Sad news. Sebastian Horsley, the Soho artist, drug addict, and blaspheming sex-writer, has died. Few people have attempted to live to its logical (or illogical) conclusions the alarming role of the decadent dandy - a fusion of Wilde, Crowley, and an opium-eater - with the discipline and sartorial charm of Horsley - a friend of a friend of mine (Louise Bak) and someone I met recently at the launch of Cosmo Landesman's book. His play had recently opened. A shame he closed his own book so soon.
A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.
Comments
Yes, it's a real shame particularly with Alexander McQueen dying earlier this year. We have too few genuine eccentrics as it is without losing the ones that we have. At least he will be remembered - unlike most of us!
Best wishes from Simon