i remember waiting waiting waiting
in swedish graveyards
and in the cracks of the city
buying time
while i worked on the lyrics for kings
how white it looked on the black piano
how dark it looked against the stainless steel
marty said watch out!
as i swerved
the snowflakes were fluttering down in the headlights
i was hypnotized behind the wheel
driving all over the road and thru the dales and dells
in my room alone finally
it turned transparent and then swirling red
and then gone gone gone
up into heart and into my brains
a pleasant sickly swipe sideways
the phone rings
someone says something
the music is so loud
i dont hear anything
knock at the door
but this room doesnt have a door
i check my biography for the details
producing a record for some ingratiate
i pull a gun out of its box and overdub some shots
some woman sings something
but i’m already drifting away
grant comes over and gets out his guitar
the velvet in the case is plush and crimson
grant lights a cigarette and grimaces as he pulls in
he blows it out the side of his mouth
oh steven he says
a lift creaks and the doors swing open
sometimes its up to the rooftop pool
sometimes its room # 23
where jason n rhonda live
jason died so long ago
rhonda went so mad
she wrote down her name cos she couldnt remember it
rhonda goes upstairs to weigh up my half
jason sits downstairs smoking n watching tv
whats she fucking doing up there…i ask
take it easy mate …he says….
we arrive at the gig
ive pawned my guitar so i just sing with my hands and voice
my voice coughs out elastic sentences
and my hands arrange it for music
theres hardly anyone here anyway
i clutch my little bag in my change pocket
it reassures me in a voice like snow
some people hear it and ask for more
i let my little snow voiced friend out
and we sing a croaky olde song together
someone applauds as a laugh
and i bow down while my friend curtseys
grant sits by the window sipping a red wine
i join him
the traffic drives up bourke street
i nibble at the peanuts
marty packs up his guitar and chats to the punters
in the desert its still snowing
we park by the sea
and the girls say
we want to have a walk
when they get out
i undo my package and i taste it with my eyes tongue
i apply it liberally to my aching muscles and troubled mind
the radio comes on of its own accord
and the years slip by like a night thru butter
im looking in my swedish dictionary for a word
keep your eye on the road says a voice in another room
i swerve narrowly avoiding a wide berth
i count the money i have left
i convert it into anxious kronor
marty says go on…here take this
he hands me the wheel and the deal
i’m working on the words for feel
i get locked in my apt so i cant get out
some spanish guy slings something thru the window
i push the kronor under the door
i’m standing there looking in the mirror
why this self obsession i ask myself
i watch as my flowers fade and my pupils shrink
i lie in the bath and twitch restlessly
my erstwhile friend ben the famous actor comes over
got anything? he asks
no…but come in… i say
he wrinkles up his nose
no thanks …he says
the tv comes back on
i watch a space opera while i wait wait wait
anxiety sits down next to me
changing the channels rapidly
i see 2 guys driving along on a dark night
flying thru the outer suburbs of some northern town
one guy jumps out
and the other drives down to T -centralen
at the station i see a face i know
the face grins and nods at me
the face opens its mouth
and for a split second it reveals many small capsules
all wrapped in plastic
i push a thousand kronor into the faces hand
and it grins and spits 2 of the capsules into my glove
it must be narnia cos its always winter
i stagger down to the train
my apt is still dark when i get in
a slender figure is lying on the sofa
it gets up and turns on the light
a young swedish guy looking pale and miserable
did you find anything?
he smiles wanly as he chops out a line
with his rikesbanken card
he snorts it up his nose
and moistens his finger and dabs up the rest
putting it on his tongue
martin stuffs some snuff into his mouth
do you want to hear biosphere? he asks
i lie back in my phony euphoria
who can tell what the time is in all this darkness
in australia in surry hills its christmas day and its hot
a sorry bunch assembles to play cards and take smack
i stumble down the hot street to buy a pastry
my bank account is starving hungry
i shovel in a decent cheque
but the lemur on my shoulder is eating it all up
i go back to albion street
i look at the lights all twinkling in my studio
i see the dull gleam of my guitars
i listen to a playback of the same old song
people drop in
people go out
i remain stuck
stuck thru the heart on a sharp string
i call jason n rhonda
yeah mate…says jason…you wanna come on over?
down to their place just behind crown street
a sandstone terrace painted a nauseating light green
its a hot day
jason opens the door shirtless
the inevitable smoke in his mouth
their place is covered in cobwebs
all this old junk in the darkness of this old terrace
covered in cobwebs
jason sits in his big old chair watching tv in the darkness
what are ya after mate…he asks sleepily
as some old recoloured movie from the 40s plays
american kids in canoes with lanterns
a long way from surry hills 1993 or 94 or 91 or when was it..
i feel so lonely
everyones gone away in the end
i chuck six khaki 50s at him
jason yells out to the ceiling
hey rhon can you get a g for steve…?
i stare at the cobwebs and old pictures of rhonda
a long time ago in another life she went to school
she was an athlete and she had a mum n dad
the gear has changed her
a gear shift
methadone the great leveller
downers for the gaps
sweet food
stay inside
cant remember anything
not even my name
oh look i wrote it down on some paper
its…..nevets yeblik