The Time Being | Steve Kilbey

by the shores of the pacific
in the leafy eastern suburbs
lived the singer nevets yeblik
with his thousand dollar falcon
walking on the rainy boardwalk
hiding in the misty evenings
drinking buzz and blowing ganga
damiana and yohimbe
with his wispy hair and freckles
fingers gliding o’er his fender
bearded and five times a father
pulling music from the ether
doing all his naive paintings
doing yoga in the twilight
breathing out in pranayama
and aligning all his chakras
diving for a deeper meaning
listening to his own minds chatter
ignorance and empty grandeur
voices whisper in his memory
songs he sang that come to haunt him
words he wrote that then meant nothing
nights he spent with white insomnia
writhing on the hooks of poppies
music deafened in its hearts head
marbled veins of hidden meanings
things he never meant to be there
others all may take their meaning
only some will be enamored
in the world so dull and weary
no one cares for subtle magic
only blasting screaming yelling
only dancing death and metal
all the noise and all the turmoil
fading in the daybreaks silence
then he rises from his slumber
leaves his fine wife to her dreaming
leaves his daughters softly breathing
as the lay entwined together
sitting down at his computer
typing through the misty morning
as the bondi rain comes softly
falling on the sand and bindis
falling on the tramps and tourists
on the roofs of the pavilion
running off the swaying palm trees
lightly touching on the windshield
blurring all the scarlet brakelights
reflected off the mornings phantoms

painkillers
yeah i know you little lambs are aching for your painkiller
oh rest ass-ured my children
it slowly is wending its way across the universe next door to you
its so good for you
a musical aphrodisiac from king rude daddy longblogs
painkiller * painkiller * painkiller *
soothe your aching nerves
stimulayte your mmm mmm
oh painkiller you sweet thing
consolation of the loveless
oh so much new new wild sense-ation
love reaction
that pumping bass guitar
killer you play dumb bass
round and fat and expensive
thrumming and coming
painkiller warning do not operate secret machinery
do not take with alcohol or a month with a seafood in it
not for breast feeding muses
not for the elderly infants
painkiller is a herbal natural synthesis
of finest available orgasmic ingredients
including pounding drums
grinding guitars
urging voices
painkiller is completely gluten free
painkiller available in one size fits or too badde for you
painkiller stays at astral travel lodges
painkiller recommends other steve kilbey products
painkiller say goodbye to headache and mens true cramps
say goodbye to unsightly thighs and botched brazilians
say hello to the gnu yew
say hello to a bright future hand in hand with painkiller
painkiller rock hard live long
painkiller hippy astronaut waitless
orchestras!
choirs!
radiotronicks!
effects peddles!
mike r’foans!
string theories!
machine and sticky heads!
organs!
drums ticks!
here are a free sample of lyrics
a
you
it
i
no
here are some of the chords used
a bad gag
b flat or b sharp
gee sus diminished
here are some of the praises criticks have heeped on painkiller
its ok
what…?
sorry he didnt listen to it
is it finished yet?
painkiller
panefiller
coming sooner than you thought
later than you hoped
earlier than expected
expected any year now
PAINKILLER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

easy day
old sk goes swimmin’
smokes dope
plays guitar
thinks about nothin’ much
don’ wanna lay nothin’ too hard on ya
now
and then
again and again
cant seem to please every one
why fucking try?
cos thats the kinda man i am
i try to please everybody
usually pleasing none
yeah thats ok
least i dont work for the man
least i just hang around day in day out
a gig here
a meeting there
a session tonite in fact
singing sing singing
not work at all
god i am grateful i dont work
writin’ popsongs aint work
it might be hard to write good ones
but it aint work
nor is writing po-etry
or painting with pastels
doing yoga
watching the baby
doing chi gong
picking up kids from school
listening to pod
eating crisps
drinking blood orange juice
miranda came over last night
she is stunningly gorgeous
a cross between patti smith and uma thurman
with freckles and swedish accent
we are on each others wavelength
edgy girl tho she is sometimes
elli behaving very aristocratically
and swanning about
aurora has a lovely shaped head and stunning jawline
eve is energetic and works at another level
scarlet kilbey is a porky naughty little gooseball
my wifes very pretty
my brothers are nice
my mothers birthday tomorrow 23rd oct
happy birthday mum
there will be a card arriving before christmas
with a million dollar cheque
my sisterinlaws are lovely
my nieces n nephew are nice
ok
i should be happy
the prime minister is a sad squeaky little creep
is he crying, dad? aurora asks when she sees him
the opposition leader
a smug school boy debater type
leader of the fucking LABOR party
lookin’ to buy a 5 million dollar HOLIDAY house
ah…aint you on the wrong team mister?
howard is a belligerent weasel
rudd is a twittering hamster
neither give a fuck about the “people”
neither is what i’d really call a man
both are effeminate in various ways
howard with his squeaky high pitched voice
rudd with his lips
his lipstick looks stupid says evie
and both are thoroughly despicable charisma-free twerps
surely we have better than this
please bring on turnbull n garrett
they gotta be better than these insipid limp chimps
sorry i cant vote for either of these hams
lucky i aint registered
bye

earth is just warming up
and up
and up
first the equator
the tropics
qld
darwin boiled over
down to sydney
then south south
away from the heat
away from the fucking searing blasting boiling sun
no respite
gippsland in victoria fries
melbourne a cinder
over the sea
but no respite
we weep for hobart blackened treeless dry and burnt
now we australians
we who are left
and the south americans
among them several magic realists
some new zealanders
we are antarcticans
3rd generation
domedwellers
ice men
but ice melting even here
glaciers flowing
the great shelves crashing in green warmer water
the mountains are re exposed
birds nesting
goats let loose
in summer
the young people walk in the mountains
many go missing
what strange menace lurks there
we who thought this place previously uninhabited
let me tell you how wrong we were
they were there
under the ice
we have seen their cities
at first only ruins we thought
weve seen their lights under ice
and now the ice is melting
their cities deep in the thawing ice
as the mercury moves up the glass
like a snake slithering up a tree
oh yes there are antarctic snakes now
and wolves too
set loose from a menagerie
other beasts unidentifiable
boss that was a dragon said a thai man
could they have unleashed these
those in the under-ice city
nevermind
the long summer comes
warmer and warmer
coming in from all sides of the sky
warmer and warmer
bunyips have appeared in the lake
they have taken several divers
jim who has koori blood identified them
life appears where it has no where else to go
but even the monsters
even the ones underground in the ice
all of them
all of us
all of it
must
will
burn

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