The Time Being | Steve Kilbey

3 commenters walk into the magic realists bar
the magic realist is behind the bar pulling phantasma gorikle drinks
the magic realist dripping words
in his minds nest hes hatching plots
they emerge barely inklings
growing on what he feeds them
bits of conversation
snatches of songs
paintings
dialogue from shakespeare
borges and neruda
cartoons and reveries
oh lovely little fat ideas they become
before leaving the mindnest to become storys
fully fledged storys flying about
the first commenter is a sychophantic yesman
oh esteban he says to the magic realist
oh i dig your stuff
(of course all this is in spanish, in fact
last night i met cecilia cee on a mistral plane
and she has kindly pre-translated the spanish
into this approximate inglish)
yeah ? says the magic realist
then drink this
the first drinks the drink
mmmm tastes like …
suddenly
he sees
the absurdity of the magic realists work
useless informationless waste of fucking time he mutters
poetry! he spits
why did i read your books?
i learnt nothing
i gained nothing
and all his envy scorn and bile erupt like lava
he drains the drink and stamps off
next comes the second commenter
hes a mix of wag and idiot and philistine and “straight”
(los ” straightos”)
hey he says rudely to the magic realist
gimme a fuckin’ drink
and by the way
your books are schlock and rubbish
ok senor says the magic realist
please drink this lovely beverage
the second commenter sips his brew
mmmm tastes like…
suddenly he sees the wonder
suddenly he sees the sheer wonder
the brilliant elusive genius
the diffused plots
the archaic and arcane words
that such a writer who writes for love
not for fear or favour
a writer who deep beneath that artificial veneer
is swimming through life with an open mind
catching everything
for his stories
and hes dazzled by this hitherto unseen light
he stumbles out in a daze
the third commenter neither loves
nor loathes the magic realist
he reads and thinks
he understands some
he empathizes with some
he sympathizes with some
he agrees with some
he disagrees with some
he makes pithy interesting comments
and he pisses off without wearing out his welcome
here says the magic realist
take this
he hands him a gram of angelfruit
no thanks says the third commenter
im still surfing the net
the magic realist nods
a customer is waving to him
the customer has three hands
he talks in pink words which come out of his mouth like ballooons
hes drinking liquid hydrogen with fairy bomb chasers
hes six feet two feet half an inch by inch
hes green with blue pointilistic pixels
the magic realist sighs
all in a days work he says
all in a days work

the day after erskine died
daddy ganymedes and roland vocoder
were loitering with intent to loiter
the missiles aimed at the west were gently humming
the endless day of man was ending
the evening would bring bats and gliding rodents
the vegetation was poised to breakthrough
the moon seemed impossibly large
the magic realist was writing a book
in his book
he resurrects erskine from the dead
and has him upon some weird adventures
spooky stuff best half forgotten
some fucked up olde wizard
a recreational necromancer
some beachside shaman with gold top mojo
some washed up bottled up energetic calamity
erskine in buenos aires and montevideo and sao paulo
oh erskine snort that pure 5 buck a gram coke
oh erskine sort out the orphans surrounding you everywhere
oh erskine visit ipanema and see the lovely girls
oh erskine fall in love with an incan princess
oh erskine lost in the andes 5 miles high
oh erskine meet the magic realist in his garden apartment
hes writing it all down
hes getting it all down
attended by five young graces
his lemurian crystal in a pocket over his heart
his melodic voice he speaks perfect english
conesuela cooking in the kitchen
cooking up a storm
the magic realist such a host of hosts
offers you tapas erskine
offers you wine
offers you time
offers you a line
and another line on the next page
when people read about you in spanish
when people see your handsome face in print
do i really have to die erskine asks
and daddy ganymedes laughed out loud
englishman he said
are you fuckinga kidding me?
and roland vocoder said ahh……..
and the magic realist who was writing this story
looked up at his characters in wonder
for truly they were there in magic reality
and the wind blew
and the apartment was filled with the scent of jasmine
and all tiny things jingled in their places
the frogmask licked its lips
oh horror the frog has sharp white little teeth
erskine reaches up to touch it
and the amphibious monstrosity bites
you fool says the magic realist
conesuela come here he calls
conesuela the most beautiful woman on earth
blonde haired darkskinned browneyed
a palomino of a woman
her breasts are shaped like abundance
her mouth is generous
her waist is curved like an expensive guitar
her teeth are ivory oblongs gleaming
her eyes are the history of love
her hands are like graceful herons
her ears are tiny and faerylike
her forehead is slightly frowning
her eyes are slightly narrowed
her neck is graceful long swanlike
her shoulders are straight
her thighs are voluptuous
her calves are milkfed
her ankles are slender and tenderly arrayed
her feet are brown and broad
her toenails are bloodred
her stomach is flat like a great plain
her ribs encage her beating heart
her mind is quiet
her mind is deep
it remembers for thousand years
it remembers in and out of lifes lives
its constant
continual
content
her voice is soft husky
her words are well chosen
her winged words fly into any hearts now
her mornings in the ocean
her mornings in the oceans bed
her tea she sips in mint condition
she bathes in a lagoon with the fish
she gently handles the curious snakes
she touches them so gently so humanly
she touches the snakes with their patterns
she lets them smell her skin
she submits to their trespasses
she rolls over in black satin water
down by the holiday houses quiet in this season
she holds her breath
and spits out the surrounding sea
she is there right now
go there
go to her
go erskine
go magic realist
go the cats
go the rats
go the mountains
go the sun and moon
go to her
go to her
now

a magic realist must have a fertile imagination, si?
a south american magic realist where things are more unreal
really unreal
magically real
the musical rain sings the ancestral songs
water slides down the window invisible yet seen
the rain on the glass silver like argentina
oh the garden in the deluge
heads of flowers droopy and plop plop plop
splishy splash in the pond
salamanders writhing in joy under the domelike bubbles
thunder cracks the sky like a faltering bridge
reality opens itself
the smell of tin
the sensation of numbness
the feeling of calm resolve
the meaning of it all
the transformation of mundanity to insanity
bang!
just like that
roman elegiac strains fill the air
a whiff of ozone
a flash of sulphorous lightning
the pain of remembering all the stupid things
lovelorn sunny days in stillness
meaningless adventures in the flesh
the realist confronts the magician
the shadow meets the light
the fire meets the ice
the spirit must wrestle with the beast
magic realist both spirit and beast
magic of reconciliation
let the spirit ride the savage beast
the great beast
the dumb beast
the magic realist is connected to everything in sight
he feels the fledgling struggle within the shell
sudden movement within the chrysalis
widows terrible tears softly fall on pillows
he hears all
he watches the lines deepen on beloved faces
he sees the triumphant dawn blaze over white cliffs
he imagines the atmosphereans in their lofty eyries
he tingles as the hyperborean winds begin
the magic realist observes the blooming stones primitive moves
planets out in deep space have their pull on him
the magnets align
the poles are moving
the action has barely begun
the spirit names the beast
mercury
the beast names the spirit
adonai
the universe watches on in case
the magic realist fuses fact and fiction
he lives his love in his life
his lofty principles often slide into inchoate anger
he hurls himself about crushing velvet evening
dressed in midnight blue
he walks down by the sea in summer
where (a) little magic is needed
in the black n white night and marine light
the taverns and the bars
women called scarlet dance in crimson dresses
and the music is romantic and sad, hombre
and the castanets clacketty clack clack clack
and the guitars only play minor tiny songs
admidst the smoke and beer
amidst the sweat and the noise
out into the open air again
burst into moonlight by the train station
come down the stairs to the rolling tracks
all the debris calls out
broken champagne bottles whine
burnt bits of newspaper and an old syringe
whispering used tickets flap uselessly
a bottle top squashed looks like a gold coin
sombre sounds of huge wheels turn round
travel away as the night bends and refracts
the tracks like castanets clack and clack
monkeys in trees in the rain scream past
in treetop canopies they never leave
as train blindly hurtles itself
in a compartment
some beautiful stranger
she mysteriously is in love with the magic realist
she removes her clothing in the mirror only
she lays down with him but shes on another train
she kisses him without any touch or intent
she caresses him handlessly
she loves him without her body or mind
her spirit mounts his beast
the tracks go clack clack ricketty rack
the carriage shudders as it rushes on steel
the lightning goes flashhhhhh
the thunder goes booommm
the story stops here

the magic realist is on to you
his garden is livid vegetable hell
his bricks have tiny mouths that scream
his drive follows 2 paths
on empty days like this hes listening in
his fabulous tanks of hidden fish
his guestroom with the 3 way mirror
his alley barber trimming the pleasant weeds
his dominion over worms
his magisterial calculations made on the fly
on forgotten afternoons like this hes watching
his eyes seeing seeing seeing
his eyes like old coals
his fingers which transform
his chair at the laid table
his signature tune
and a blown out candle

hot dry wind blows through the magic realists house
streamers stream out
the blinds rattle and clack
plants bob and weave
oh how he longs for some dark still room
never never to wake up
in this blasted light
to this blasted truth
what soft music shall accompany him there
wherever the journey make take him
frogmask snaps on the wall
snapping at the turbulent air
the glass trembles within old windows
sudden overpowering uselessness
monsters from the haze appear like white lights
pointless struggle all those years
theyll eat him yet

the doodles have turned 8
a lucky man i am
my wealth in children
aurora jk and eve sk
my oh my you make your daddy proud
oh theyre so….well built people say
well made
robust
very kind kids too
unlike me
i was not a kind kid
but the doodles
aw shucks
that most tedious thing
a father gushing over his kids
god i love them
god thank you
russell was a kind kid
john too
oh he was ultra-nice
but me…?
i was like a little loki
in the bosom of our extended family
i broke up an engagement once
my cousin brian
engaged to a lady with a large nose
cmon i was 5 or 6
gee though
when i said
cor lady, you aint ‘alf gotta big nose
well
all hell broke loose
the lady was nasally overample as they might say today
soon after the engagement was off
she felt all his rellies thought she had a big nose
just cos this one little evil illmannered sod
had blurted out the inevitable truth
as plain as the nose on…..
well i know you can smell a cliche a mile away
anyway i guess she packed her trunk (geddit) and nicked off
oh i have to work so hard to even be civil
let alone nice
i think johnny winston o’boogie had the same problem
see him in those beatles movies
he liked to shake up the status quo a little
he was cranky and bitter and ranting and rambling too
course he practically invented rock music though
and i didnt
i just carried on in his foot steppes
and even lesser luminaries follow in my wake
so gee itd be nice to be nice
what is it in me that is just waiting to get out of its cage
baby you know its what gives me my fucking edge
thats what the others lack
a good edge
dylan gotta edge
lennon
bowie…ooh watch out
i bet he was a doozy in his day
specially after a line or 2
neils got the edge
unlike those other 3 in csny
pattis got the edge
mick n keith loads of edge
elton john no edge whatsoever
justin timberlake utterly edgeless
kate bush edge
tori crazy but edge
u2 they have the edge but not an edge (imhfo)
rem so unbelievably edgeless
deadwood hooo loads and loads of nasty edge
although thats a tv show of course
wow as im writing this
i realise how important this edge thing is
andre breton
rimbaud
dylan t
dali
klimt
van gogh
they all got edge
can you define edge?
i’ll give ya its negatives
namby pamby mundane schmaltzy insincere tedious
syrupy conservative “straight”
edge is living it
edge is refusing to listen
edge is first hand field experience
eg dont preach about derangement of the senses
unless you have deranged your own
ha ha
youd be surprised how many rabble rousing journalists
are incendiary in print only
in real life they turn out to be portly and cowardly
i suppose then edge is, to me, belief
belief in the value of some intangible feeling
and that feeling and its transmission
give you some kinda energy
more energy than money or food or even drugs
because moneydrugsfood can fuck your edge and energy
eg marc bolan who i idolised
in a couple of years he was so awful
and so edgeless
he didnt even know himself!
if you want a sobering experience
listen to
a beard of stars
made in 69/70
listen to that attention to detail
listen how bolans gone out of his way
to create a crazy detailed mixture
of medieval fantasy and rocknroll
each word beautifully enunciated
each word carefully chosen in its place
a wonderful english poet
ah his strange and lovely voice
the way a faun would sing and play a les paul
exquisite wah wah
a wah wah speaking liquid volumes of love
familiar instruments but put together to produce this
something from another world
another time
what? my friends from school would say
is he singing in old english or something?
yes bolans a bit shakespeare
a puck or an ariel maybe
anyhow when he did this he had edge
not macho edge now mister
no no
marc was the edge of a fantastic dandy
a wide eyed ladykiller
a bopping elf
a mere 3 years later
bolan
done over by money food drugs
had lost it
the edge was blunted flat chat
listen to anything after slider if you can
a couple of singles ok
then
(sound of something melting into a turgid puddle)
funny how things erode people
like the weather erodes mountains
you stand there in time
things rush past you
come into contact with you
rub over you
hit you
soak into you
take chunks out of you
scratch you up
and dent you
fame ooh thats a coarse element in human erosion
look what it did to el vis
he was a nice guy
but fame had done his head in
and food
and drugs
marilyn too
and britney
and belushi
and poor fuckin’ jimbo
who had more edge than ive had toasted tomato sandwiches
iggy pop a cat with edge
steve tyler too in a showbiz way
sigur ros
king crimson
hawkwind
i guess all my faves had or got some kinda edge
people i dont really like with edge too
rappers and metals
not the edge i like tho
too much aggression is like too much docility
both are tedious
an artist must provide light and dark within his own work
the comparison must be able to be made within
i dont want 100 % of just one quality
unless its strangeness
unless its euphoria
unless its delight and joy and bliss
ok i’ll take them in lieu of variety
otherwise
some turkey bawling in my face bores me
i get tired of all that shouting
all that purposeless intensity
gimme some opposites!
amen

the finely tuned mechanisms revolve into the night
the spokes and flywheels
the teeth and cogs
the clockworked facets jump every second
the tappets ping slightly
the needles move indicating pressures
gauges light up on panels
levers move
gears mesh
power harnessed
the fuel burns deep in the motor
an enclosed furnace inside each six hearts
curved surface reduced for friction
heat sensing eyes
arrowhead sourced with motionless ride
resilient frame fortified with gold studs
elusive tangential manoeuvre
protective second skin
galaxy approved armour pierce
pre sanctions silk filters
individual wing spun aerilong type
propulsion device sk ttb 13
optional oscillation pedal
the left behind scream of acceleration
minimum time wobble
maximum distance crunch
ether connexions available
caution contains small sparks
do not drowse whilst operating
do not use in firestorm or tornado
not suitable for insane persons
please dispose of thoughtfully
do not dry clean
enter 15 digit future pin
if you answered yes to any question go to next week
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codeine lumps, starboard buckets, adamantine skellington, tolteca memory strips
damiana drops, lukey muffler, head machines from pure recycled metalflesh
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indica bomb technology provided by the penta gone @ warboys.com
executive producer karl marx
executive producers r.plantagenet and samson and goliath
produced by the ttb on location nth bondi astralia
executive producer jack a lantin
executive producer gal a vantin
spatial co ordination mem
directed by nevets yeblik for the muse corp pty ltd inc
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this has been a ree presentation
XXLCCMM

with almost 700,000 read
altho slipping slowly but surely down blogger chart
hovering in nineties as we speak (sigh)
seven hundred and fiftieth post
now with rsi and worse eyesight
back pain
from typing away
rabbiting on with my carryon here
all this tender venom
injecting it into the ethernet
blogge a burden for my own back
spend so much time herein
endure the extremes of adulation and loathing
monster blogge swallowing me alive
i have become a walking fiction
in my old haunts
a stranger to myself
introduced by a friend at a party
playing solitaire
listening to my solo album alone
so low as it can go
slowly it goes
unravelling like a bolero
i write this and that
reader beware
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meanwhile hurly burly has been bought
it will be set in modern day california
leonardo will play the young brad pitt
as a killes himself
apollo go go go
nimbin is changed to the haight district
king astral are now called sausage and played by linkin parc
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terri by the olsen twins friend miss dizzy
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it all , my friends
it all
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cooler than yesterday
never again
and i thought
and i thought
and i thought
things would change
we come back or out
a hundred years goneby
yeah you know what i’m saying
things pile up
one on top of another
the other on top of the other
accumulation of layers
nothing will ever be simple
nothing is simple
how can it be
seeing the interconnection
no separation if you want it
i read the americans went back and meddled in the past
already
its at least possible
nothings simple
everythings possible
the implications are enormous
are you excited
dont tell me you couldnt think of anything to do
i see a big billboard near my mothers place
puppetry of the penis …tonight
at the local club
some wild and innovative cat
was sitting round playing with himself
oh he aint happy with that
hes doing tricks with his john thomas
he can turn it inside outside like a mushroom
imitate bulldogs and tomcats
and stretch it out and shrinkle it all up
hell his balls are part of the act too
what i’m saying is
initiative
innovation
a bold daring original idea
these potp guys are pulling full houses
all over the mondo baybee
a guy had the ingenious idea
without needing to spend any money
or get any equipment
nor lessons
nor any real talent thats ever been recognized before i guess
but pure originality
my whatnot will be a comedy act
i will expose my whatnot
pull it about
stick it between my legs
all that stuff
you saw kids at school do i suppose sometimes
and now hes bestriding stages in paris rome munich
and newcastle
why is he a millionaire
and all you other guys with cocks broke?
cos he thought of it
i imagine he was entertaining his missus one night
saying
look kylie, its a frilly collared gibbon
and she laughed and laughed saying
you should be onstage, dick
a little light goes on
the future beckons
money lubricates your ascendancy
one blindingly original idea
just that
and youre on yer merry way

when its over
when its all over
walk to houses
in darknesses
your skin is shivery
shuddering slightly
as neurons and nerves still fizz and pop
trees black shapes in warm night
girl in dreamy mood
you try to talk
what was it you said
did it make any sense
suddenly back in the world of sense
no longer sensual or sensuous or
empire of the senses
just sense
a name
a number
a number of names
names of numbers
the mundane world was waiting
but i reentered it from another angle
i had been a seer
and i had seen
i had penetrated some of earths mystery
but what was it now you thought about it
so much uncontainable with words
much of a muchness you might say
all too much indeed
hard to tell what happened as it happens
im having a shower terri says as she wanders away
you walk into town and buy some fanta
unbelievably you meet 2 guys you know from canberra
staying in a big house a few miles away in the night
room for me ? you say
yeah they say
and you climb in the back of their panel van
stretch out on the mattress in the back
they never even wake you up when they arrive
you go on sleeping until morning
climb out
its the next day
as per usual
the festival begins
bands come on
some amazingly good
some amazingly fucking bad
its loud and hot
your sunburnt and your ears hurt
you buy your first ever veggie burger
ah its delicious
down at the creek the people are bathing naked
steven you got an eyefull
your friends from canberra getting eyefull as well
people tripping and naked women
music jamming the frequencies
yeah offer the cops some flowers
smoking cigarettes with strangers
tully or some one
or tamam shud
or khavas jute
which was it
oh they were real real good
the music was picking up from mushrooms echoes
the music at this volume with all these people
the music with guitars spiralling upwards like a galaxy
the music pounding out the beat
all the players blond longhaired jesus like that
the bass guitar so fat and juicy exploding in your abdomen
like a lovely kick in the minds guts
the bass guitar pumping and rolling
the bass guitar travelling so low just above the ground
the bass guitar like a rubber punch in the head
the bass guitar like a brutal bastard
the bass guitar pummels you into next week
the bass guitar oh yeah
wow doesnt that make up your mind
toby twirl in the boiling crowd
wow hes wasted i guess
king astral come on
theyre ok
theyre pretty good
theyre alright
terrys good though
terry looks like apollo up there
his white precision
his bare feet
the wind lifts hair like a halo around him
he stares out skywards
like hes communicating with zeus
i like the music
but not the singer
hes a bit of a shouter
macho moves too
of course
it turns out
he is terris boyfriend
everything is strange
you see them together
how do you feel
sick
why dwell on it
you could have made a mountain out of it
you hopped in back of mates panel van with 2 other guys
you drove away
back down the coast
smoke cigarettes
drink flavoured milk
eat chips and toasted tomato sandwich
dropped off at terris house
where blue car waits patiently
a gentle melancholy has set in
the elation has ebbed away
the rain is falling like it was only a few nights ago here
same rain
same night
no terry
or terri
just you
the mazda starts up with a cough and a jerk
radio playing if not for you
a sweet stab in your heart
it reminds you of them
and that eternity ago
when you were on the road to nimbin
only a matter of days
the pebbles crunch underfoot
the lawn is lush
a man comes out of the gate
looks at me as i drive off
the father i suppose
he certainly looked like it
there absence is an ache to me
i miss them
im so lonely and lonesome and alone
i drive south towards sydney
some people there maybe i could stayanight
sydney with his lights and noise
i want to drown my loneliness amongst its crowds
i’ll go to bondi and eat chips and body surf
i’ll think of terry and terri constantly
i’ll feel like i’m grieving and leaving and temporary
i’ll watch telly and have a cup of tea
i’ll have a proper shower
and a lie down
i’ll walk down hall street at night
see my reflections in the windows
hear music in my head
feel better
soon