a  flat day in 2D

the debris in alleys

the sick cats the old dogs

bits of paper bits of rope

i move along under a grey urban sky

tired and careworn

hoping for something good

hoping for something nice

now drugs are out of the equation

no sudden infusion of enthusiasm

i stuck with myself

i stuck here in this head

aerials antennae boston ferns rusty wheels broken bottles

stones rocks sticks weeds ever my kingdom of busted stuff

chasing fame running from blame

drink a coffee which amps up my metaphysical torpor

things gone wrong

just wanna walk away

just wanna run away

jump in that falcon n cruise for a million miles

leave kilbey behind somewhere in a b+b place

kilbey who said this n did that

kilbey with his sore throat and cold feet

it starts to rain again

you can hear it over the acoustic guitar overdubs

you can hear it over the starlings mournful call

you can hear it over the sad bewildered kids

you can hear it over the wind in the empty vodka bottles

you can hear it over the lines and the wires

somewhere is life

life somewhere else

somewhere my friends in the sun talkin’ about me

somewhere the to n fro of summer in sweden

the deep cold lakes

the choking reeds

elli n minna in the country

karin in the kitchen making cloudberry cordial

her blonde hair imperceptibly turning to grey

her swedish skin turning so brown in that gentle sun

the huge mosquitoes find a way into the guest house

the slow worms in the grass slither soundlessly

night never arrives only a brief twilight

i long to escape this electro-radiation hell

the roar of impatient traffic

the twitch of the lights

the consumers n their consumption

the shops n all their junk …where does it all come from…?

dont park

dont stop

no standing

no loitering no littering (yeah sure !)

no news is good news

no hope no point beyond this alcohol

no passing

no dice

we must accept these heavy hopeless days

we must struggle on thru this obstacle course

we must endure brickbats n bouquets

we must learn to take the good with the bad

perspective, please

i am alive

i am not in jail or hospital

i am not a slave

i am a stranger tho’

stranger in my own skin

this is a poem not a complaint

i locate n cement my melancholia

i remain in the feeling

i think of a million things

who am i?

who am i frinstance

if you cut off my ego and my personalities….what is left…?

if you take away the music and the freckles n the wispy  hair

if you take away the harsh tongue and the grey blue eyes

if you take away the past if you take away my imagination

where is me?

who really knows me n not just an idea we /i concocted….?

i been in show biz long enough to know its all just a performance

singing dancing sleeping fucking getting old

all an act

pull on my face from the ancient gallery

“its showtime!”

manipulation of fields of data

combining n recombining possibilities

working your seam

mining your mind

everything reacts accordingly

people say they love ya

people say they hate ya

billy at pool says

“steve only one person you can trust is yer mother…but yer father cant….”

spend my day sorting thru bits of sage advice

spend my day like money n then its gone

coffee wakes me up but gives me the jitters

i eat a tasty little strawberry cake n it makes me feel a bit sick

everything makes me sick

life love food drink going on stage

my skin is so thin

beneath the surface viscera carries electrical chemical messages

organs i dont even know i have pump n squeeze n bulge and contract

my head feverish my feet cold

my vestige of a tail aches

my muscles my tendons my bones full of marrow

i want to examine everything

i want to take it all apart see how far it can be taken

i want to write a million words that will not make sense until i’m dead

i want to rail against the senselessness

i want rage against the impotence of humanity

humanity needs some cosmic viagra to finally get it up

is this the best we could come up with…..?!

my laptop burns my thighs

my thoughts bore my brain

try getting a real job like working in a shoe shop

try getting a real job like selling insurance

try getting a real job like sitting in a cubicle moseying thru facebook when boss aint looking

try getting a real job like singing in a rocknroll band

or being an undertaker or a bankrobber or gravedigger

or a tinker tailor soldier sailor

silk satin cotton rag

my intelligence has imploded

it spits random facts dates numbers axioms aphorisms

i enter a place called discontent

all the connections have gone haywire

all the wrong voices speaking to each other

the drums are playing the piano

the painter is delivering the baby

the poet is working out my tax brakes

the lyricist is talking to the coppers

the young boy  in an old mans pants

the woman is interpenetrating the man

the past is remembering the future

the crooked is impinging on the straight

the child is minding the father

its all mixed up

i see sounds

the abstract in the concrete

a battle hymn for a new republic

the wearer of the serpent diadem who tramples down the westerners

the islands the dominions that lay at the edges of the known worlds

the visitors among us

the underlings the overseers

the computer starts to type on its  own

it spews out its own rant

vomiting out weather n sport n recent google n tits n ass n text edit n skypes with unclean spirits

i must stop now

i must let it all go