The Time Being | Steve Kilbey

sister
i am a shard
i am as brittle
as i am hard
i am as stupid
as i am smart
here as i am
lodged in your heart
meanwhile
on a cold sunday afternoon
on a beach
on a hill
in a faded sepia photograph
everyones life oozes out in congealing moments
i had dug a hook deep into the night
but morning had dragged me down by my heels
and i tumbled onto the floor moaning
my mind lay exposed
and i picked amongst the exploded suitcases
and tickets flew away into the wind
and i walked across a bare field after them
and the forests whispered amongst them selves allaround
people rifled through my memories
people took out my poor old re-examined childhood
people pretended to live my life
they tried to imagine it
my mother came out and-a shushed them all away
go home you stupid children ! she muttered as she slammed the front door
roses grew up over wrought-iron trellises
aunty fruity had come around to seduce me
but mummy didnt want me stay with her
but….
aunty fruity took off her nightie
her white english flesh was like peaches and cream
steven can you help me with this ?she said
i crossed the room
the lovely timber floors
the crimson curtains
steven can you bring me my wine?
aunty fruity had a goblet full of yellow bubbling wine
she was smoking a cigarette too
steven can you rub my beauty ointment into my back?
she rolled onto her stomach
her back was like the steppes of russia to me
plains and hills and gentle undulation
steven?
yes aunty fruity…..
steven are you going to rub in my ointment?
the ointment came out of the tube with a little squelch
it sat on my fingers cool and viscous
it had a lovely smell
i have never smelt that smell since
somewhere between medicinal and sickly floral
i applied it to her shoulders and i rubbed it in
my fingers took to it instantly
my fingers hummed and vibrated all over aunty fruitys white back
ooh thats nice steven said aunty fruity and wriggling a bit
the phone rang
it was my mother asking if i had been behaving myself
as good as gold said aunty fruity winking at me
a song came on the radio
there was a kind of sitar guitar riff
the singer wailed behind a wall of phase
in the memories of unforgotten dreams
the bass guitar climbed out of the speakers
and bounced around the room
like a big rubbery shadow
it was nebulous and insistent
i was kissing something white and soft
the smell of the ointment in my flaring nostrils
the music on the radio blared orgiastically
the speakers quivered and responded
the low end rumbled and pumped
my memory was rupturing
steven?
yes aunty fruity…?!
ooh yes love just there
just like that
oh i’m all tense
oh thats nice
youre very good at this, arent you…?
the phone rings
its uncle hugo
he yells down the phone at aunty fruity
piss off then !she says as she hangs up
she giggles and curls up on her side
silly man! she says
steven?
yes aunty fruity….
those damp boardshorts will chafe your thighs
aunty fruity looked at my thighs
yes dear theyre all chafed
she began to rub in her beauty ointment on my thighs
does that feel better dear? she asked as she rubbed n rubbed
a bee was caught in the window
it buzzed against the screen
i could hear it over the psychedelic racket on the radio
aunty fruity pauses in her ministrations
maybe a little here she says
yes aunty fruity i say
thats very nice indeed i say
suddenly the memory stops
i shake out the bag but its empty
i squeeze the tube but its gone
its not then
i’m standing here in this field
and its getting dark
and i’m on my own out here
looking through my old stuff
thats blowing across these barren fields
and catching on the light
the debris of a lifetime
exploded all over the place
the true and the false
intermingled
forever

i just read yesterday
possibly the nicest thing
that anybody ever said about our music
mr verdelay on hotel womb
wrote something like
i love this album
and i want to find more ways of talking about it…
and in those most simple words
especially as we all know verdelay can turn on a burst …
but this simple emotion so frankly and guilelessly put
hit my heart harder
than all that brilliant wordy stuff
honourable mention to altres
whose enthusiastic gush also made my day
and
there is a lesson to be learnt in this
i remember my brother russell showing me something
something he’d written
a script or a treatment or something
now i had previously felt that russells stuff was never quite as
“special” as mine
but today
his writing was so clean
so minimal
suggesting so much in such few words
bereft of even one unnecessary adjective
the whole piece was like an aerodynamic glide
no friction no pull
it was a joy to read
it suddenly made most of my stuff seem
so overwrought
(witness bits of earthed where the fucking adjectives pile up
like verbal corpses)
and i really learned something that day
something that had never ever occurred to me
sometimes simplest is best
you see
a writer has a lot of choices
and an english writer has a lot more choices
than writers in some languages (swedish for example)
because english has a lotta words baby
yes and even wise guys like me dont know the half of em
so think about it
when you wanna chuck an archaic latinate word in there ….
is it really the best thing?
i think practice makes perfect too
and you gotta write n write n write
it took me a while to find my feet on here
and it’ll take you a while to find your own feet out there
dont give up cos youre writing what you think is rubbish
nobody really knows about their own stuff
and great writers go off the rails
and idiots can come good
and after all
you got all the same words as philip k dick or j d salinger
so whats stopping ya?
i dont think theres a short cut
even if you are a genius
you have to stumble round in the wilderness for a while
then…
then…
then one day
a phrase slips out
and you
you marvel
did i write that?
that poignant and effortless phrase…?
and you begin to see a light
and you suddenly say
hang on
thats it!
and maybe for a brief moment
you can see
your “in”
your own way in to the mystery of writing
so many different types of writing
travel writing for example
you dont want baudelaire writing a travel piece
youd never wanna go there wherever he wrote about
you dont want enid blyton writing about carnivale in rio
you dont want henry miller reporting on the funeral of a princess
you dont want james joyce writing the car reviews
you dont want steve frickin’ kilbey writing the footy guide
you dont want edward lear doing the restaurant reviews
am i making myself clear here…?
horses for courses
you may be a surrealistic whirlwind
but you cant describe a bowl of fruit
you may have a delightful naive sensibility
but your attempts at beat poetry are the pitts
i dont know
be what you could all my friends say
be what you could
a simple twist
take everything ordinary
twist it ever so slightly
change one tiny piece of a pattern
re-present concepts in a new light
yes i read ryans travel writing in some mags
and guess what
i ceased to think about his writing
and i just thought about the place where he was
his sore feet
the camels
the horrible food
and his writing became transparent
and revealed through his eyes
the places he was travelling through
this is exactly how it should be
a travel magazine shouldnt dazzle ya with fancy language
its all about the travel
and much writing is like that
you must be able to subsume yourself
like a record producer
some writers stamp themselves all over it
while others allow things to be but with their subtle guidance
oh there are some beautiful parts in the bible too
pages n pages of rolling words sublime and fragrant
and this is part of the “good” books appeal
it has such an iconic beginning
in the beginning god created the heaven and the earth
it brooks no disagreement
its succinct and all inclusive
it leaves no loop holes
a masterful beginning to a book
one can learn a lot from the bible…
unfortunately reality is not one of them…
any way
ive blthered on n on
not mentioned philip pullman (marvellous!)
proust (marvellous!)
and loadsa others
not covered the half of it
but ok
thatll do for now i guess
now go on
write a masterpiece
i dare ya!

yesterday
while waiting at doctors to do my treadmill stress test
i read an article by bryce courtney
and he said that theres 2 types
writers and story tellers
he said most people were one or the other
he mentioned an indian writer (k.s. narayan)
whom he considered “that rare thing, both…”
i guess i am a writer
i’m not a very good story teller
i cant sustain a huge plot
with all the mechanisms
i dont have that kinda imagination
i’m more of a make stuff up and fuck continuity
i use my surrealism n prose poem malarkey
to cover up the fact that i just cant sustain a story
i’d say tolkien more of storyteller
i’d say peake more of writer
i’d say our c.s. was a bitta both
oh my my
gee theyre different things arent they
i met rick grossman from the hoodoo gurus in the street yessaday
we were talking about rock auto bios
he said mark seymours book was fucking hilarious
we both agreed ronnie woods was abysmal
despite him having an amazing tale to tell
he just wasnt a writer
(amazing painter tho)
(now hes holed up in some pub with a 16 year czech girl or sumpthing!)
the best rock read i ever read was “hard road” about stevie wright
from the easybeats (friday on my mind)
written by jack marx
(seek this book out…you wont put it down)
scintillating dark stuff indeed
it has stayed with me…
i drifted into science fiction in my late teenage days
but not asimov et all
i liked science fantasy
which was kinda an updated tolkien inspired thing
tolkien is the father of almost all science fantasy
as well as that guy who wrote conan the barbarian
(i devoured those books too)
michael moorcock wrote a series of interconnected novels
about a “hero” who comes back to different planes n times
sometimes an albino addicted to his heroin-like sword
sometimes as dorian hawkmoon with his inlaid skull jewel
sometimes as corum a kinda disenfranchised “elf”
in one incredible climax
the heroes join up as one huge conglomerate….wow!
but so much of sci-fantasy is like a re run of tolkien
you red the back cover n you red the book:
when the queen of nimbob
lady goosequill
loses her enchanted unicorn
bombo
she must fight the evil lord
nasty-sodd
journey through the land of grong
where the bing bangs dwell
and so hazard a quest that will imperil her lovely magic ring
part 3 of the silver butterfly trilogy
now being made into a film
starring sean connery and justin timberlake as snoggo the dwarf…
anyway
dylan thomas is a marvellous writer
straddling the border of poetry and prose
hes a writers writer
and his use of english is extraordinary
like seeing a master pianist fly over the 88s
in one sentence you are completely floored
bob dylan who named himself after thomas
wrote an unreadable book of poetry called tarantula
and then wrote that wonderful chronicles book
which was a little time being-ish
in its ability to blur facts and fiction
i guess that is my goal with this blog thing
to blur the line between…everything
just like dylan
a lot of things are written as exaggerations
or imaginings
or mere possibilities
into my mix i throw
real life
my deepest n realest feelings
my memories
my memories of memories
my lyrics my art my music my poetry
my ranting n raving
after all i am a self opinionated old mufo
i am a self proclaimed genius n i got a lot to say
this is a crazy crazy world
we think its sensible n sane
but its wildly illogical and anything can happen
and writing is a powerful thing
mightier than violence they say
in its ability to persuade men
for example the bible
the bible is just a book after all
a book some geezer wrote
or a few different geezers actually
some of em get credited
some of em dont get credited
some of em didnt want credits when they edited n chopped n changed it
a meeting of editors got together
probably drank some wine n
visited some brothels
and finally they would have shouted each other down
in nicae
and whole bits got kicked out
like thomas n jude etc
bits that didnt suit the kinda propaganda
that the editors were trying to shape
i was presented with this book as a child
it was printed on strange flimsy paper
it was written in archaic language
(that SEEMED to possess authority)
and it was illustrated with guys tearing down temples blinded
or whales swallowing down geezers etc
i did not dare question it
it had all the weight of the ages
i thought the fact i couldnt find the “good” in it
was my fault
that i was somehow evil etc
you see…?
presentation is everything
i was told…it was implied…that this was all true
not just the myths of some forgotten wandering desert tribe
it was given to you as verbatim
at the risk of yer soul burning (FOREVER!!!)
and thats a long long time baby
so its a bit like whatever radioheads new record is
its like
DONT QUESTION IT!
and people sit at home silently saying to emselves
i dont like or understand kid a at all
but the force of the myth is everything
but now im digressing
but digressing is what i do
turn yer weaknesses into strengths
i’m a stoned old ninny
my thoughts wander hither n thither
so i disguise my weakness as a deliberate device
and i build on it
and it becomes a feature of what i do
go with that instinct
that instinct to be you
oh influences are hard to shuck off
as a musician i am basically the sum total of all my influences
as a painter i have no influences
as a writer i am half half
seeing i never really wanted to be a writer
i aint slavishly imitated anybody particularly
its an advantage to jump disciplines sometimes
lyricists are different from writers
lyricists have the music to fall back on
and the way its sung
i rate the following lyricists
dylan lennon mccartney harrison jagger
patti smith verlaine springsteen bowie bolan
strange foxx devoto dulli calvert kate bush
and more that i forget
jimbo of course
jimi hendrix wrote some good words too
yeah
but its a different ballgame
i still cant finish this here
tomorrow : final installment
ps
test results
heart good
lungs good
pancreas good! (i feel so sorry for poor patrick swayze!)
kidneys good
prostate good (whew)
liver not so good…bad enzymes from too much abuse
cholesterol not so good…amazingly as a vegan
i have some naughty “bad” cholesterol
jesus…imagine if i ate dead meat…?
thyroid not so good
i have the beginnings of hypo thyroidism
which means my thyroid is working under
me : what does thyroid do?
quack : everything!!
this accounts for my constant freezing n feeling cold
and for my dry skin n my coarse lifeless hair
actually the thyroid could be fucking up the cholesterol too…
anyway
its more tests
but you know
im pushing sixty n stuff is gonna start clapping out!
so
so far
my eyes(dim)
my ears (self inflicted!)
my liver is shonky (ditto)
my thyroid (pass the iodine)
my cholesterol (cholest we forget!)
my mind (clinically in sain!)
my ego (swollen)
my inner fucknuckle (rampant)
my inner brute (i know who you are!)
anyway
no more medical news for now
will keep ya informed
killer

ah
mr cst coach himself a travel writer
has coughed up a load of canadian dollars
(with a nice pic of her majesty on them all)
and has asked me to write about writing
well ryan my boy, its a pleasure
so i was outside doing yoga yessaday
and thinking how to go about this
and thinking about my favourite writers
of whom i will now make something of a list
in no particular order
lewis carroll
cs lewis
jrr tolkien
michael moorcock
china mieville
andre breton
dylan thomas
appollinaire
homer
mervyn peake
shakespeare
huxley
bill burroughs
paramahansa yogananda
artaud
and a whole lotta others escape my fuddled brain
whom i shall think of
the moment ive posted this
and go
oh no
i cant believe ive forgotten….
(insert forgotten authors name here)
the first book i ever read or had read to me
was alice in wonderland
which
i guess
started me off on my never ending quest for something “marvellous”
in all forms of art, writing no less
i am searching for something fucking “marvellous”
i’m not really interested in something real or factual
nor something informative or useful
i wanna read about the weird
the strange
the magical
the otherworldly
if i want real life i got …um..real life
so that eliminates lots of books for a start
i hate westerns
i hate murder mysteries
i hate crime or cops n robbers n political malarkey
i hate spies
i dont mind bio n autobiographies
(if theyre about someone “marvellous” natch)
and ive come to be quite fond of bobby luries
retelling of my own fab story (complete with un-marvellous bits)
and ive wolfed down many bios on
dylan the beatles the stones bowie bolan etc (a predictable bunch)
i used to enjoy rock writers back in the golden age
eg nick kent, charles shaar murray, lester bangs, ian mcdonald
(all who wrote in the seventies mainly about that aforementioned crowd)
i guess its hard to be a great writer about nickleback or britney etc
so you cant be too hard on modern writers considering the paucity
of interesting musicians…..
anyway
one thought that always pops into my mind is :
if you really wanna influence people get em young!
get em while theyre still impressionable
get em when their minds n hearts are still open
i have read a million good books
since finishing the chronicles of narnia
loads of weird n wonderful sci fi n fantasy novels
but i cant seem to remember any of em much
even tho they blew my socks off at the time
(sigh)
they go in one eye n out the other, i suppose
ah but narnia
oh narnia….
so solid it seemed…
so well did lewis weave his spell
(a very christian spell as it turns out
but that still didnt ruin it!)
oh cs lewis had everything i wanted
fauns and sorcery and battles and
children from this mundane world…
i’m still looking for my wardrobe
i’m still looking for the portal out of this world
i used to drive the fambley up to the cliffs at watsons bay
and i look out over the stormy sea
and i swear i could see narnia somewhere out there
so many times i been as close as this to narnia
my own portal
my own way out of this world
(steady on there seiogh!)
cs lewis was my haven
my sanctuary
my place to go to hide from this boring world
no film could ever do what the books did
i see theyre making a film outta” where the wild things are”
ive seen the shorts and its fucking awful
because it foists its own version all over yer imagination
thats why i almost choked when the wolves in narnia
spoke with american accents…
anyway
lewis not only wrote about marvellous things
but he was a marvellous writer
with many unique stylistic devices
and a really cosy familiar way of telling a story
even tho i go back n read em now
and disagree with some of his stuff
(he bags vegetarians, he extolls pipe-smoking
and the constant christian carry-on)
lewis captured my imagination at age 10
and i never really got him out again
you see greek mythology and narnia n marc bolan
are all mixed up in my mind
and oh
that is the world i yearn for most of all
somewhere deep in my heart
i have lived through the may days of arcadia
i have seen the vegetal n water spirits
n i have gotten drunk with pan…
may lewis long be read by children all over this world
and may it continue to inspire children
to seek the unordinary!
i read many marvellous books as a kid
before the narnia books
i read ” little grey men” by HH
and i read 2 great books about a black cat
whose titles ive now forgotten
and i read all the myths rewritten for kids
i devoured the norse myths too
that also seemed strangely familiar to me
and i quickly identified with the troublemaker “loki”
at school we were forced to read one boring writer n poet
after another
and i hardly enjoyed any of it
i can only ironically remember a book i didnt read
but was supposed to
it was called “green for danger”
and i hated the look n sound of it so much
i couldnt read it at all
and i learned for the first time
to “fake” having read a book or seen a film
(who hasnt lied about that n then been caught out
when someone asks you for a specific opinion ie
what did you think of the ending??)
eventually i found tolkiens lord of the rings
(which i entered via more kid friendly “the hobbit”)
tolkiens scope and his majestic language
was right on for me
having raised myself on the myths n histories of ancient times
and wow!
what a story…..
what an achievement
to imagine the entire history and languages of a whole world
tolkien has the lot : romance, sorrow, valour, evil, magic
a more grown up lewis
a much huger n more detailed scale
not much after this
i stumbled across mervyn peakes gormenghast trilogy
and i set lewis tolkien n peake
as the dylan beatles n stones of modern english fantasy
mervyn peake
oh my god
the richness of his language
the weirdness of his characters
the tiniest murkiest details
the warped nightmarish feeling
oh i was smitten with these stories
much much more idiosyncratic than the other 2
peake was surreal n dark n used the most scrumptious words
he could spend pages n pages just dwelling on a characters reveries
he could suspend time
he could make you believe the unbelievable
youve never read anything like it
so if you aint read it
get thee to a bookstore now
titus groan
gormenghast
titus alone
its a trilogy
beware tho
titus alone was written by peake
in an advanced stage of parkinsons disease
and was partially completed by others
it is a truly strange twilit world
which moves away completely from the first two
robert smith n sting
also fell under the spell of gormenghast
if youve seen the tv series
please dont judge the books on that
nothing visual could ever do these books justice
oh i ran outta time
guess thisll be a 2 part blogge then
see you tomorrow for some more lit
sk

did vegan expo yessaday
petersham town hall
petersham…its like another city altogether
was feeling a bit hungover after big fri n sat nights
but was nice to drive across syd on sunny sunday afternoon
(sans kidds)
god sydney is a big place
what a beautiful beautiful city
the harbour with its yachts
the winding boulevards
the cafes and people
nice to just sit in a cab and look at it all
after a while we come to petersham
go in town hall
about 3 hundred people milling about
gee theres some delicious food there
i have some gluten thingies on a stick with peanut sauce
i have one of lorens delicious wonder burgers
ooh i hate those dry crumbly veggie burgers
a veggie burger n chips is one of my faves
so i’m a bit of an expert
lorens wonderburgers are the rreal deal
mmm…juicy chewy n everything
i do my gig
whoever the guy on before me was
he blue me off stage
some dr some bigwig in the vegan circles
i play to a smallish disinterested crowd
i am unconvincing as speaker or player
the force is just not with me
its a bright noisy townhall
full of people buying vegan socks or whatever
i just cant turn on any magic
when i come offstage
some little idiot is following my wife around
muttering things like
“see anything you like…?”
“oh now your “boyfriends” back, isnt he”
he even followed her around as she strolled about with me
a furtive little ne’er-do-well
i gave him a serious searching frown n he desisted
yeah well that was it really
some nice ‘ippie gave us some goodies
we split out into a sunshiny day
walked for a while enjoying this strange part of town
come home
all quiet
have a nap
earlyish night
do some painting
ta-ra!

outpouring of joy
outpouring of passion
outpouring of grief
thus life is and always be
strange things are so afoot
who am i in contact with?
who tells me to write these things
how reality opens up like a woman
how time bears down on you like a man
how youth is a caress n then gone
everything i do is some massive reverie
i dream up my life as steve kilbey
my paintings paint themselves
the greek myths
medusa waves from sydney/lemuria
a faun leads a procession of the mysteries
but in a lemurian jungle not arkadia
calypso in her crimson dress strokes odysseus
sitting in a deck chair
been sitting here calypso
7 long years
but the hour of my release
steadily nears
gee somehow odysseus looks like….me….
oh hes got the ionian blues alright
and the cobalt blueprints
and that calypso
i mean how do you paint a nymph
the paper whispers
i’ll show ya how to paint a nymph
and the pastels say
i’ll show you how to paint a nymph
and the processes take over
yesterday in pittsburgh someone bought my
the internet is a naked woman with a tigers head (in flames)
good choice!
you see
you walk in
you put on the headphones
you stick in the cd
you walk up to a painting
press the corresponding button
hear kilbeys voice
like michael hutchence
i have no fixed accent
it meanders between a soft posh soothing declamation
and some arrogant cockney geezer hassling ya
to a wide eyed aussie naivist
wow! my wife in lemuria…thats so cool
that old hippy declares
as you stand in front of
nk in lemuria
and her eyes follow you round your doom
nk all intoxicated n strange
waiting for you in this blue midnite jungle
and theres her husband
sk in lemurian pink
oh by far my best self portrait ever
gazing out sad n solemn
the full fucking weight n sadness of my 54 years
the mangy panther in the autumn of his life
a king with no kingdom
a count of no account
a regal royal loyal wasted idiot tripper
and theres elektra jansson kilbey in lemuria
like a stained glass window
and me n eve leaving sydney
(please sydney dont turn your back on me ..i whimper
as strings stolen from garage band pile on the melodrama)
next painting another voice
another reverie
no explanations
no interpretations
just my dreamy reveries musing
all my creamy thoughts oozing
wherever my cadillac mind wants to cruising
what little genius i am
what little genius i have
a little wonder for a wonderless age
if yer sick of pizzas n tv n botox n fashion n gossip
n sport n war n eating meat n politics
then you always got
poor old steve kilbey
with his greek myths
still stubbornly holding out
still ludicrously battling away
many many hours after his fifteen minutes came n went
painting singing writing
doing only what he knows
no better or worse
its all meaningless to the stars baybee
its all meaningless to the future and the past
oh i got the movements down, pat
i am a curmudgeonly old geezer
i am some spirit trapped in him
i dip into everyman
voices from the deep past inform me
the pull of the future still excites me
yes i will be rocking at eighty
the last oldman in a world of perpetual plastic youth
a museum piece
hear him sing about troy
hear him sing about ilium
hear him sing about herod and pilate and his astral plane
hear him sing about the heroes and monsters of olden times
hear him cram an angel in a buick
see him paint a vision of naivety
kilbeys childish world
dont you love to go there?
and when i finally disappear
will my world disappear with me?
no it will linger on n on
as people remember little snatches of things i said
someone will see a print of mine
hanging in a dusty attic
and marvel
at the naivety and love that created that objay dart
i want to prevail
i want to succeed
i want to change the world
i want to banish the incessant chatter n clutter
i want to live in an elegant way
i will become a constant gardener
i will shape my world
i will exclude the mundane dross
i will speak in terms of wonder and awe
i will dedicate everything to god
the original artist
who works in maya
the way i work in paint
i will continue on my merry way
oblivious to the fucking filistynes that surround us
no one can label god
he has every quality n then some
he is so much more than we could ever dream to suppose
he is behind every mystery
every coincidence
every lucky break
and the universe is a huge huge place
and its so much bigger than the bullshit they feed us
and the stupid stories they tell about their made up gods
petty tyrannical stupid little tent gods
invented ages ago by some prehistoric geezer
riding a fucking camel
you reckon that dude had the full picture of god
oh ha ha ha
now i am white hippy moses
my connections to god are apparent enough
if you but care to see
my god
who is the opposite of that old frumpish jehovah
my god aint jealous or vengeful
he dont have a chosen people
(what a fucking joke!)
he loves us all
hes detached from us all too
whatever you friggin want…you’ll get it!
you cant write his history in some little book
you cant tell bullshit tales how he killed the youths
who laughed at elishas bald head
by having em torn apart by bears
my god dont think like that
my god would have a laugh at old chrome dome elisha too
and then hed paint the fucking sunset an amazing golden glow
i pay no allegiance to anything
i have emerged fully formed
trumps in suits with bible belts holding up their short pants:
i am their very opposite
i represent the haphazard and gentle journey
into my own heart
and thus everyones heart
there is only one
all is one
and god has said to me
this is the most important journey i can make
and i said why?
and he said
oh….you’ll find out…..

kathy and dad again
moving through the stately suburbs
gliding past the lovely gardens of the latter day lords
moving down into second
as we slow down outside the cenotaph
dad switches on his little chrome radio
and tunes in a station
some jazzy vibey thing starts up
what are you doing for the rest of your life?
sings some smoky womans voice
ah listen kids says dad
he whistles the trumpet part as we drive under a humpback bridge
kathy turns around from the front seat
and offers me one of her fruit gums
dad comes to a big intersection n stops
roads lead off everywhere
lights blink on n flicker
eat at joes
newsagent
doherty bros used cars
dorothy hair and beauty
cons milk bar
we proceed north towards the big smoke
i touch dads neck just below the hairline
oh how i love the way his hair neatly stops
for so many miles
sitting here in the back
have i contemplated this mans head and neck?
i stroke his hair all smoothed down
this is a dream, isnt it?
i suspiciously ask
nobody says anything
the car rushes through the streets with a smooth rolling sound
i cant remember yesterday
i cant remember tomorrow
i feel fate trapping me in its web
inexorably moving in on me
in for the kill
coincidences multliply geometrically
all hunches and whims appear justified
dad n kathy say nothing
we seem to be driving in circles
the circles getting smaller and smaller
until i cant bear the unbearable pressure
it gets tighter and tighter
a white hot spear of pain shoots up my spine
i begin to shake
i think
beauty must be convulsive
the dream is tearing me apart
the dream is perforated
letting in other crazy dreams
i collide with the characters of my life
banger pearson and all the roadcrews
everyone is let loose
anachronistic dismayhem
kathy finally speaks
now are you satisfied steven
marty n ricky drive past laughing
aunty lou does a line of coke at the paradiso
ploog and i at kindergarten in 1960
tom n paul verlaine running away from home
thru kentucky
and the cold kentucky rain
natalie dalton from richmond virginia
shes playing on her front lawn
and clouds swirl through misty cotton
robert lurie pops up in my garage
where baby grande is murdering another hopeless song
boydie and leesy shake their heads
isadora telambi takes off her clothes in a holiday inn
david neil lies on a bed and watches
dutch pierre tiptoes through his two lips
slagger slade from lyneham primary jams with the who
bob clearmountain on location says its a wrap
and the phone rings
in some parallel universe
i have an exhibition of paintings
someone wants to talk to me about it
huh?!