complicity

How did i not know Bob Carlos Clarke threw himself in front of a train earlier this year? I know this now after seeing an article in a sunday paper yesterday. I find it interesting that the death of someone i've admired, someone with a genuine vision and passion can pass me, and probably quite a lot of other people who loved his work, by. Whilst, as also shown by the same paper, i am intimately familiar with every sordid little child-like detail of Pete Doherty's (no relation..please god!) life. As much as this is a reflection on the state of the media in this country, that's frankly too easy a target, and of course i don't expect the majority of the populace to be interested in the violent death of a guy who took pervy pictures, much as i think they should. But why invest so much time and energy in fabricating interest in the misadventures of full time waste of space, and part time second rate songwriter? I'll be honest and say Pete didn't seem to be quite the cock i had him pegged for, and i even felt sorry for him at times but it doesn't change the fact that he is not the greatest artist of his generation, he's probably not even the greatest artist to have fucked Kate Moss, so why the hell would anyone give a shit?

" Scratch my leg with a rusty nail, sadly it heals.
colour my hair but the dye grows out
I can't seem to stay a fixed ideal
childhood pictures redeem, clean and so serene
see myself without ruining lines
whole days throwing sticks into streams
I have crawled so far sideways
I recognise dim traces of creation."

or

"She looked me over and i guess she thought i was all right,
All right in a sort of limited way for an off-night.
She said don't i know you from the cinematographers party?
I said who am i to blow against the wind."

That is songwriting, or lyric writing in any sense, and the fact that i can still hum both those songs despite not hearing either for years tells me they have some sense of melody too. Two artists who to me, have a talent, that vision and passion i was talking about earlier and yet no one cares, no one is interested, they'd rather read tales of heroin and trashed lives than beauty and art.