The Time Being | Steve Kilbey

yeah yeah yeah
i read the f. machine booklet
all the voices in my head disrupting my performance
theyre saying
be more dramatic
less dramatic
more gesticulation
less gesticulation
youre outta time
your voice is driving us mad
i only stumble in a few places
but im not as good as i wanted to be
and im tired of myself
after a lovely vegan meal with
the nice local vegan childs…
the killer opts for tempeh burgah
i come back n do teachers n suzanne
the mic. really stinks bad
and i have to get up close to sing suzanne
and its a foul reek of cigs coffee n meaty halitosis i guess
im used to having my own clean mic usually
and i really wanted to stay away from this awful thing
but i had to get close to sing the quiet bits…
its not all dancing on clouds…
i walk round brizzy bumping into people i know
having poetic discourses n all that
a nice gentle sunday
oh yeah
n i forgot to say
the doodles in paper yessaday flying kites
sat telegraph
go you little doodles
i’ll be a bossy hollywood dad
ripping off my kids and the bane of directors
bitching at the casting session bout the other brats
the doodles will have bulimia by their tenth birthday
and be in the gossip rags by 13
i’ll be manipulating the game from the sideline
lining my own pockets with ill gotten gain
its just the beginning
bumper can release her first single at age 3
with sexy dance routine
for the lucrative under 2 market
i maybe could get joycie in some retirement commercials
aint that what families are for….to exploit….?
get em all on the ad wagon
deduct my commission
(and girls, in case youre wondering, its formidable)
hollywood will beckon n re embrace me
i will be forgiven n absolved
and back in the charts at # 1 all over the world
for one year with painkiller
ah….
lemme have my dreams, little stranger

i will be performing again tonite
maybe with jamie h
a few songs
at closing ceremony
its free too
a free for all
oooh
i hope that mics been disinfected
yecchhh!

last night i have din dins in tibetan resto
with ty n
we both have lentil rissoles n potatoes n tomato
delicious
ty is a very groovy looking guy in a 1970s way
a big fro of dirty blonde hair
smooth skin
slim body clad in rockstar civil war denim look
everybody must know who he “is”
i see some people whispering n looking our way
ty n i have a good fucking laugh at everyones expense
but mostly our own i guess
except he keeps mentioning “that song”
i dont care if its a standard
a classic
or whatever its sposed to be
i just have nothing to add
ty mentions another song
i look sadly out at the traffic
i have as much relationship with that song
as i do with those passing cars i murmur
we watch jamie h from bluebottle k
he does his solo show
now hed been mentioning me a bit in his songwriting talk
i can see now my influence upon him
but not that he copied me
but that he could dig the implications of my schtick
(whatever it is)
and he took the ball n he ran with it
doubt seeds the double album is great
and last night his performance was top notch
wonderfully inventive guitar parts on his martin guitar
lost of weird tunings n detunings
always these multiple things happening
descending/ascending basslines
while melodies appear n go in the jingly drones
the lyrics are pretty fucking good
and you know i dont bestow praise easily
thoughtful intelligent strange
youd deffo like this guy
anyway
me n jh walk home after gig
we have a lot in common
interesting…..
up early this morning
have boost juice
buy some more funny iron on patches at the market
that make me feel hip and cutting edge
or ambiguously ironic
wonder where i’ll put me gene simmons patch…?
grant comes on ipod 3 times while im on buns-wick street
then gee nunn is wearing a mclennan t shirt
hows that?

have been walking round yon corner to ‘ave a smoke

rowan d gave me a lovely book on klimt…superb!
rowan you are a prince among men
today i read fruit m
tonight i play lenny cehon songs
teachers n suzanne
small point of interest
sisters of mercy named best of
some girls wander by mistake
is a line from teachers
the next line
into the mess that scalpels make
oooh how visceral
how prescient
how leonard
anyway
see me murder those 2 numbers tonite
judy write centre brizzo aust
and if you buy my book
i will sign your mortage
if you buy my cee dee
i will sign your star
look alive fiendss
the killer walks among you

motel room
cars drive by
brisbane stormy, rainy childe
look in the mirror
fiddle with my guitar
someone rings up
hi steve he says
someone walks around on the floor above
i practice my leonard songs
its lonely this life
must do my yoga
eat muesli n soy milk
drink grape juice
listen to ambient music
do yoga n qi gong
go to venue
do songwriting gig
yeah yeah yeah
i inhaled and i talked for an hour
songwritings this n that
i alternate between confident professor
and shy fool
i open my mouth and the words come forth
something nicely drives the machine
even if im not at the wheel
we answer some q n a
come back to motel
get an angry call from manager about “smoking” in my room
it was incense but hes pretty incensed himself
hes right…i shouldna done it
i meekly n quietly apologise
he can hear hes getting thru n he calms down
he tells me how its his living
and how the rooms should have no smell
once again hes right
i assure him there will be no more smoke of any kind
he seems satisfied and hangs up
i open all windows let this unsatisfied afternoon into my room
out there cabs cruise and kids come outta school
im not part of anything
the vertigo of my apart-ness fills me with nausea
the luxury of it all is absurd
i cant get a fix on who im supposed to be
the olde kilbey continues to crumble…
who is waiting under there ready to pop out?

a sydney footballer is in hot water cos of drugs
the guy apparently is a champion n successful player
and hes admitted to doing ecstacy regularly for a long time
….after being sprung by a copper in england
now said player is saying oh i took it cos of the pressure
oh i took it cos im bi-polar(bear)
but not
i took it cos i like it
now the hallowed halls of the rugby league(not human league)
are wringing their hands
gnashing their teeth
scratching their cauliflower ears
saying where did we go wrong?
and a whole load of other players too have been caught
and in the same week a pamphlett arrives
about getting tuff on drugs
i thought we were already tuff on drugs
but we gotta get tuffer
if we get tuffer we can stamp em out it says
although after about a hundred years of tuffness on drugs
theyre still there
jails full of drug users who are otherwise law abiding tax payers
police system stretched so they can bust drug dealers n users
courts clogged up with it
the dealers are thrivin’
the cops are bustin’
and the user being squashed in the middle
there are just as many if not more drugs out there
than when i was a kid
more expensive
more potent
more ” dangerous”
more addictive
now aint it time someone said
this war on drugs is ridiculous
you cant have a war “on” an inanimate object for a start
people obviously have some need to change conciousness
i know i do
and i know the change i “need ” is not facilitated by the things
“they” say i can have
tobacco, alcohol, barbituates, prozac etc
no i dont dig em all that much
anyway
the western govts
have
to disenfranchise certain groups
have made other drugs illegal
however i really feel
that the community is paying the price
and that finally biting the bullet
minimising harm to everyone
and establishing outlets which could sell
quality drugs at reasonable prices is the answer
the govt can tax and even own them
the products should all be tested and
manufactured or grown to whatever specifications
this would eliminate
drug dealers
if stuffs being sold for what its really worth
just like sugar or coffee or wine is
then who will pay dealers high prices
when you can get a real organic bag of
(insert drug name here) for the regular nonblackmarket price?
the end of much drugrelated breakins n theft
if the addict only has to find say 30 bucks a day
instead of 300
hes not gonna be ripping off so many car stereos
if drugs are legal the cop force is freed up
instead of busting potsmokers
they can get rapists
instead of some eccy swallowing footy player
they can catch the arms runners n the real badde guys
suddenly all those prisoners in jails can go home
jail dont sort out drug addicts!
treatment may
yoga may
religion or na may
love may
help and care if you reckon they deserve it
but jailing em is expensive uncivilised and actually making things worse
if the users know what theyre getting then fewer overdoses
if the drugs are clean and rated
it will help with diseases and damage to body
of course i realise there are many people
out there
who still say
look
i dont fucking care
i want all the druggies in jail!
have a look around at the havoc this prohibition is creating
it aint working
it aint never has
it aint never will
be as tuff as you fucking well like on drugs
it aint stopping em
people have always taken drugs
i dont actually see how its even a legal or govt matter
to tell me how i may change my consciousness
who gave em that power?
believe me one day
this paradigm will fail
as all the other stuff weve ruined goes wrong on us
with the weather n wars n mad cows n stuff i mean
theyre just gonna say
we cant afford to chase this 1950s drug persecution bullshit
anymore
its impossible
its expensive
and its achieving the exact opposite
in a hundred years
itll be legal to take drugs(again as it was pre 1900)
and
(for ecological reasons)
illegal to eat meat
thats right
vegetarianism would have more impact on the wevver
than if everybody stopped drivin’ their cars
imagine it
being left alone
to enjoy a nice mood alteration
and a nut cutlet
mmm
sks utopia

yeah kids
rocknroll
electric fucking guitars
cymbals crashing white
iggy pop all cut up
smash em with your mikestand
cmon real weird
my heads on fire
cops backstage searching my stuff
hotel elevator at 4 am
man i look dead
static airwaves
the soundcheck was all wrong
everything i heard was the opposite
the drums beating still in my brains
the atonal drone of my bones
the girl scribbled down a number
the people were lining up
the moon was like a badge on the sky
i keep forgetting the words
watch out its loaded
my room has been made up
did i imagine that
afterwards we smoke silently with ronnie someone
gettin’ introduced to a white lady
slipping down the back steps
my guitar never came off that plane
a car crash on the beltway
in the back of the limo laughing
hammer on hammer off
slide up the neck to the head
the lights dazzling again
sweat appears on his face
struggle to catch a breath
the violins are racing now
the crescendo moonlight seeping in
a waitress brings your vodka
someone hands you a mobile phone
its your interview
on the bus the roadies were playin’ 8 ball
the mix was a joke
contractually impossible
ultimately inevitable
the doctor shook his head and smiled
change strings during the slow number
the place looks empty
on in 10 minutes boys!
whats my name ive forgotten
during the intro i realise im totally totalled
im checking out but i cant ever leave
the pools heated and the reception is frosty
an intervention in the obvious moment
the nurse says im sorry mister i cant give you anymore
the guy in charge says pleased to meetcha
the taxi driver says where to?
the flight attendant says coke or booze?
the man in the suit says i dont understand
his wife says me neither
a spelling mistake on our cee dee
someone real importants coming tonite
should i bring along my stageclothes?
do i have time for a nap?
heyi need to fucking see you man…soon
oh i play in a band some nights
about 1200 bucks
almost 5oo people
undersold oversold
overdose undertone
theatre lobby w/ merch and drinks
i travelled a thousand miles to be here
thru boiling nights and freezing days
i jump at a chance
i sign a poster
i sip my wine
i do my thing
i try to open my windows
i make an excuse and leave

in the dark little shop
the door closes on the busy world
and all is quiet
admidst the rubbery gaskets and malevolent toys
oranges and pieces of coal
pictures of some long dead queen
newspaper hats and brown socks
the bric a bracs all cracks
the plants green and spidery
costumes hang over shelves of old books
peoples lives who have vanished
people who disappear into the ether
as no one notices
someones squeezing the last bit of value out
even from odds and endings
a sideboard full of dead dreams
a suit with pockets of withered hope
novels with flowing dedications
the blue ink fading to brown
pictures of the going going gone world
books about boys adventures
playing cricket and jolly well stopping smugglers
a safari in africa bagging lions
being a ruddy good sport and a brick as well
foiling a bicycle thief and swimming at ramsgate
the school bully gets his comeuppance
and dad gets a surprise thats beastly
long gone dandies in cravats poncing around in a salon
a hardly worn dress thrown away by someones daughter in law
memories for sale
watercolour memories of summer days
trips to the coast with the whole gang
we ate and we drank and we laughed
we fished in the sea and we loved in the dark
we walked through green fields with our gals
we went off to fight the enemies
we were killed in foreign places and sadly missed
we returned to bitter winters and smoke and grime
we sat round the fire and drank cups of tea
and ate cream biscuits
where have we all gone now i wonder
where are all the old gang tonight
where are our old haunts
where are our old houses
where are the sunday drives and the elevensies with friends
wheres towser the spaniel and his wagging tail
wheres dads pipe and his paper and his masonic apron
wheres mums basket weaving class and her turtle oil
wheres mums recipe book from the old country
wheres mums special christmas decorations
wheres auntie pam and uncle reggies chevrolet
wheres that family who lived next door to them
here
here they are
bit by bit
piece on piece
odds over sods
nics under nacs
lamps and mirrors and cups and saucers
a portrait of muriel watson done in oils
a pair of posh shoes polished to a tee
ha ha look at that old camera
the one that took those kodachrome over coloured photos of us
at the lagoon
in our hotel rooms
jumping in a pool
waiting for a ferry
floating on a summer pond
getting soaked in a storm
getting up before dawn to start a long drive
big sister shaking you awake in the predawn black
its time she says
and the light goes on and you blink in the brightness
dad comes in drinking a mug of tea and smoking a fag
cmon on son he says
as you realise finally
today is the big day
the first day of the holidays that will go on forever
dad says
i want to get a good start before its daylight
and your sister says
yes do hurry up
and dads got the car all warmed up outside
and mums running round checking things are all off
and all the other kids are still asleep somewhere out there
as the sun comes up gloriously
you have already reached the mountains
you sip some hot chocolate from a flask
and fall into daydreams

let me look thru the olde kilbey calendar here
hmm
poetry festival in brizzy coming up
hmmm
starts this thursday night with a party
guess i can manage that….
partying with the poets
but what is a poet
who is a poet
are you a poet if you say you are
or is it a title to be conferred?
its a funny word
poetrys funny stuff
not that popular these days
i guess song lyrics have taken poetrys place
fair enough i suppose
there almost the same thing aint they?
no not really
theyre not really the same thing at all
and being good at one
dont necessarily make you good at the other
the poet reconstitutes all available words into marvellous assemblages
poets do love to blab on about poets though
it justifies their own damaged esteem in this philistine world
lyricists got it easy
thats where the money is
and the glory
everyone loves a good song, right?
anyhow whatever babykins
im straddling the borderline at the festival
singing 2 lenny co-hen songs
a song-righting seminar
reading all of froot mashine in one go
attending parties etc
i’ll be networking with the poets
picking up new poetic vocab
and soaking up the general poetic bonhomie
but i dont like that much poetry per se
i love the greats of course
i can give them a little plug here
lautreamont
baudelaire
rimbaud
dylan thomas (fucking unbelievable)
bob calvert
jim morrison(yes!)
apollonaire
breton(for his manifestos and nadja)
antonin artaud crazy poet/visionary
shakespeare
rumi (very trendy)
jesus and buddha
their parables n sutras are spoken performance poems
homer of course an epic poet
wilfrid owens and some of the other 1st w w poets
im afraid everything comes up against my question
“is it marvellous or at least about the marvellous?”
which rules out much of the poetry out there in poetryland
of course everybody isnt after the marvellous
they never really were
the hoi polloi want the obvious and they do indeed get it
in spades
there is always a small group who do want the marvellous tho
and an even smaller group
who can actually occaisionally produce it
this is my thing
my field of expertise….
country poets
lesbian poets
funny poets
rap poets
yeah ok but no thanks
its gotta do this thing i cant define
its gotta transport me
its gotta be extra ordinary
its gotta be far out
or else why bother
if that beauty aint gonna convulse
anyway this is my narrow niche
i guess not everybody else
would by any means think im dabbling in the marvellous
the thing that most interests me
bores most others , im sure, im certain
that weird peculiar thing
that those master poets can do
they can throw you round all over the place
just with words arranged on a page
no music n voice to deliver it
no razzamatazzski
thats a real art
not many do it for me as i say
that shivery weird feeling you can get
when you read something real good
when the masters lay down their coolest word groove
there in black n white on a page
or on a screen
poetry hits your heart first
poetry you can do anything
poetry for everybody
poetry ah whos listening
can poetry ever come back?
i dunno
i dont know if its instantaneous enough for thesedays
its like croquet is to golf
is poetry to lyrics
very similar
but enormously different
one obscure n perceived as antiquated
the other a billion dollar biz
why cant poetry recapture its former position?
im sorry but i dont think poetry ever was that popular
really
i just cant see it
i think its pretty much always been pretty elitist-ish
the common man aint been quotin’ the poets of his day
i betcha
still
its worth while
poetry
i mean
the qld po fest is a blessing in an arid land
an opportunity to see if there is any marvellous stuff out there
put on a beret and smoke pot on the balcony
drink a champers and get your book signed by pierre the poet
yawn and fidget thru the boring bastards (like me….for some)
flog a copy of yer latest booklet
and talk about yer poems in hi falutin’ terms
im sure i’ll get real envious
when someone points out some boring olde boar
tediously reading out his ball numbing twaddle
and says
“he just got a grant for 200 grande to write that!”
oooh that gets me going…
govt funded poets
unless its me of course
i could be into it then
i’d churn out some poetry for em
if they paid me to do it
theyd get all my best epistles
funny how a little huge grant would lubricate my poetic-ness
how can ya pay em to write poetry….?
imagine if rimbaud was getting paid to write illuminations
some public servant overseeing the whole thing
this bits too rude
this bit doesnt make sense
this bit is un pc
this bit will upset the pope
this bit is too sketchy
still
if the minister for poetry
in queenzland or any where else
is looking for a good little poet
to bestow some whacking great grant on
then this is my submission
(is that the right word)
this is my application
just comment below
how much you have in mind
and i’ll start on new prose poem cycle
called
*my memories of the abyss and violet ray*
its brilliant da da or utter tripe, who can tell
not the guy dishing out the grants
thats for sure

had a lovely saturday night with my little one
stumbling on the bucking kitchen floor
a mist formed in my eyes and everything seemed smoky
after a shaky liftoff
i achieved cruise latitude
we drank riccadonna ruby red
and we became lost in our conversations
threading through the avenues of our thoughts
stopping in unexpected night gardens
we made out among the statues
our house expanded to contain our universe
i was telling you about my life w/bush n ghosts
i was telling you a very deep dark secretive thing
i was so lost in my words
my words like a forest
my words hemming me in
my words a grove of sentences
life sprouting everywhere
you were sitting there in the candlemoonlight
listening to me
i could see you
listening intentsly
i could see you before my smoky eyes
and if you were a little cold
and if you were a little sleepy
and if the voice coming out of me
wasnt hipp-know-tizing us slowly
yes i told you about the pictures
yes i told you of my long lost youth
yes i told you about youthful predilections
about the flat in canberra where i lived
when i right and then left home
where slept in my room in wonder
where joe and i smoked homegrown weed
and my head exploded in achingly slow motion
and we listened to some prog record and i saw gawd
and my hands floated up to the ceiling like lianas
i was scared to close my eyes
it was all rushing backwards in my head
towards some point in the distance, fr’instance
and girls who came over there
and the songs i wrote on a one stringed guitar
talking thinking rambling in a strangers soft voice
i was telling you about my weird scenes and my dark thoughts
i could tell you werent judging me though
i could see you were enjoying my midnite confession
i could see my winged words were hitting home
i could feel them bouncing down in your recall
in one ear and out the other
my words were slipping into you
and slipping out of you again
coming out all mixed up and changed
and i said listen
as i wove this web of words
as i weave thru the traffic in my spine
as i wake up that nasty serpent
as i make another fire
there is another world out there
a world of easy pleasure
a world with no outsides
a world of our own
the neighbours come home and bang around
but theyre a million moonlit miles away
in my room i am king jester and slave
in my room i am the whole of the law
in my room with the candles all flickering with little haloes
in my room with my riccadonna ruby
which i sip cautiously
in my room with my suitcase and guitar
in my room with the wine stain on the carpet
in my room with a little high window
one thing ive learnt is how to have a good time
one thing more is how good times suddenly evaporate
one other thing is the mundane doldrums that plague me
let me be in my heads pace
let me run my course
like a river in flood
like a highway that shoots thru your town
like a missile entering enemy airspace
like a hatchet job on an axe hero
like when they hang the wrong man
like christmas on the easter islands
more than that cannot be said
more than that is wasteful
more than that could make you behave irresponsibly
as the ice melts down in the tray
as you insinuate yourself towards me
as you do
as you alight on a chair
as you spin out of control
as you are ever ready
and sleep comes on so gradually
you cant tell whats happening anymore
its all immaterial
a moot point
a shibboleth
a bridge from nowhere to nowhere
a spoonful
a footprint in the concrete
a night locked in the zoo
we face the beasts and animals
they say
we thought you were the animals
they say
dont watch us so rudely
they say
you are incapable of understanding us
now i drift off my baby
my companion
now i drift off to my own world
even you cant come in here ordinarily
but tonight
you can take shelter in the warm cavern of slumber
shrug off your weary things
its deep and pleasant
we’ll swim into it together
only to be parted
by sleeps sweet oblivion

to plan it
or let it all happen
to figure it out
or suss it in a flash
what would someone else have done
art
music
life
which one
make your move
be yourself
it suits you better
think faster
slap it on
take it away
erase it
trace it
follow it wherever it may lead
add stuff later
fix it up soon
throwaway idea
the magnum opus ,day-eye
the mastah peace
the statement of intent
knock em out, boyo
serve it up hot
make it look easy
take anything from anywhere
plunder the past
anticipate the future
open the present
say something worth saying
not too obvious
not too devious
not to even mention pretention
blog in a fog
note in a coat
cmon you take over here for me
hold this world on yer shoulders, soldier
bear the brunt, you runt
back and front
gather and hunt
a garden of verse is growing wild
metaphor flowers blooming in lake poignant drive
an overgrown temple of song
samson pushed at those columns
samson in the columns looking for a profit
samson …says delilah
why dontcha let me cut yer hair, you big strong man?
and samsons locks come undone
half the man he was
his lovely black tresses on the pillow as he slept
snip snip snip my love
oh i bring you my scissors to trim and shape
now you weak brute
unmanned with a little haircut
they chain him to the columns and laugh
and delilah what did you get from your betrayal?
gold?
position?
revenge?
oh its too late
baby
its too late
your ex is bringing down the house
oh whatta surprise
down on him self
the whole biblical night comes down
on him n her
and all the other cats
who happened to be there
anyway
here
its saturday arvo
glenny will cut my hair
i am already weak
so no fear there
i will dedicate this saturday night to all the people out there
cheers
kilbey imbibes
drops trip
lights bone
doffs garments
lights candles
lies back on bed
feeling warm sea breezes
inviting more proems
into this foggy world