The Time Being | Steve Kilbey

then one of his followers
the gentle bon bon
said
dear mangy panther
tell us about happiness
tell us when you were the happiest in your life…?
at that
white hippy moses fell silent
and his gaze was distant
and the followers waited for his reply
finally he turned
and his olde face was filled with tranquil joy
and the women sighed to see him so
and the men looked at each other
and said
it is good….
in his sonorous voice
the prophet margin spoke
then let me tell you of my childhood
let me tell you of my kind mother
let me tell you about my patient generous father
and my 2 pleasant brothers
and times spent in peaceful lands
how i was never hungry or lonely
how my parents did their best to spare me from lifes cruel barbs
how we had many visitors in our humble abode
and how my father entertained with music n laughter
while my mother graciously prepared and served the food
and how
in those times long gone by
the children would wander further
unafraid of villains or kidnappers…
“for who would kidnap urchins like us
in these golden prosperous times..?”
and he spoke of swimming in lagoons n sea pools
in river mouths and on hotel rooftops
of the white sands of his adopted land
and the rockpools containing entire universes
and holidays in the glorious sun
palm trees and sea breezes
coffee shacks and red sunsets
the cane fields and the storms
the rain the park and other things
childhoods daze
unable to tell real from dream
astral travelling so easily out n gone
over wollongong n port kembla
vividly walking abroad as only spirit
oh the rich worlds only imagination allows us to enter
heroes gods monsters
all are real
always attracted by the strange
always attracted by the weird n eldritch
his imagination became inextricably intertwined with his mind
until i lived half within my own world at all times…
the olde marster stopped and looked around
i still do…..he said
at this there was laughter from his followers
although judas the wag was slinking off to try to betray him
selling him out to the “straights” for 30 cheap laffs
in an internet cafe in sheffield
bon bon was pleased with his answer
and he ventured a second…
the obvious question,
oh aphid in the roses, is this:
when were you most truly sad?
and the olde foole but still coole
answered thus:
the gear my friends
oh thou shalt beware the gear
for the gear is your enemy and will bring you undone
thou shalt not fuck with the gear!
and the mangy panther hissed and spat in disgust!
and his mother came out from the crowd
with her new improved knee
and she pacified her son
saying to the crowd
“cant you see my son needs to rest….?”
and his friend davem said master blaster
there is a large gathering here…
yet i have only 5 rediburgers with me
the saint who is no saint
took the burgers from his dear disciple
and said
aw
they shoulda brought their own bloody food
and then
he thoughtfully took a big bite
mmmm eggless mayonaise…?
delicious!

photos by drofstaw nelg courtesy 2026 inc

you need a method
it might look random to you but you need a method
you dont just slap it all together
you need yer guiding principles
you need to establish n follow yer own method
you need a plan
patience
feel
feel around for the right elements
dont force it
let it come
open up
youve got everything assembled
combine n recombine
one tiny discovery
one new subtlety
one more ambiguity
dont let it say too much
dont let it say nothing
let it call ’em
let it allude to other stuff
let it invoke everything
dont shrink from realism
dont shudder at the bizarre
use your fucking imagination
GO ON!
anyone can do it
everyone can do it
swim around in your mind
revisit yer childhood
before you put the filters on
before you started screening it all out
now be aware
now be aware of the sublime planet you live on
its skies change all day long
its flowers are brilliant
the artwork of mother earth
her beautiful flowers n corals n clouds n canyons
beautiful loving mountains and seas full of glitter n movement
i see great silver whales break the surface of the sea
i see my children busy working with paper n pencils n paint
i see the pale blue sunday sky
i hear the deep silence of sunday morning
a day of rest
a day of soft words n lingering kisses
my mind calls me on
do your yoga
do your paintings
write your blog for those who care
i tremble on the verge of some great discovery
some equation i will soon postulate
i am on the track
i am trying to find the source of all art/music/poetry
yes it all comes from the same place
the very same place
do we doubt that van gogh could have played bass guitar
oh he woulda figgered it out sooner or later
and when he played….ah
me
i’m bringing it all together
i will impose my imagination on this world
i will sow a seed that will grow n grow n grow
the implications of my ideas will flow out n ripple on
they will be a tiny rivulet feeding an endless sea (endless)
i seek to master all my chosen mediums
i seek to be the best in the world at what i do
oh yes i always fall far far short
but that is my goal n occasionally i get it right
according to my own crippling high standards
you see i am critic/artist combined
i am no dumb prodigy
i am cunning
i am knowledge
i am skill
music painting poetry
i will be a master before i die
then i will reincarnate
and that master will become part of my future
something inside me to e’er call on
like i call on the artists inside me to give me aid
like when i let em do the work
get out of the way
they can all play
they sing sweeter than the lark
their fingers run over instruments like dreams
the imaginations come with methods
methods for painting
methods for poetry
methods for recording music
listen to painkiller
theres my method
how to make a masterpiece
on a low budget with some talented friends
kilbey says to tim n william
whatever we do this afternoon will be the songs
no ifs or fucking buts
so
i immediately write outbound
i start to play riff
i dont know whats gonna go on top
i dont worry bout that
i trust in the method
my methods always produce the goods
because i trust that whatever i do will be good
or i wouldnt bloody well do it, would i?
well i do have lapses of taste n judgement
thats what comes with being mercurial
and i am
and thats why you almost love me
i dont brook doubt
i dont brook questioning the method
tim n william never say
what the fuck are you doing?
i have inspired them with confidence
so firmly am i rooted in method
we all believe we will achieve results
oh i have cultivated this sublime touch
been patient for 40 years of strugglin’
with amps n people n audiences
all the things i gotta get right
i gotta sing EXACTLY the right words
I gotta play EXACTLY the right sequence of notes
i aint going for the common denominator
everyone reading this blogge
is a strange n weird “off beat” character
i know you all are
or why would you read me
you are my constituency
you are the ones for whom i do my tricks
i wont be wavering anymore
i will be going for arts jugular
i intend on conquering n mastering singing
i am improving on bass in leaps n bounds of faith
i dig further into myself
and i fucking find everyman there
just like jung said he’d be there
yeah there he is
and through him
my childhood becomes your childhood
in invoking one i evoke the other
and when someone makes that connection
well…
its delicious
it tells us everythings ok
it holds us
it nurses us back to health
thats why the people love their music
thats why the people love their paintings
thats why the people love
i’m not embarrassed by art or my arty talk
i am an authority
i am a self taught fumbling bumbling fool
groping my way to some greatness
the sky will be my limit
the spiritual sky
a deep respect for tradition
and a
fuck tradition!
give me guys like ricky maymi
who act like high performance additives
when mixed in with my fuel
give me polinskis wily ears n deft touch
give me tim to play the stuff i cant do
remember : even i cant be good at everything
i cant ride a surfboard or play the drums!
there
now can i let myself off the hook
drums are alien to me
i’d rather play a fucking harp
i dont do drums
i dont do oils
i dont do a lotta things
set yerself some boundaries
get good at one thing first
dont try gouache n then watercolour then metallic
then pastels then inks then pencils then whatever
everytime it dont work out
choose yer axe n stick to it
dont blame yer fucking tools
dont say
oh i could be an artist if i had my own studio
i was painting in the lounge room till i got my own room
i was pluckin’ a cheap guitar n dreaming of becoming myself
a thousand years ago in lyneham
i was plotting n scheming i was obsessed
i had to fight fight fight
i still gotta fucking fight with this mediocre world
i gotta make records like mimesis n painkiller
because SOMEONE HAS TO !!
i carry the banner for the hippy ideal
FLOWER POWER BAYBEE
SUMMER OF LOVE
WITHIN YOU WITHOUT YOU
this is my starting point
indelibly burnt into my mind
i will forever go over my patch of turf
mining it for wonderful childlike things
that are not cloying
erotic not pornographic
spiritual not new age
when i perform i will give it all
n hope that sweet spirit will fill me with song
when i paint i let the brushes glide so divine
i let the colours swirl in outrageous combinations
just like our lovely mother nature
my songs are wonder and tragedy n nothing n everything
hey im a roman
im a woman
im a madman
im a prophet
im a bewildered kid
im an olde master
i am one hundred arists n singers focussed into one fool
i take all the colours n notes n words there are
i ask humbly for saraswatis blessings
bestow upon me the gifts that will allow me to accomplish this
i will reveal all my methods tho they will not work for you
with a sleight of hand
out of thin air
this is how confident you have to be
like muhammed ali
like dali
like bolan
like johnny lennon
paint the universe
sing the sky
write about the love between my brothers n my sisters
is that enough?

sometimes when i’m painting or making music
i feel like a detective
trying to solve mysteries
and track down the culprit elements
that are making my stuff less than perfect
n lemme tell ya one thing bout getting olde:
your demand on yerself for perfection goes up!
not that you can ever hit it
you cant…just accept that
but try kid try
go that extra distance to get it right
a few days back
encouraged by” natalie in lemurias” reaction
i started on natalie in lemuria 2
i wanted to relive the whole thing
wrong move for a start…why re-do an idea i already did?
i dunno
as i said to get all the attention the first one got
the first one does n doesnt look like my wife
you know
someone can paint ya
get it totally wrong
and still you might love the painting
or they might get it wrong
and you say
fuck this
it dont look like me at all…
on the other ‘and
they might get you right but you may really hate it
or
some people may see the resemblance n grok on
(can you believe “grok” doesnt get the red mis-spell underline!?)
there are infinite reactions to a portrait
portrait painting is difficult n tricky
i know ive botched loads of em
i shudder to think
only starting now to even get reasonably ok
so i started painting from a slightly blurry photo
another bad idea
at least have a good photo to work with
(i like it when they sit…..if they can keep still ;
beware : most sitters can’t !)
but anyway
i did my usual thing
i painted my big sheet of paper black
its like 3 foot by 2 foot
even this simple task is fraught with problems
now ive hadda figure all this malarkey out for meself
i aint no expert n i never had a lesson
but these are things ive deduced
with gouache painting one of the most important things is
getting the paint to go on smoooothly
yes this is not oil painting
you do not wanna slap it on with a trowel n build up texture
you do not want hard dried lumps sticking out like a relief map
that may work for oils or acrylic but not gouache
neither do i want runny olde washes like watercolour
(tho this can be done )
now
each colour in gouache has a slightly different consistency
and each brand too
and if youve had yer paints a while
they tend to go hard in the tube (mr humphries!!)
so with every individual tube you got a variable viscosity
there you foreign readers n sluggish gooseballs
look up the word viscosity in yer funk n wagtails
its a beautiful word…
so you need to add water my lovelies
be careful
some colours will not need any water
lemon yellow
bright orange
maroon n crimson
others like black n white
cobalt blue
purple
they seem to neeed constant watering
keep your brush clean now, class
n pay attention
i used to add water to the paint via the brush
i now add it via a little eye dropper
it makes me feel like a real little scientist
getting my black n white more viscous
then
you gotta mix it up
so all your dollop of paint in your tray
is evenly liquid
too much water
gotta add more paint
beware
the stuff is trying to set all the time
so you can mix it all up
and get a nice lil batch o’ black ready to go
and in 2 minutes its thickening up everywhere
too watery n itll go on as a dirty grey
so painting the sheet of paper black evenly
is no mean feat
it takes about half n hour
then you go back get the patchy bits
then you go back n get the patchy bits from the patchy bits
n wait for the whole thing to dry
(uh ah dont go working on it till its 100% dry, now…!)
then
ah ha
it just occurred to me
that most of you have no interest in this
whatsoever
and are hoping i was gonna write about my bass playing x-ploits
BITE MY EASEL !
anyway
i got nks pic up
i got my dry black painted 6 square feet of blackness
i start the way i started the 1st one
apply white pastel with a sponge
approximate the shape of her face
then i subtract with the soft eraser
building up again if i go too far
i battled n battled n battled
i never got it right
i added nose n eyes n mouth n hair
there was something i had missed
i went over it n over it
the bits individually were ok
but it wasnt adding up to nk
it was just a stranger on the paper
i struggled n i struggled
like an art detective i went over it again
but i could never figger it out
the eyes were always too far up the face
the chin was too big
the nose was too long
whatever
i just couldnt get it right
nk was not jazzed with it either
so after 4 days of frustration
i painted over it again black
nk when she saw that: have you abandoned me?
i put up a mirror
n i started a self portrait
build up a mass of white on the black
then i start to subtract away at it
like a block of marble
anyway
i put some music on
i groove to some cool sounds
and i go off into spatial relationship world
i fiddle around ..half on half off
people ring up n i have conversations as i work on myself
(its no fun looking in the mirror when yer 54
but you gotta get over that n paint what you see)
i dont concentrate half as much as when i was doing nk 2
and that turns out to be good thing
i put pale blue eyes in
over the black holes my eraser had excavated in the pastel
i put the pastel on roughly n dont smooth it out
it forms weird patterns in the eyes
the eyes i work on for ages
eventually i snap out of it
and i got a really good pair of eyes
implying everything eyes should
i paint the pupils in… a little black dot
anyway
its going really well
the beard has a new texture
the jungle around is purple n red n crimson
looking more ornamental than real
but i like the effect
i was right to stop work on the one i couldnt get right
this one is one of my best ever ever
i’m gonna savour finishing it
there was so much i was gonna tell you
about the different brushes
and the pastel on the “tooth” of the page
and about perspective n shadow
n the secret to complete success
(as if i’d know!)
but ive run out of shoulders
another time
another blogge
aloha! ha!

this incredibly bizarre world
this mixed up ball of confusion
humanity……?!
what hope is there but rocknroll….?
sanity will not prevail …..no
we will all disappear so it must be ok, right?
steve kilbey has gone mad n abdicated
ive been left in charge here till he returns
but i’m a clever counterfeiter
so maybe you wont notice anything
maybe i’ll slip up
in my world
a bunch of hindu indians
trying to find a passage to italy
(you see they were hooked on gnocchi)
accidentally arrived in america
and in a naive hopeful stupid way
began calling the natives there
” italians”
(though there was no cafes anywhere)
so nowadays in my world
if someone says oh the italians did such n such
you ask
the italian italians or the american italians…?
although you should no longer use the word italian
to describe an american italian
we now call them the lasagne peoples
although they themselves prefer the term
the original occupants…
in my world ….
ah it sounds ridiculous
my world this
my world that
by the way are you enjoying my impersonation
of your erstwhile idle idol…?
olde kilb-eye
a classic case of the jumbles
hes madder than you think
madder than a lake
(thats an art joke for the ohions)
you mean youre paying him to write this bilge?
i mean this counterfeit bilge naturally
i mean i cant be kilbey
because he is mad
and i am not
am not am not am knot
why did you do it?
i wanted to
what did he do?
everything
what will he do next?
everything else
a mad olde fool
a classic mad olde foole with a beard
much lavish self description
an egocentricity bordering on the futile
or infantile
or some other flashy word which means something vague
kilbey got you out-manoeuvred with vocabulary
only nick cave-in knows more words
and maybe someone else
but kilbey can trot out words like fulcrum
which he juxtaposes with some unlikely word… say love
then uses a strange pre position
and you get
(french exclamation!)
voila
fulcrum beyond love
or
love within fulcrum
or
love fulcrum without
can you see how this is done?
now if i told you my new solo album
was called love fulcrum without (and it is)….
in my world painkiller has gone platynum
it was heralded as a true work of genius
and outbound was played at the olimpic games
a lasagne from america won 4 golde oscars n a silver roger
a bohemian yodeller took out the big prize
a week at the crouton institute in maine
and a drawer in the next australian cabinet
now do you think kilbey would write something like that?
are you sensing the difference between us now?
in my world i drive a panther x-type that runs on steam
the steam has anti-ageing properties (with ocean glimpses)
my car has bucket seats in spades
it has a white diamond dispenser (di spencer?)
it has a octophonic sound system that pacifies yer quivering cilia
it has talking ashtrays and touch responsive manny folds
baybee my car can reach the middle ages in no time flat
and some time hilly
and summertime when the livin’ is so e-z
and yer mamas rich
n yer daddys good lookin
n yer lookin’ for a place to spend the nite
in my world the wag from sheffield is funny
and sheffield is on the sea with palm trees n bikini clad buildings
whilst bondi is a grey blur of railroads n cups of chip butties
in my world davem is lead bass guitarist in $%#
and they just won the mercury prize and the mont de venus
and the sheffield auxiliary wag flower committee award
and the smiths formed in 1982 after seeing the leadmill play at
the church
until johnny marred ’em
that helped maurice see
then their biggest album
the queen is murder( went to numb her juan)
in my world bobo n the hedge are roadies for john foxx
who just sold out wimbledom
and michael stype is a clerical assistant
and peter buck is a kind of deflation
that causes yoghurt to fly around on airoplains
and robbie williams is hedging prunes
my world this
my world that
where paintings paint people
where music is seen under a certain light
where a faux kilbey can be finally ‘appy
where andrew eldritch is on the 100 dollar notes
where andre breton coaches the metaphysics kids on tuesdays
where elton john works in a pie shop selling puddings
and george michael designs urinals
(please dont throw your cigarettes in here: they become soggy
and hard to light!)
and the cinemas and galleries and bars and museums are
stuffed full of ME!!!!
me everywhere
my conversations
my anxieties
my triumphs
my wag
my eek
my comments
my internet
my oh my
yes the future is ME!!!
so get ready now
me me me
buy some try some cry some hand some
we’re all gonna rock to the rules that i make
sang vincent furnier
but i dont see much rockin’ on the golf war…
the kids are wolfing down popol vuh
and have you tried fruity rings yet?
try ME!!@blogspot.burp
check out my prod-caste (the lazy debils)
hook me up with grating new fruity ring tones
and win a price in the blottery
kilbey now available in olive gream
post no bills
star f only
no blog beyond this point

f

obviously it is not my field of expertise
but was very pleased to see obama win u.s. elexion
he SEEMS like a very decent kinda bloke
and his academic record (yawn) is blah blah blah
(what the hell wood i know?)
still
i fear for his life
knowing his death would instantly trigger a kind of civil war
and already reading the white nazi idiots reactions
weve got those imbeciles in every country
uh huh
they definitely got em here…witness cronulla riots
they definitely got loads of em in england
they even got em in scandinavia
where some old school vikings
would like to chuck out all the forbannad svartskulls
(accursed black heads)
you know
will fucking humanity ever get over this thing?
will dogs n cats ever forgive each other
or is it just all part of the obstacle course
that is life on earth…?
in my last life
as you recall
under hypnosis
i was an indian bloke, a sikh hating the english
for what they had done to india
hating the bloody english defined me
as i died i was still obsessed with my hatred
so what did i appear as
but a white puny little english git
the very thing i despised the most
einsteins 13th law :you always become what you hate
(just watch that principle in action, folkss!)
so i kinda feel like i should know
this race thing is a temporary thing
just a one more thing to create friction/diversity down here
one more thing to get over before you move on
the goals change all the time
you gotta adjust
you gotta perceive
you gotta move on
when i was a kid
a mere 50 years ago
my favourite sweets were licorice “cigarettes”
they came in a packet like a ciggy box(another BAD idea)
and the brand name : nigger boy
complete with the most horrific little drawing of that boy
with all the racial exaggerations you can imagine
there was a show on telly as late as the early seventies
the black n white minstrels
the white minstrels were caucasian ladies
the black minstrels were white blokes with boot polish
on their faces complete with big lips n big white eyes
it was so fucking weird
but it had been on telly ever since i could remember
singing songs like
way down upon the swannee river etc
is this racism?
or some trad jazz tradition…?
i’m a bit confused as to what this shows intentions were
i’m sure its on you tube somewhere
this incredible world with all its shameful secrets…
the unbelievable capacity we have to hate n fear each other
ridicule each other because of this n that
i know…IVE DONE IT TOO
havent you?
anyway
no matter how much we like barry obama
theres a whole loada klansmen n stuff
who surely will not
and feeling like this will bring on the armageddon they crave
so
one would imagine someone somewhere is gonna try n
put in a fix on him
its naive to believe it aint so
tho i pray n wish that it might not happen
because if mr obama is as much as hurt
it will surely bring on the long american night
secondly
i’m thinking that maybe we had to have bush
so we could have obama (ying n yang?)
yes i say WE
because
whoever america elects
the rest of us have to fucking suffer
( if n when theyre turkeys…)
its not like u.s. presidents keep to themselves
after world war 2 the u.s. has monkeyed around with this world
often with the most gruesome bloodthirsty results
epitomized by vietnam
a useless war which was totally unnecessary
which took an incredible toll on women n children n civilians
just think of all the residents of hanoi
bombed night after night after fucking night
burning n screaming n hideously mutilated
it was that same olde pack of white protestant anglo saxon gits
the olde geezers who dont fight themselves
but happy to get loads of others killed
bush n cheney the modern ones
back then we had lbj
n bob menzies in aust
old school belligerent numbskulls
go to some place where ya not wanted
n kill the locals
who have different skin/customs/religion
why doesnt everyone just stay put?
if everyone stayed at home theyre be no fucking wars
no one ever wins
the losers lose
the winners lose
the onlookers lose…
where am i going with this
well i just hope old obama doesnt get pushed into malarkey
by all the others
the generals n halliburton n cia n illuminati n whoever else
keeps thinking up reasons to get more people killed
is the president able to resist such pressure?
is that what got jfk killed?
i’d say yeah…n a few other things
so baracks got a big mess to clean up
will they let him do it?
ok call me a dunce
but i dont understand this:
you can spend one bazillion bucks a day on subjugating iraq
but you cant afford health care for the poor
or to fix up the levies in new orleans…
can someone explain that fucking bullshit?
if my kids get sick
i take em to local quack
he sees em
no money even changes hands
surely the u.s. could afford that
most countries got that…why not the u.s.?
will “they” let obama sort this out?
and if not…why not?
another thing
i was dismayed to hear obama using all that american jingoism
that the rest of the world hates so much
and which has indeed proved dangerous to our hopes of peace
mccain was hitting the same old AMERICA stuff
during his extraordinarily gracious concession speech…
when will these guys realise that a patriot
is someone who believes his country is the best
merely because he was born there….
drop the star spangled banner routine boys
thats what the rest of the world DONT want
all that john wayne my country right or wrong tripe
and george w “we’ll smoke em out!”
hey its 2008
those days are over
hopefully barack obama signifies an end to the cowboy era
and a new day can dawn of the intellectual urbane president
one whos on everybodys side
a peace loving man whos gonna heal some of those scars
me
i love america
have you been there?
its got the BEST n the WORST
my wife is american
eve n aurora are american
i got a huge vested interest in this
i’m tired of fuckin’ kneejerk anti-americanism
but
i’m tired of the old school cowboys n their ‘orrible wars
please
mr obama
dont get shot
heal the rifts
sort out the poor
fix up new orleans
n
make sure i get my next entry visa
i’m really sorry for what i did in 1999 in nyc
and i’m now completely norbal (again)

footnote
joe biden was mates with natalies uncle gary who died recently
gary was an active democrat in delaware at all the functions
how sad that he never got to see this happen
n
just think
the time being woulda had a contact in the whitehouse
ok
now people
lets make this happen now for barry!

same olde dreamy
flying cautiously thru the air
i turn up my palms and i soar
soar thru my continuum dreams
where my mother runs a nightclub
and the band i’m in are always on a plane
or checking in to some strange motel
or my whole family are with me
in scandinavia or s.carolina
or howe the hell would i know
and just like in real life
i struggle struggle struggle against a contrary world
elation n indifference
trying to prove i’m innocent to someone
trying to negotiate complicated rules my mind cant follow
trying to decide
trying to cope
always something niggle niggle niggle
higgledy piggeldy
i wriggle away from redtape like an eel
hot n bothered
trick questions a’plenty
hoops n coops
boxes to tick
forms to fill in
i never get around to it
always way behind in spades
weary dreary and teary
i blame drugs
i blame pressure
i blame the years
i blame everyone of you
i blame the stupid things i say
i blame fame and the lack of it
i blame the second rate pricks who always do well
i blame my patrician face and my freckled skin
i blame war and disasters
i blame my over imagination
i sit at the table with miha my new friend
he looks like a slavic king from 1476
with his sandy prince valiant do
and his scanty little beard
his deep blue eyes are piercing
his body is tanned n almost perfect
as he lifts his shirt
and shows us the scar that runs from his chest
past his belly button n down
miha at 33 has licked the big C
some fucking monstrous tumour putting the squeeze on his guts
hes learned some things battling the disease
he can rise out of his body at will
he can withstand great pain
he is christlike in his composure
his blue eyes rest on me benevolently
at first i thought he was a hippy bum like me
but one day he turns up dressed to the nines
in a pierre de la ponce suit
wow they say clothes maketh the man
but this guy looks very smart in his black threads
he seems to have a hundred jobs i dont understand
setting things up
sailing boats
making films for installations
some people its better to not to try to understand them
its easier that way
let them be poems instead of articles
let them be songs instead of equations
he says hes gonna find out about a lot of things
before hes done down here
from most people that would sound hollow
and i would prob’ly scoff
but miha has the genuine ring of authenticity
his gaze takes a lot in
i can see that
you could play king wenceslas if they ever do a version.. i say
i could really see him with a silver crown n chain mail armour
or am i dreaming all this up again
steve roaches dream circle pulsates in background
natalie in lemuria 2 sits on my big new easel
my ears are ringing
nk looks for election results in the u.s. but finds only soccer
i hate fucking soccer
the endless construction in sydneys eastern suburbs starts up
they continue to knock down little family houses
n put up “modern” looking blocks o’ flats
that’ll be eyesores in twenny years time
up go the cranes
up go the bricks
down come the bleedin’ ‘ammers again n again n again
the radios come on playing the worst rubbish
the blokes yell out to each other in “colourful” language
the lorries n vans clog the streets
theres sand n bits of wood everywhere
cement trucks queue on the corner
sloshing round the liquid blecchh
the porta loos reek
and the racket goes on 6 days a week
meanwhile the n bondi sky is filled with
good n bad minor birds
magpies
pee wees
pigeons (i hate fucking pigeons)
sea gulls
pair o’ keats
starlings
sparrows
willy wagtails
cock or twos screeching n careening abaht
kook-a-burras
crows (of course)
ravens(can ya tell the difference?)
and occaisionally you see
some birds of prey high up in the either
snatchin’ un-fort-u-nate vik-tims outta the heir
say la vee
n
kay sir rah
n
et stra
n. bondi is amazingly picture-esk
its surrounded by hills full of lovely trees n houses
the flowers bloom intensely
their colours are all outrageous
and every one is reaffirmation of the existence of olde godly
who is one fucking hell of an artist
wow even when ya look up close ya cant tell how hes done it
and some of the flowers smell good to boot
and some little yappy dogs are good to boot too
(tho i’d never dream of eating em)
guess you think i’m a brute with my talk of boot
yeah i am
a poet n a brute
and you thought they didnt make that model anymore?
but just like (insert fave poet here)
i am too fucking bloody subtle for the hoi polloi
and they cannot grok my groovy message
so i write poems about atlantis
and my readers tell me to cheer up
oh ha ha ha
next
cortez n the azz-tex (the happy version)
the punic wars with sad bits left out
attila the hun…the less heralded genius of..
the lighter side of melancholy
etc
etc
puh-leeze
meanwhile in n bondi
the birds tweety tweety
the machines bangedi bang
the cars rev rev rev
the buses groany moany
schoolkids sigh
ants scuttle
cockroaches hide
rats piss
mice squeak
bees buzz on their busy bizness
fuck i dont know
the sun comes feebly n tentatively out
the clouds form a hazy patina like in italy
the houses gleam in the sun
scarlet squeals n shrieks somewhere in the house
all around me is the debris of art
paper pastels pastel dust
paints dried up paints pencils scissors brushes
leads plugs earphones cans of spray sponges
applicators wrappers lids plectrums lighters papers
bottles of stuff
rollers tubes buckets pots boxes sketches packets
clips tape easels paintings frames masks books
cds dvds material fake n real plants
etc etc etc
a still morning outside
it will never come again
carpe fucking diem!

something
i must write something
fill up these pages with words
the truth….?
i cant remember
the truth…..
maybe i do elaborate sometimes
dark morning dawns
i sit in my tower
no
i sit in my basement
i sit in my burnt out basement with a….
no
i sit at a deserted beach
i am a handsome young man
i am a mere childe
i see the years stretch out before me forever
i plunge into the black water
its freezing cold but i am indifferent
i sink down down down
my breath fills my lungs to burst
down down down
in the murky coldness with no breath left
i am seized with panic
hideous fish come out to regard me
finally when i can no longer hold my breath
the water enters my lungs like a liquid knife
i splutter and struggle down there
it takes a while i tell you
to drown
i am thinking “how much longer….?”
when it happens
of course
some kind of separation
a dissolving
like an essence pressed from a flower
like steam from water
like smoke from fire
i rise
through the turgid water
through the quiet air
not up but out i go
out of this world
out of this time
out of memory
simply out
i stay out for a long time
a long long long time
although time never passed
it was the time it took here
lifetimes
i suppose
it took lifetimes
no time at all when its over
you realise that
life is but a dream
so i dreamed another
great cities
conquests
parades
ceremonies
murders
betrayals
pain
always pain
i run from the pain
it pursues me life after life
painful lives
painful deaths
so many ways to go
monsters
war
electrocution
darts
poison
fever
stabbed in the dark
blinded by the light
kings fall down
the walls of jericho collapse
babylon overgrown with weeds
nineveh abandoned in the desert
rome goes under
atlantis goes down
we run screaming with our children
the temple of zeus comes down around us
his great golden head crushes the priests
his body tumbles backwards causing mayhem
all is fire
all is whirlpool
all is the roar of the ocean
angered by our vain experiments
drinking us down her violent cold throat
the plates have suddenly shifted
the land vomits us into the sea
an explosion of red hot ashes
the horses run thru the streets maddened
a hole opens up
and yawns
and we are gone
the sea rushes together
and belches up blackened bodies of men and beasts
that float for a while and then sink
and everything is silent
as if it all never happened at all

natalie in lemuria by moonlight
finished on the wall
lifting her head out of the picture
her mauve creamy moony skin
the jungle all around
the wild inchoate jungle
so many hours
labour of love
this picture will dominate any room
this picture will move around at night when no ones looking
this picture will call you into the fleshy undergrowth
where the shrubs and leaves are full of rain
and wild eyed blonde women appear
coming the other way
like an angel fleeing sodom
like a seraph at rush hour
like a temple whore from old babylon
surprised to run into you at this hour
but ready to avail you of all her arts
werent we married in some other life ?you ask
didnt we have some lovely children…..?
but she just looks at you through you beyond you
now youre mad
youre talking to a painting
you did this painting
you recreated your wife from pigments
out of a black void you did summon her face
marilyns face
mae wests face
jean harlot
rita hayworth
ingrid bergman
the zephyr in the north winds arms coming to venus’ birth
the 1950s black n white blonde her tits nearly falling out
the lemurian spitfire
a west virginian ingenue
a wild eyed girl from free cloud
you applied her foundation
you built her up out of colour
oh your wife could go many ways you chuckle
as you work on her face
shaping n reshaping her delicate chin
her swelling cheekbones sailing under her wild brown eyes
just like ole pig-malion
falling in love with yer own creation
over ten years since we met
i still looking at my wifes face
how does it all go together
and then
i marvel
at how love n nature
have swirled our features around
and mixed up our colouring
and taken all the best bits
for someone like scarlet kilbey
who is a true star
who were you before this? i ask her
i scarlet she says
have you always been scarlet? you ask
yes she says quite clearly
but her lilac blue eyes say NO!
i see my mother rush across her face
i see russell and mimis broad abstracted gaze
i see my dad in myself and he melts to see scarlet
oh dad you woulda loved my kids you say
five of the prettiest girls you could ever meet
scarlet speaks english as tho forgetting her last language
there is a teutonic frostiness in her curt answers
there is sometimes a jolly latino deliberate over pronunciation
from where does her soul derive its power n anger
meanwhile my wife is thoroughly american
oh she was an american girl
american woman stay away from me
i’m sorry
i always wanted one of them blonde southern women
and just like my wife
they never swear
and their only concern
is loves sweet trysts n twists n kissed’s
you cant tell whos having who on
the american woman can appreciate the englishman
she can see why its so special
all as god intended it to be
no shortcuts
leave the words to me you say
drums beatin’ cold
english blood runs hot
english n all that means
the outsider looking in
from a tiny rainy island somewhere
or in the red desert
hot n cold
thats what we do
we dominate
we take apart
we impose our will
we decide
we endure
we prevail
watch out!
no good being english in lemuria, mister
no good playing the bass guitar or any of that
but i thought this lemuria thing was just a joke you think
another angle
another gimmick
a premise for tangled undergrowth and vines that curl around n in
no no
lemuria…..ah!
i cant even tell whats true or not you think
i look at myself
steven your skin is a golden brown now says my mother
i look in the mirror
as i age i turning into someone else
some hawklike olde grizzled bastard emerging
those eyes only the same
implying more than they mean to
scanning the painting for little faults
little technical errors n small accidents
the way the colour underneath will come rushing up
and the way some pastels are creamier than others
the way all the different brushes work
the way you can swirl n smear n subtract and manifest
after a while the songs write themselves
the paintings do themselves
the bloggs come tumbalong out
music
art
women
words
the soft options
i am all hardness
i seek the softness
i seek refuge
i seek haven n asylum
so i lose myself on huge sheets of paper
and i loose myself
in the approaching darkness of lemurias unforgotten jungles
the black panther with jesus
the parrots talking their crimson n green heads off
the sleepy old sloth
the cold elegant constrictor
the medicinal plants that bring visions
i am a traveller between worlds
my patrons ask me to explore myself when they dare not
yes i been to lemuria
yes i been to atlanta n atlantis n atlantic city
yes i am the time being
yes these are my journals
sacred n profane
in n out
up n down
saying too much
or nothing at all
i am the man that can
and i will
i take silences n fill em with song
i take blanks n fill em with words
i take space and i give it a face
i sing the booty electric
a hound chasing down the bunny
i am a bullet from either ether gun set to stun
i am an old master
(ha ha)
i am master of all i survey tho i cant see that well
i can see my wifes jawline from 3 planets away
she comes in our room where i’m waiting
and she’s already ready
shes dressed up but nowhere much to go
except
avenue on
downtown lemuria
hot november saturday night
streets so quiet now
only baby singing like a nighting gale
in lemurian
shes singing in lemurian
a warbley birdlike language of coos and las
help bring me back she says
back from where you wonder
i just left my body she says
i was out there somewhere baby without you
avenue off maybe
avenue honour bit
ok….ah
but
its sunday now……