posted on January 18, 2013 at 2:26 pm
    tor wrist

tor wrist

dearest heart

the weather is so fucking warm 115 degrees

i go down to the seas

i drink coconut water and dive for sponge

summer salt from greek cliffs into pacific waters

at night in the clubs hung with lanterns

i drink black cane rum skulled like a ram

the water is so blue my darling oh its so very blue

underneath the surfers is a world of silent fishery

perch bream mackerel and snake swim in these climbs

a swirling world of bubbles and weed and sand and mouth

that night they play a record called the idyllist

i lay in my hammock listening to this music

who wrote these words and these songs…?

its so hot i am sweating all the time

my sore fore head full of ideas drip drip drip

my eyes the colour of sea blink in the searing noon day heat

the equipment becomes too hot

the whole island struggles under this merciless sun

i make notes about life about my purpose herein

holiday land with the pineapple fritters and palm sunday salad

my swimmers hanging on a line

my mask that i wear overwater

my mansuit damaged by choral arrangements

ripped by the march of indulgence

crushed by the may of maybe not

oh summer is upon em out there who asked for it

a thousand summers still they cry for more

i met a girl darling who came to my room

we listened to the idyllist in the midday blur n hum

my curtains floated over  us like a bridal shower

we listened to idyllist as we sweated in the bed

the girl skin is so brown and smooth

i stood in a cold waterfall shivering

on a plateau above the coast a silver river ran through the land

before white man arrived from over some sea

i  love the idyllist the girl say in her gentle english

oh sweet jesus oh how i love you so she sing

in my hotel room where the wind tickles the venetians

among the abstracts on the wall and the faded cushions

oh sweet jesus give me another go she sing again

we light up a joint

out on the balcony in a towel sunburnt and starblind

the idyllist plays on and on

more black cane rum more dope more stars

the night is blacker than the rum

black black black

the native girl moves like a cat in moonwhite heat

the ocean roars and crashes

the tourists drunk in a thousand clubs red faced and too much aftershave

i am isolated now

my room high on the hill

i order rice milk iced coffee

i drink cold coca leaf tea

i listen to the idyllist now

it brings it all back to me

a path through the madness implied in secrecy

dont worry about that girl i never  saw her again

she disappeared into a furious market boiling in the square

cheap sunglasses jewellery and kaftans engulfed her sleekly

everyone was singing along to african jesus

while my  still kisses lingered on her thighs

and the brutal sun blazed triumphant in vivid skies

and i  gotta call from the hotel asking me about the sand bar

i got wrecked like a pirate there last night

found myself in the arms of brazilian women with fake tans

a boyfriend took a swing at me

i staggered into idyllist nights of potential

heat hotter than i ever know

the afternoon right now finds me lazily enervated

this and that are too much to deal with

the idyllist is on somewhere behind it all

thumping lilting crooning mocking

darling i think i got heatstroke

i cant go on anymore right now

i will write again soon

love etc





8 Responses to “postcard from a summer idyll”

  1. avatar
    Kohl Ette | 18 January 2013 at 3:57 pm #

    Did you go down to the shore this morning? Weighing heavy with heat? It felt late tho early, no idea if it was too late or early for you. The haze set up some disconnection but I swooned in a pool within some kind of narrower or wider view. Who knew? Too bright for the night owl swivelling its head, scanning horizons with wide eyes, blinded. But there I gave you my time in some way and we let eachother go on with the day. How relieving feels home in its coolness its shelter with children to lift spirits and complete being. Poor things. Need do nothing, just be. I remember an evening on an iceburg, coiffed and groomed like some bourgeois matron like Catherine Deneuve. How proud was his brow. What a put down somehow. The best part was seeing the evening, the night cloud shrouding the sky like ink organza across a pearl and diamond decolletage. It felt like a secret only we knew or saw. The others tune to something more boring. And today white frills caressing semi precioius gems in aquamarine morning light but like a seabird I take flight. The henna paisley now only traced, barely some indelibility of lace. Salt water washing away acne. I feel good. The sensuality like a child standing naked in a shower with a mother, grandmother, aunt or neighbour. The innocence of knowing nothing else except being perpetually cleansed, eternally precious. Creatures co habiting with the sea. Even those named Emett were not crushed underfoot but embraced with grace by all father and motherly.

  2. avatar
    andy | 18 January 2013 at 5:20 pm #

    mmmm….love your females,
    they’re very alluring…yet they always move in some sort of shimmery haze.

  3. Kraig
    Kraig | 18 January 2013 at 6:07 pm #

    Man Steve, i have to say that this is BIG TIME for you dood! Lovin’ the KK Kutz as they roll off of Pledge and i pledged a lot! I pledge allegiance to the album to the United States of KK! Cannot wait my brutha’z! Both to you and Martin…Big Cheers! For this Idyll Album thing goin’ on, much too much! Thanks for Keepin’ on Keepin’ ON!

  4. avatar
    kell | 18 January 2013 at 7:03 pm #

    Time for a cool change

  5. avatar
    Richard | 18 January 2013 at 9:44 pm #

    stuffed if can understand why you live in such a fucking hot place

  6. avatar
    hellbound heart | 27 January 2013 at 2:08 pm #

    heat delerium…..

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