posted on April 29, 2013 at 7:58 pm
burred arcade

burred arcade


nomenclature aside

the various pieces of the orkestra merge inexplicably

the sighs of enraptured ladies pierce the night stage

burley griffin in fog

the summit with pine trees like a tiny lebanon

strolling through the filtered light in the temples out of sight

where wind cannot vanquish the living flame that burns on

morningstar upon the river window flowing with the mists

a boat rows solemnly over unseen waters

on steps over looking the city watching its glimmered frozen lights

unusually warm weather breeding lightheadedness and odd aches

black shapes between trees full of bat chatter

the day seem to go before its allotted time

the expectancy of evening which waits at a door

the moon has burnt brighter they always say

on the other side of the sky

but when you wander there you wander away

trouble is a black dog follow you home

worry is a croaking voice in the pipe of your dream

sorrow sad friend what ruined the feast

thy hollow inside of of eastern fleece least

the measure of lochs the pressure of storm

the blood beats like a beasts

the garrulous men who hang round outside

their insolent faces intrude on my visions

their violent traps indentured lairs

are we never to be released from this virtual servitude

and while away pleasant hours by the side of Alph?





5 Responses to “musical and personal differences”

  1. avatar
    Kohl Ette | 29 April 2013 at 8:38 pm #

    As I walk across the empty cricket pitch
    in my bathroom cleaning gear
    I hear a few closing bars of Pastoral symphonies.
    I love Beethoven, I hate him, I love him.
    Then I hear some Mussorgsky.
    I hate him then love him.
    I hear some Talk Talk and it makes me sulky then grateful.
    I am to some extent green with envy
    of their musical ability
    for my musical ability bottled with the top on
    or anyway, the world seems green with envy
    then I realise today
    the world is just green and blue and white and gold
    in the best possible way.
    The music helps the grass grow and
    the grass feeds the music.
    All those guys must’ve been off their heads on something
    how else could they have achieved those things?
    Or were they just so free or so oppressed
    repressed suppressed depressed?
    Oh who cares?
    They smashed their bottle
    and were they with me
    they would drink nectar of wattle
    if it were spring
    but it’s autumn.
    Just imagining.

  2. avatar
    Chris | 29 April 2013 at 10:12 pm #

    The sacred river runs down to a sinless sea…and neophytes and pilgrims rest on its banks contemplating the infinite from within their pleasured domes and spires and cells….

  3. avatar
    andy | 29 April 2013 at 11:42 pm #

    sounds a bit like you got that olde gypsy curse steve,
    the one that prevents you ever really finding home and happiness.
    a man who has given others such joy deserves freedom from such bondage.

  4. avatar
    Anonymous | 30 April 2013 at 1:42 pm #

    i reckon i will never tire of reading kilbey.

  5. avatar
    hellbound heart | 30 April 2013 at 7:14 pm #

    thankyou for the trip, sir…..

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