posted on November 1, 2008 at 11:00 pm

natalie in lemuria by moonlight
finished on the wall
lifting her head out of the picture
her mauve creamy moony skin
the jungle all around
the wild inchoate jungle
so many hours
labour of love
this picture will dominate any room
this picture will move around at night when no ones looking
this picture will call you into the fleshy undergrowth
where the shrubs and leaves are full of rain
and wild eyed blonde women appear
coming the other way
like an angel fleeing sodom
like a seraph at rush hour
like a temple whore from old babylon
surprised to run into you at this hour
but ready to avail you of all her arts
werent we married in some other life ?you ask
didnt we have some lovely children…..?
but she just looks at you through you beyond you
now youre mad
youre talking to a painting
you did this painting
you recreated your wife from pigments
out of a black void you did summon her face
marilyns face
mae wests face
jean harlot
rita hayworth
ingrid bergman
the zephyr in the north winds arms coming to venus’ birth
the 1950s black n white blonde her tits nearly falling out
the lemurian spitfire
a west virginian ingenue
a wild eyed girl from free cloud
you applied her foundation
you built her up out of colour
oh your wife could go many ways you chuckle
as you work on her face
shaping n reshaping her delicate chin
her swelling cheekbones sailing under her wild brown eyes
just like ole pig-malion
falling in love with yer own creation
over ten years since we met
i still looking at my wifes face
how does it all go together
and then
i marvel
at how love n nature
have swirled our features around
and mixed up our colouring
and taken all the best bits
for someone like scarlet kilbey
who is a true star
who were you before this? i ask her
i scarlet she says
have you always been scarlet? you ask
yes she says quite clearly
but her lilac blue eyes say NO!
i see my mother rush across her face
i see russell and mimis broad abstracted gaze
i see my dad in myself and he melts to see scarlet
oh dad you woulda loved my kids you say
five of the prettiest girls you could ever meet
scarlet speaks english as tho forgetting her last language
there is a teutonic frostiness in her curt answers
there is sometimes a jolly latino deliberate over pronunciation
from where does her soul derive its power n anger
meanwhile my wife is thoroughly american
oh she was an american girl
american woman stay away from me
i’m sorry
i always wanted one of them blonde southern women
and just like my wife
they never swear
and their only concern
is loves sweet trysts n twists n kissed’s
you cant tell whos having who on
the american woman can appreciate the englishman
she can see why its so special
all as god intended it to be
no shortcuts
leave the words to me you say
drums beatin’ cold
english blood runs hot
english n all that means
the outsider looking in
from a tiny rainy island somewhere
or in the red desert
hot n cold
thats what we do
we dominate
we take apart
we impose our will
we decide
we endure
we prevail
watch out!
no good being english in lemuria, mister
no good playing the bass guitar or any of that
but i thought this lemuria thing was just a joke you think
another angle
another gimmick
a premise for tangled undergrowth and vines that curl around n in
no no
i cant even tell whats true or not you think
i look at myself
steven your skin is a golden brown now says my mother
i look in the mirror
as i age i turning into someone else
some hawklike olde grizzled bastard emerging
those eyes only the same
implying more than they mean to
scanning the painting for little faults
little technical errors n small accidents
the way the colour underneath will come rushing up
and the way some pastels are creamier than others
the way all the different brushes work
the way you can swirl n smear n subtract and manifest
after a while the songs write themselves
the paintings do themselves
the bloggs come tumbalong out
the soft options
i am all hardness
i seek the softness
i seek refuge
i seek haven n asylum
so i lose myself on huge sheets of paper
and i loose myself
in the approaching darkness of lemurias unforgotten jungles
the black panther with jesus
the parrots talking their crimson n green heads off
the sleepy old sloth
the cold elegant constrictor
the medicinal plants that bring visions
i am a traveller between worlds
my patrons ask me to explore myself when they dare not
yes i been to lemuria
yes i been to atlanta n atlantis n atlantic city
yes i am the time being
yes these are my journals
sacred n profane
in n out
up n down
saying too much
or nothing at all
i am the man that can
and i will
i take silences n fill em with song
i take blanks n fill em with words
i take space and i give it a face
i sing the booty electric
a hound chasing down the bunny
i am a bullet from either ether gun set to stun
i am an old master
(ha ha)
i am master of all i survey tho i cant see that well
i can see my wifes jawline from 3 planets away
she comes in our room where i’m waiting
and she’s already ready
shes dressed up but nowhere much to go
avenue on
downtown lemuria
hot november saturday night
streets so quiet now
only baby singing like a nighting gale
in lemurian
shes singing in lemurian
a warbley birdlike language of coos and las
help bring me back she says
back from where you wonder
i just left my body she says
i was out there somewhere baby without you
avenue off maybe
avenue honour bit
its sunday now……

11 Responses to “avenue on”

  1. avatar
    captain mission | 2 November 2008 at 1:51 am #

    wonderful, enchantment, words have beautiful power, in the right hands

  2. avatar
    Hellbound Heart | 2 November 2008 at 4:43 am #

    …sounds like an exquisite painting, i reckon you’d be loathe to part from it….
    love always…
    (aka the big 4-0)

  3. avatar
    Jasperina | 2 November 2008 at 5:00 am #

    Today’s words were like a painted image. The best kind of art when you can keep looking and still see more. Our children’s faces have that mirror to the faces we have known and loved.

  4. avatar
    fantasticandy | 2 November 2008 at 8:25 am #

    aw……ain’t it grand?
    you can’t write stuff like that
    unless your’e under it’s influence.

    your paintings DO have some sort of quiet influence about them….
    since abel’s been sharing the studio with us we have been ‘on a roll’ musically speaking.
    our resident ghost or spirit or whatever ‘shadowman’ relly likes him too!

    and if painkiller was on vinyl….
    it’d be worn out by now…
    not just the songs themselves either….
    so much care taken over the arrangements..those little touches on the keys here and there…subtle compression on guitar just in the right place…smooth multi-layered vox..
    dub bass?
    all in all…a ‘proper’ album.
    luv to all,
    andy L

  5. avatar
    fantasticandy | 2 November 2008 at 8:27 am #

    relly = really,
    luv = love.

  6. avatar
    persephone2u | 2 November 2008 at 11:21 am #

    Speaking as an American woman to all the other American women who may be reading this: stay away from the English male!

    Yes, they may make some great music (tho most of the greats are really of Irish descent — ditto for the great writers like Oscar Wilde) and yes, some of them, like my husband, have the perfect accent (the one good thing he got out of English boarding school I suppose) but that’s pretty much it.

    Excluding Rik Mayall, the vast majority of Englishmen are totally repressed (thus their penchant for alcohol so that they can feel normal) and don’t have enough fire in their veins for the feisty American woman. I was happy to find out that my husband was actually a full blooded Turk so I could enjoy the English accent without all of the other things that go along with being English.

  7. avatar
    sergezéni | 2 November 2008 at 1:44 pm #

    Maybe true love is: Trying to find what’s good or best for the other one, before knowing what’s best for ourselves. Otherwise, it is not love but just selfishness. A part from this and apart from that, the world we’re living in is so awful that many people stumble into each other and say “Wow! Love! Thanks God!”. Unfortunately, they may soon discover that it wasn’t Love who called: It was Distress.

  8. avatar
    msm | 2 November 2008 at 2:34 pm #

    loved reading that sk, nice how you render nk in words.

  9. avatar
    restaurant mark | 2 November 2008 at 4:00 pm #

    that was a nice one steve…
    “i sing the booty electric”…great line!

    oh…i do have to disagree on southern american women and them not swearing. i lived in south louisiana until i was 18 and in or near atlanta since then basically…are you kidding??? sailors i tell ya…sailors! oh there may be a couple hidden here and there. but i will say this, my wife can make fuck off somehow still sound sweet. just a nice tone overall!!! ; )

    take care everyone

  10. avatar
    eek | 2 November 2008 at 10:24 pm #

    Beautiful. I enjoyed reading that.

  11. avatar
    CSTCoach | 3 November 2008 at 5:04 pm #

    Beautiful. Your turn of phrase and your vision never fail to enchant. The Time Being is an instructor of sorts, a virtual sage, whose teachings are to see the world through new eyes,to discern the layers of this palimpsest of time and memory.

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