continuity remained elusive in the killers life
his memory had fractured into mosaic elements
a la the white plague
or a whiter shade of plague with the bark motif
everything is connected n then everything is disconnected
grasping at straws to drink my boost juice
tuning up backstage in berlin
shooting dope in a station in stockholm
standing on a ferry between nambucca heads n kempsey
you are no continuous continual free thinking man
you are a series of snapshots on the white pages of spirit
i check into my room with my bag of cassettes
and my great big cassette player with detachable speakers
the room is quiet the air conditioner purrs
the tv offers a range of services
exec check out
weekend specials
shopping vouchers
drycleaning services
open up the fridge
kilbey takes out the toblerone chocolate
eating at it as he looks out over the city
what was it?
new genoa ….?
with its hinterland of twinkling lights
with its rivers n statues
with its audiences n its money
kilbey shoves in a cassette
david neils classic after mars
kilbey fishes thru his belongings
books n cassettes…some cds
finds his stash of primo weedo
some ultra precocious college kid had laid on him
last night in santa rubella….
he turns up david neil
“yeah…..baby….like a lover i never had…
no …maybe…when all our love turned bad….”
the echo slide took over merging into the sad strings
the cod-female voices rising in weird unisons
kilbey dropped the tob wrapper
n mimed the guitar solo in the full length mirror
turquoise jacket
turquoise boots
tight black jeans gone baggy round the knees n bum
a black velvet shirt with a frayed collar
some white thing was coming thru the collar n he liked it
bags under his eyes
he needed a shave n a years good knights sleeps
he needed a haircut and good waking up
david neil hit his falsetto crescendo
the huge 3/4 time chords descended
like bells tolling the death of a king
” and its just no good…any….more….”
the rain began outside
kilbey drifted off into a little reverie
a hundred years in the future
type ype type before a little white screen
hello out there…its kilbey here….
a pleasant fresh sea breeze blows in n birdies tweet
all the money ran out
and the ringing in the olde ears
cold feet in more ways than one
ex-ratbag on remand in the doldrums
one finger typist
up to the elbows in arms
impossibly tanned
the caucasian skin with golden little hairs
write about what you know says a voice
all i know is myself
a trillion words pour out thru that one finger
his wrist is sore
the hand feels weird
still he bangs on non
his struggles with…himself
his admiration for…himself
his memories of….himself
i am everyman i am sings david neil
i am zeus sings apollo( as played by peter kopf)
i am the audience
i am the ambience
wow
the real kilbey snaps out of his daydream
the phone rings
hello? kilbey says in a phlegmy whisper
steve …?
its noel “banga” pearson , the aussie tour manager
mate, we’re all waitin’ for ya in the car…..”
kilbey chucks his other black velvet shirt in a plastic bag
he grabs the towel out of the bathroom
turns off the light
steps out into a hushed corridor
that night the band played so well
they’d hit such heights…could things ever be the same again?
the answer was….yeah..they could be the same again
kilbey sat in a corner sipping some black label whiskey
red faced and sweaty and silent
as a parade of visitors appeared n faded
inside his ears n head the band roared on
the show was over
there was nothing left to see here
in his head
where the guitars still screamed n dived n kerranged
where the people still shrieked n whistled n stamped
where the silence rang on in stone
where a thousand heralds blew their shrill horns
and the whiskey tasted real bad
it always tasted real bad
it burnt yer throat but it warmed yer guts
it increased the fog
if you could get lost in the fog
you could leave all that noise behind