in this heaven
I’ll stay by your side.

Saturday, 14 April 2012

musings abour musings

If I wish to get drunk I knock on the Tavern Door
And if swirling is our pleasure let's dance across the floor
Should you wish to cut me a brand new pair of strides
To Isaac the Tailor ( who plays the fiddle on the side)
In a day I'll be fitted and ready for the street!
Should a hare be our dinner a a’falconing we must go
Gloved hands & hoods and eyes that see from high
Roast hare in Crete for a dinner by the sea.
Should you wish to travel the Silk Road I’m ready as can be
A Triumph Boneville-750cc
See the Mosques of Samarkand, Kiva and Tashkent
Search for Persian Miniatures in dusty streets alone
And worship life for all it has to give.
I”d love to see the Northern Lights with you by my side`
Then frolic in the snow with you-the others went inside,
Smell the lemons on you skin just where you breasts begin,
(at 39.8 you’ll heat the Arctic wastes.)
I’d send you a postcard from the Starbucks at the very end of the Universe
The coffee is disgusting but the Jaberwock makes me laugh,
Let’s plant a garden as in Granada the Moors did do so well
With the tinkling of water and stones in grey slate
An umbrella of Bourgainevillea in 20 shades of violet and orange`
Drink mint tea with orange blossoms, the aroma is divine
Visit Ana in Mathura as the children she saves from hunger squat the courtyard
And swoop down on Shirley in that bizarre land known as LA,
Play Bobby’s Fish Fry in acoustic bleu
Hunt for Gary Snyder as somewhere there his hides.

Visit Penho & Russel and hear the crashing of the sea, surf grandfathers they must surely be-
Climb the rocks of the rivers that rushing to Maringa they fall`
Lets visit Petra, in the desert so wonderfully designed, water cisterns in solid rock and Bedouins to show the way
The Ghil Kabir with it’s swimmers on the walls
Pause in Monasteries be they Augustins or Jesuits, Tantric or just in ruins as they wallow in the jungle creepers of old Ankor Wat
or in Fatepur Sikri with the cobras and sadhus
Lets do it together - you children are of of age
Im on the corner waiting, look outside
,Lets Go.

Tuesday, 27 March 2012

The Life & Times of Lucky Tattoo

(the late  Lucky Tatoo of the Port of Santos SP. Brasil)

Born Knud Harald Lykke Gregerson in Copenhagen on the 14 th of May 1928 , Knud was the son of a Copenhagen Tattooist Known as Jens, married to Ema, who worked the trade in Nyhaftenen during the 30s & 40s, although little trace can be found of his Father’s career during those years. There was some relationship to the “Tattoo Ole” family, by marriage or blood- but no one alive remains who can clarify the exact ties.
‘Lucky” as he chose as his professional name hit the road at a very early age travelling with a Danish Circus around Europe, tattooing wherever the Circus pitched tent and earning his keep already, accompanied by acrobatic poodles, accordion players and the Bearded Woman Tribe-he was in France when the Nazis invaded in 1940 (?) The whole Circus, furnished with Passports by necessity of their endless wanderings, caught one of the last Boats out of Cherbourg heading for the safer waters of The USA. The War years were spent in the dockyards of Philadelphia building the floating tubs called Victory Ships, built fast and cheap with the intention of getting as much food and ammunition to Europe as was humanely possible-the death toll from U-Boats was high so the costs of the floating tubs were kept to a bare minimum. Lucky told me of sleeping in flop-houses where you were tied in by a rope across the chest through an iron ring and onto the next bum,and so forth, which was only released as 06.00 am the next day! If you were  lucky you still had your shoes in the morning!
When the war drew to an end in 1945 Lucky still had his Tattoing Equipment in a suitcase and headed for Texas on the Greyhound Bus, a few dollars saved from the years welding and cutting in the Shipyards and a body that was tough as old leather and with a strong fist when needed despite being only 18. ( Few questions were asked as to age when employment was such a vital need during the War years)
The next ten years were spent slowly Island hopping and heading South across the Caribbean making many lifetime friends, and many a Mulatta lass fell in love with those Danish blue eyes and the sailing ship in full sail tattoed across his chest, Santa Dominica was a Port of Call where he remained for quite some time tattooing the sailors from the tramp steamers in the Bar-rooms close to the Docks-a formula he adopted all his life. He visited Venezuela, Belize, Dutch Guyiane now called Suriname, crossed the Amazon and started his Brasilian journeyings in Belem at the mouth of The Amazons, heading forever South. A famous story tells of a  trip where his passage being paid ‘in tattoos’ a fellow passenger of the Catholic Disposition, a Priest no less, started to tell the crew that Tattooing was a sin and those that got tattooed  were hell bound , Lucky’s solution was to throw the Priest overboard and the Captain did NOT turn the Ship around !
        By 1959 Lucky arrived at the port of Santos on the coast of the State of San Paulo and saw immediately the huge potential of the place-cargo ships, tramp steamers and ocean liners occasionally plus a floating population of ladies of the night numbered in thousands, night clubs of the shadiest descriptions and property as cheap to rent as anyone could hope for-there Lucky established himself on Rua Vitor Camera, the walls full of the ‘Flash’ he’d brought all the way from Denmark, dragons & roses, ships in full sail, -Hula Hula girls and all the drawings so common to the times in the World of Tatttooing., very much the same in all  Ocean-Side Tattoo Shops from Honk Kong to Honolulu the long way round.
There were no other Tattooists South of Panama at that time-he was the only Tattooist with a Shop working full time on that Southernly Continent-and word of mouth did the job of Publicity that was needed to establish his reputation and the women of the Night drew sailors to his shop,  amongst them a very beautiful Indian young woman who had hit hard times and the cachaça bottle, fell head over heels in love with this “Estrangeiro” from so far away, and he too fell in love, the result being the birth of his two children, Ana & Frederick. The story did not have a happy ending however, Lucky drank like a only a Dane could-sometimes more than 40 bottles of beer in a night and she accompanied his Bohemian lifestyle without having the stamina or liver to support such quantities of cachaça and she died from cirrhosis of the liver when the children were still young.
   Lucky called in the help of Donna Frederika from Santa Dominica to be a governess to his children whom he established in a large house in Itanhaem, another town on the Sao Paulo Coastline, far quieter and respectable  than Santos-where the children were  brought up and schooled in peace.
    Lucky acquired a powerful motor bike , added on a side car, more a “side-chest” for carrying his equipment and flash, and when business was slow headed off for the Interior of Sao Paulo State, tattooing in one or other of the innumerable ‘Festas” that go in in Brasil all the year round.
The shop built a solid reputation for good work, though often the door didn’t open until 4 or 5 pm as Lucky nursed his hangover ! A strange tradition built up during these years-the Ladies of The night needed a sailor to ensure that there was food in the cupboard at home in the ‘favela’ where often there were two children, and sometimes luck seemed in short supply-so being Brasilian, used to Voodoo known as Macumba in Brasil (or Canomblé)the ladies went to Lucky to solve their dilemma, he would ask the girls to descend their skimpy underwear and pass “Tiger Balm’ on the Vagina, burning like hot pepper the girls would leave the shop with their genitals on fire, causing them to wiggle and shake their ass, within 5 minutes they’d have a sailor on their arm and half an hour later 50 dollars in their pockets, establishing his reputation as a Sexual Shaman solidly in the Bars and Clubs of Santos.For this charitable act he never charged a centavo!
   Lucky had known Peter of Amsterdam on his travels in the late 30s and with the help of Sailors travelling between the two cities established a contact cum supplier for his Pigments-primitive by todays standards but green, purple, blue and red were his basic palette, mixed with kerosene on the spot, they burnt like hell ( I know, I carry them in my skin to this day) The machines has  no capacitors so they’d spark like a small fire work display and require changing the machine’s springs frequently-his hands black from the ink-a bottle of Brahma Beer never too far away-he was a busy man allright. Born under the sign of Taurus, he invested his money wisely in Property along the Coast, even buying a small house on the Beach at Arrarail de Cabo , 150 miles east of Rio, more than 700 miles away from Santos.
    More often than not  his studio resembled an Artist’s Studio, oil paints all over the table, a painting under way on the easel-a few photos are included here, how Lucky got his influences has always remained a mystery to me-a sprinkle of Modiliani, a dabble of Picasso, the obvious influence of Tattooing on his paintings -of women giving birth in a favela shack, fishermen drawing in their nets all with that strong black outline so typical of his School of Tattooing.
    Tattooing – virtually unknown in Brasil at this time -brought Journalists and Photographers down to the seedy streets of Santos and various articles appeared in popular Magazines, establishing his reputation across the entire country-often full page spreads! Never bad for business! Fatos e Fotos (“ Facts & Photos”-available in every Newspaper Kiosk across Brasil) alone ran several articles about Lucky.-and his reputation grew in the world of  the Underground in existence, though the word didn’t exist at the time.
   Lucky was an extraordinary man, part Shaman, part sailor,part Magician, part Businessman , part Alcoholic, a wonderful friend; a good a Father as could be under the circumstances a true artist and one of the few Tattooists who’d turn down clients –reserving the right to Tattoo whom he chose, if he didn’t think you were ready for a tattoo no money would change his mind and he would never Tattoo for free, it was his livelihood and their were unbendable rules which he adhered to. He adored women with a passion and was a helpless romantic- he could charm the back legs off a donkey and would think nothing of spending a Hundred Dollars on Roses for his beloved.  He could paint a mural fifty metres long in two days and frequently did, in his choice subjects, women children & fishermen! He did try to stop his drinking with the help of the local branch of AA-but it lasted only 7 months and back to the bottle he went.
   In 1964 there was a Military Coup d ‘Etat and the Army Generals ( with the backing of The CIA) took over the running of the country-( lasted over twenty years) Torture & the Secret Police became the order of the Day but it didn’t change anything in Santos-life continued as usual, Lucky had by now become an Institution in his own right, people showed up from the immensity of Brasil to get tattooed, sometimes to pay a Promise to a Saint for a life spared, both Cops and Robbers came too-plus the usual clientele of Sailors.
   “ You’re not a sailor if you ain’t Tattooed” being one of his favourite publicity stunts. Taxi drivers would pick up sailors at the Port and drop them off right outside the Shop (for a small commission).  The Military Dictatorship caused many young people to be exiled or just leaving to find greener pastures-particularly those of artistic dispositions-by the end of the 1960s tattooing was still a very unknown World to most people (not only in Brazil) but by throwing it’s young to the winds in exile the Generals exposed young Brazilians to other cultures and habits-and by 1972 young Brazilians were catching the Bus to Santos to get tattooed, a mark to distinguish them from the herd and soon the beaches of Ipanema were a breeding ground for such revolt, musicians and surfers were amongst the first to get the “ Mark upon Cain”. At the same time three young Cariocas headed to Santos to find out how to tattoo, Caio, Tyes and Carlinhos and thus was born the Brasilinization of Tattoing-thanks to Lucky!
The shop was assaulted at gun point by local hoods twice in a row, not too different to robbing the Gold from a Church and so disgusted was Lucky that he felt it was time to up and leave, partly due to bad health but mainly due to sheer disgust at stooping so low as to rob a Tattooist-and he closed down the Shop in Santos and moved north to Arrail de Cabo, putting the studio in the garage, spending more time fishing and enjoying life on a tiny isolated beach than tattooing, but word soon got around Rio that he was now far closer than before-it was a 700 mile journey to Santos from Rio-and the queue of young people continued to grow-Lucky’s health however was not good, liver a shambles but supportable but the heart was starting to show signs of strain and when the Doctor told him that not only was hard physical activity out of the question but sex too! Never mind the booze!
   “ But Doctor, if I stay underneath I won’t have to do too much activity” was his response to the Doctor’s Orders and he left the Clinic flabbergasted and disgusted at such a dismal future without sex and continued very much as usual.
  The first stroke came when climbing the hill behind the house to investigate a piece of land for sale higher up the hillside-back to Hospital he went, stayed 3 days and discharged himself-the second followed a few weeks later, he went into a coma from which he never awoke dying under my eyes in the Public Hospital of Cabo Frio.
As usual all the rascals, fishermen and good looking women crowded the small Chapel where his body had been placed in a Coffin in a Catholic Ceremony of Adieu upon a raised marble table. I, who had been with him at the hospital for 3 days with out sleep, fell asleep on the cool marble floor under the coffin-exhausted. A woman entered the Chapel, took in the scene and screamed
   “ The Body’s fallen through the coffin”
In the spirit in which Lucky had lived his life, all broke out into guffaws of laughter, save myself who slept soundly throughout the whole affair-and we buried Lucky in the Wall of the Cemetery of Arrail on the 18th of December  1983, within the sound of the sea he loved so much-may he be Tattoing in Heaven, roaring with laughter and with a bottle of heavenly beer to assuage his thirst.

Jimmy Coquelle
Paris , 5th march 2012.

Friday, 23 March 2012


I used to wake before the sun slipped into the sky
Counted the hours as the day drifted by
Watched sparrows chatter and chirp
Lay under the green leaves of the trees
As flat as a snake in earth's bosom
Like a mad march hare I thumped and bumped
Glad of the moments that never stopped
Being one.

These days I melt into you
Drunk in the tavern where lovers make assignments
Staring at empty glasses and dripping candle-light
Hidden from the sun.
Moon rises higher in the sky, stars glitter
Just like your eyes,

We meet where only fools dare to enter
Wearing the perfect disguise for the Owner
Who cares not whether we come or go
Never asks our names or from whence we come
Just demands that our shirts be open
So our souls have not any curtain to close.

Banging heads on the lintel above the door
we leave
Hardly daring to breathe
That air so mountain cold.
To what end is love given or taken away
Ask not my dear friend, ask not
Lest the answer bring you dismay.

Buckets of Rain

Buckets of Rain & Buckets of Tears by Bob Dylan
-filmed & recorded by my Manager Luiza Pearl Coquelle aka Luiza Brasiliera here, she has large fingers which appear occasionally giving a personnel touch to the proceedings
Length: ‎2:35

any amount of love.

As invisible as the wind blowing cross the sea
Empty as the space that runs 'tween you and me
Noisy as pebbles grinding down the tide-line
As stubborn as moss on the trees that never ever shines
From chrysalis to butterfly, from maggot to a fly
Rattling like the reeds when they bend to and fro
Stable are you but so so hard to see
From the shining of your eyes
Knowing where i should be
Greeting you is wonder
loosing you is the greatest pain
On soul let me see you for a minute
Now and again.

Card sharp

Sitting just watching the river flow
Wondering about you and where we might go
Full moon climbing, Devil's on the rise
Marie Laveau out doing the Voodoo-Hoodoo
Somewhere in the Bayou tonight;
Try to educate a mind like mine
Like telling the tide to walk back a mile
Stuck on you like a fly on sticky paper
Circling like a moth round a lamp
Know Im going to burn out-of that I'm becoming sure
Take care lil' woman every time you leave the door
Coz I've been beaten and shot a couple times
Had posses chase me way down past the Border Line
But that was just money, I don't cheat at love
Take care of that darling, I'm no Ace of Hearts
Just a vagabond drifter-who used to cheat at cards.

change in the weather.

Though accustomed to changes in the weather
And bruised at heart by the indifference of fate
Carrying an emotional umbrella at all times
(Wearing it upside down-catching better your smiles)
Avoiding cops n' robbers , dealers and wheelers, Backgammonic Arabs
Afghan warriors, Malien thieves, American politiciens, Spiritual Advisors
and myself if possible-
Death, sycthe cutting like summer hay-is on the prowl as never before
Get yourself a bond, be headed for the Kings Highway-
a feeble attempt at life Insurance
In the heavenly realms
Is my task today.
So praying at 300 rpm, a prayer-wheel turning in the lions den,
Remembering that love is my duty
Ardeur my task
Let laughter in the back door and fuck everything else
Far too serious for a Sunday Morning am I
Get you gone ol' man death!

Wednesday, 15 February 2012

Were the gazelles still by the forest
The nightingale still singing under the moon
Were wise men to be found in Mosques
Were the tombs of the Pirs covered in flowers
I would know exactly where to go.
Idiots have risen like carrion to the top of the heap
Fear -what a commodity they've invented
Monkeys in uniforms carry arms
Crops dusted with poisons so evil
How come the world has become so silent
Arise from this collective coma
Scream, fight, overturn, gamble
Play Jimi Hendrix at full blast
Become subversive in all your doings
Practice that which your parents warned you would lead to madness
We might meet sooner than you think.


Not knowing where to go,
not feeling but emptiness around
Not touching the void
Contained within & thrown without
Dreaming at the Last Starbucks at edge of the world
The Galaxies edge totters & spins
You stand like Pan - blowing a reed flute
The flowers open, the wind becomes warm
Fish jump for joy at the dragon-flies that hover above
Wise men play backgammon as the light fades
Into silly smiles and birdsong
Why bother worrying, the tea is hot
The day will soon be done.


Oh The Streets of Rome were covered in snow
The Snowflakes the size of frying pans
The Vatican's doors tight shut
Ancient agony I smelt everywhere
You could almost think you're seeing double
on a cold dark night on the Spanish Stairs
Icy winds & piles of snow covered the waters
Oh you fountains so fair,
Dolphins & Neptune .bodies of Gods
The Cloaks of Machiavellain Ghosts
Disappear round corners of peeling stucco
Oh the glory that still is Rome.
I shall return I tell myself
I shall return.


A Winter of discomfort
A Winter full of gloom
Winter's face hiding the glory of the moon.
Siberian grey is the colour
And deep-freeze gray replaces the blues
The frost is in the garden, the insects hidden away
Deep roots are needed if you wish to see another day,
Yet soon the earth will turn as it's done since it was born
All kinds of colours will be visible at the dawn.
The foxes are slinking, the geese have carried away the lake
My aching heart will blossom again
And your presence will be gay,
Oh hurry up the days .
To all of those I love & carry in my heart,
May today be full of blessings as you wander along your path
Be it fame or money or fortune, may you find it in volumes
Like Books upon a shelf
May you bounce on a bed with a smile across your face
May death never fear the coming down these lanes
As this morning we are all born again
Yes, it's another day.

Monday, 23 January 2012

for BS

Like a kettle boiling into steam
Like the ocean inside a dream
A dragon-fly in summer on a country pond
You’re made inside some kitchen
Where noon-day never comes.
Aphrodite pales whenever you smile
The Oracle at Delphi is confounded
The Senators grumble in vain`
A prayer from you brings summer-rain.
The olive trees bend gently,
Fishes jump into the net
Stuffed kalamaris & pepper so hot
What I need-served up on the spot.
Try I may, cut down three fields of summer hay
Build a wall, light a fire, learn to mend a net
Sow stitches in your spider’s web,
Saw you swimming in Pelohora’s Bay
A school of dolphins playing with your body
The language was obscene, the meanings so clear
Too late to jump the cliffs, too late for the sky
Life’s incredible surprise,
My joy at just being alive.
Jacomo, 23.1? 2012.

Friday, 13 January 2012

London to Calais.
The Ghosts of Joseph Banks & Isaac Newton ferry across the Thames
The Ships so long gone from her banks where traffic flows forever
Across the Kentish Hills & Hop houses -sheep graze under gray skies
Dover's White Cliffs recede as One Inch of red horizon sky dissapears
Screaming Gulls follow the Wake of the P & O Ferry as she heads out -
Ghosts of Glenn Miller play under waves & the scream of the Spitfires & Messerchmits fill the empty sky
45 years ago Crossed this sea, guitar & sleeping bag in hand with just a heart full of dreams-ain't much changed in the way of baggage!
There’s a whipping wind behind the moon
Lonely cries turn like rusty leaves
You face once so familiar has lost it’s sheen
I just can’t help but grieve your absence.

Dogs biting blood-white bone
Standing in an alley all alone-
You give me far more than I really know how to take
Grieving down the road-my absence is always at stake.

I’d change if only I knew how-(two dimes for a quarter is the goin’ rate)
But the key is lost, the door won’t budge an inch
A photo of you beside the kitchen sink.
Is your absence real or is it just me
That grieves & grieves this lifetime through?

The winter shows it's loosing it's grip with snow drops
The first Swallow is Summer around the corner
Were I a bud I'd bloom all year round, bright yellow
A bee buzzing , life takes it's course
A tramp just tramping, a dog barking
River running clear-carp jumping
Rose so red, why are we so near to death every day?

Gaze at the stars, gaze beyond the end of space
Immensities of time turn to form your face.
Just a glimpse of your twinkling eyes
The corners of your smile
I"d wait at the Tannhauser Gates if I knew you'd pass
Throw bubble gum-wrappers on the Moons Of Jupiter
whilst smoking interstellar specials non-stop.
Accumulate parking tickets on Galatic Highways
By the way-when are you coming by?

Thursday, 12 January 2012

Garden & You.

I would plant a tree for you and me
In my garden so secluded,
Bizarrre it would seem , a bit of a dream
With smells so divine.
Lotus in December,Maroccan Mint Orange in Spring,
Tacky Opium in September and dead roses in November
A mango so red, bananas half dead & figs would grow on it's branches
Flowering so often in pale shaded Van Gochen
Under it's branches we will lie,
Celebrate life , getting ready to die-time slipping away
A grin like the moon, a small silver spoon
Collecting the nectar of love.

Solid Silver, moonshine & gold
I'm writing this letter to you
Just remember what the silence says
You're time is going to come to.

Whose goin' t' keep a hold on you,
Whose going to bring you into land
Whose goin' to be the one to say
When stone turns into sand?

Old Cyprus trees, bracken water black
Yellow Moon slipping across the skin on your back
Give me a little, give me some more
Lean with your loving, so tight with your purse
Keep going Mama, you'll need a nurse!

I slipped on choosing a woman like you
Tied evil knots around my soul-
Handcuffed my heart to a nightmare dream
But darling , your time is going to come to.