The Time Being | Steve Kilbey

music
the beat
being in and out of time
being on the money
staged adulation
fake applause
the audience un moved
words leave your mouth
brandishing admonishing
rock n roll medievalitica
the black prince baybee
the jack of spades in spades
with his lowdown moustache
you never catch jack of clubs with that moustache
you never gonna take a trick like that
jack of spades can play guitar though
fender mustang thru a load of stuff
he rides in the back compartment
he travels light years away
he blazes his own glorious trail
he finds a path between the women
he plays like a grand slammin’ jammin’ fiend
he summons up the devils dandruff
he lays it down in pastures green and cool
laughing all the way to the riverbank
pastoral space rock
the flowers of the valley
the tiny lights in the sky
a journey outside time
we are savage and intelligent
the music is the key
must be in key to open the love lock
the locked-on heatseeker eros
the jack of spades calls cupid to him
in all his vainglory
cupido vulgaris
with his arrows of love love love
the guitar strings
the bowstrings
bing! go the strings of your heart
the fingers pull n tweak
the fingers doing the work of music and love
the fingers which scurry over the frets
the fingers which hurry over the women
the stage which sinks under the music
the swamp of sound
the murky jungle juiced source of slither
music which charms snakes
music glyph in sonic sky
play your guitar jackie of spades
oh man lean on that thing like a bent snout
oh let it wail shakey flimsy brother
let it out and about
make it shout the blues back at blacks n whites
let it quote shakespeare and dolly dagger
let it walk with jesus down the kings road in 1978
the messiah in chelsea boots n mod-z-art white drainpipes
the apostles smoking and inventing their creed
the disciples lost in the crowd
ready to rock
ready to reel in their nets full of men
spades over hearts
wands over cups maybe too
guitar over itself
woman over man
man over woman
the tide pulls the moon closer
all things flux n flow
being in
being out

looking back its so easy to see the mistakes
oh bitter regrets
oh how i blew it time and time again
oh how i wished id listened more
and kept my mouth shut more often
how i wish i’d thought things through
and i’d been more polite
behind a typewriter i was tap tap tapping away
making up lies and lives
fact and fiction
i tell you truthfully
for these lines are hazy to me nowadays
if you tell a big enough lie
you can adorn it with enough imaginary baubles
you can bullshit the people with words
you can make it seem like anything happened
you can put it to music and they sing along
singalong as one to your sad songs full of lies
the huge lie contains a tiny truth
such a delicate truth
it will not suffer a name
the big lies open you up
after all you enjoy them…i guess
the enormous blatant lie
the monstrous fib
the wild exaggerations
cute little white lie
the obstinant guff
the opaque denials
stuff made up on the spot
spot made up on the stuff
saying any old thing
any old thing you thought was clever
or cos it rhymed
or cos it fit the bloody meter
singing isnt saying though
im not saying singing isnt saying neither
you can sing and mean something
you can say what you like
you can say something youd never sing
singing says something you could never say
music sing with winged words
music can say something even without singing
what does music say so wordlessly
she sings but not in words
she comes in singing
music
music saying and singing yet doing neither
anyway
many can say
few can play
fewer can sing
fewer still can sing and mean something
and very few
mean anything
to you
the piano speaks to me
joy and triumph
pain and sorrow
no words
it has no words
it speaks in broad sweeps
it speaks in tiny creaks
it speaks in decaying shadows
it speaks in sustaining haunting overtones
it speaks in its hammers n wires
it speaks in its pedals n wood
inside its mysterious chest music is created
oh most beautiful and self contained of all instruments
even in silence your beauty speaks in spades
the possibilities you contain are endless
you need no words
your fingers will find the words
your fingers push down here and there
oh the subtle textures of touch you must master
i used to see my father play the piano
the piano became an extension of my father
my father used the pianos voice
to sing his songs he wouldnt think of writing
the keys went up n down
the pedals went up n down
out came his english blokey cockney song
a song about all the pretty girls hed met
a song about cold london winter
a song about the second world war
a song about all the other wars england had been in
a song about smoking cigarettes n drinking tea
a song about earning yer crust n paying the bloody bills
a song about fixing cars and watering the lawn
jaunty confident relaxed stuff
he took over on the piano
with no self doubt
no hesitation
he never wondered if hed make a mistake
tho he almost always did
he could sit down at a piano anywhere
and strike up a good tune that people liked
you didnt have to have read his reviews
he didnt need amps or eyeliner neither
its all relative
if only if only if only
i only got part of what he could do
the way it came so easy to him
i say how you know what to play
he say i dunno my fingers just go
piano
yes i had piano lessons
but i never learnt nothing
he didnt need no lessons
his fingers just go there on their own
why wont mine?
look i let them do as they please
oh no what a racket daddy-o
why didnt i get this bit
i have the desire that it should happen
i expect it should happen
it never happens
oh piano
not so easy to get to know
sometimes piano or music
she reveals more than youd dared to hope for
some lovely undeserved intimacy
oh music i love you
oh music sleep with me
oh music sing to me in a piano language
the original language of love
music
later
came
the words
lovely torch songs to make me weep
unrequited love and mournful ballads
i like sad songs
is this sad?
nevermind
hold that thought
think it up on your own
chop up a little language
sprinkle on some fairydust
some flakes of congealed nice
some allegorical herb
some harmonic edge
simmer
cook
shoot
camera
recording
live!
and over to you…..
probably in hollywood

theres nothing to stop you…..
leaden afternoon
music percolates
follow the shadow with your eraser
plane off tiny planes
the things know what they want
small arrangement
painting n poetry n music
all the same
all the same
subtlety
suppleness
a flick or a curl or an adverb
a hammer a shading an allusion
slide colour comma
principles so slowly revealed over lifetime
you guide the pastel over the paint
change words slightly for flow
a note distorts n releases
universal ratio of beauty
map of the subway subconscious
tokens of travel
proof of arrival
you say
i know why i can be bothered
train of thought
concept of conception
in the roots of the mind
where you cannot willingly go
i have taken it upon myself
in the substrata
in the permafrostiness
in the crocodilian regions
in the chambers of black mist
when i thought i was asleep
your mind is a vast continent
deserts n tundras
steppes and stairs
cities teeming with lifestyle choices
men n women chained to their own times
the one who remembers
the message is too subtle to transmit
or even to think of it at all
it is elusive, the message
it is quicksilver
its nature is ineffable
it forever recedes
you think you got it but…
oh no
its slipped away through your fingers n toes
it ties everything up neatly though..in one hit
this formula
or set of formulae
to vibrate faster…whatever n howsoever
to vibrate faster=veganism
as far as i can tell
to become aware
aware of what?
ah, youll know when you become aware..
can nothing solid be said?
the knowledge is not knowledge
its pre verbal,post lingual intuitional bing bang
its knees up mother brown as sung by vishnu the preserver
with freddy nietzche playing the piano
and the nibelung on b.vox
what would i know anyway?
if i knew i’d be rich rich rich
or leave this world today, right now
sometimes though
i think ive seen it
the message
the equation
the sign
the signal
the answer
the solution
the idea
the big picture
the design
the yoga
the union
the poetry in motion
the moon n stars
everything
all bound up
one law which governs it all
is it the law of love?

oh
all those things i cant tell you about
all that stuff i cant bear to forget
and i cant stand to remember
the dark stuff
the weird scenes inside the silvermine
banking on nights to never end
that always do
oh that cold light
12 hours hence lies another night
another room to take you in its warm arms
in the darkness
white powder
flesh
someone in a costume
oh god my ears are ringing
wine bottles full of starblood
cos it all fills me with longing
for some new violation
for some transgression of the outside world
to take it and bend it and have it your own way
to bend it over n over again
according to your will
a little maid appears
im here to do your room mr kilbey
oh ok
yes turn down my eiderdown
turn it down the way you do
im having the world a la carte
im a hungry man travelling thru a forest in 1616
i meet a little blonde maid in a dell
sweet sunlit bower
we lay among the flowers
a man needs a maid
maid bring me my gloves
maid bring me my glasses
i need to see better
this delicate work i do
these improvisations on a theme
come here now maid
and take away these things
im so busy lazing away here
the world is chucked out the window
look out the window
what do you see
the world, of course
i see myself in the mirror
all bothered n distracted
my chest heaving like a sea
my heart beating like a drunk drummer
walking on this dipping floor
dripping dew drops and snow flakes
pink candles flare in the corners
shrine to some kytheran goddess
venus in a shell harbour
venus in synthetic furs
venus, fly! trap!
the candles emit some scent
has permeated my cavernous mind in its fogginess
the smoke hangs in the air suspended
sweet bitter taste in my mouth
oh is a saint supposed to do this?
i remember my name again
i seem disconnected from its anglosaxon implications
i see it as disembodied vowels n consonants
poetry floods thru my drains
all those rude n rotten fucking poets
who knew how to live it up
all the way down to jimbo
ah poor sweet dead jimbo
too soon
too soon
gone down below where the goblins go
oh no jimbo 27 too soon to go
you saw it coming tho
sweet arthur rimbaud
rockstarchildpoet
you had it all your way
absinthe bent your brain
and you got it all down
deranged n derugulated
you let your senses wander
but jus’ like me n jimbo
we were lookin’ at the big picture too
the big picture on the wall in my room
little maid please straighten up the big picture
oh its hanging so crooked
like a guilty serpent at a chickens funeral
the big picture i kept my eye on
like jimbo
and some other long gone cats
alley cats winos dope fiends poets n layabouts
visionary fools getting it all down
and me…
i gotta get it all down
down on paper
down my throat
into my self
bang it up
im rushing here and there
im on my run
i dont care to listen
i dont care to hear your warnings
this is my favourite thing right here
my little favourita
maiden heaven
bedrumour
honeymooner
lovesnatcher
bloodboiler
heartacher
sugarsniffer
backbreaker
it goes around again
will this never end
melted icing in your rearview
closing in on ya honey like a bad cop
coming down like the law
taking you under protective
restraining you for your own
getting the truth anyway they can
finding out all about ya
and what you been doing with yourself
like a premontion of a headline
take a dive in the 13th parallel
impaled on a song you are
hovering over it like a dragonfly
invisible inaudible wings
snapped at by the sick olde toads
the goldfish lear at you from underneath
they look up your name thats starts with a ?
and then suddenly it all ends
a burst of flame
the canopy implodes
the cockpit is torn apart in white flame
i reach for the ripchord
as im spat out
back into the world
the fresh air singin’ in my earrings
the grey clouds like a shroud over the doomed city
the endless ocean
lapping and licking
the countless grains of sand

the leader of the oppos
in australia
caught at a strip club in 2003
“it was only the 2nd time in my life i was drunk!” he says
yeah sure
jus’ like all of ’em
and you never inhaled the dope
or actually “had” sex with the woman
or took the bribes either
or said we should go to the war in iraq
do people believe this shpiel?
cant they take it square on the double chin
and say
yeah i get drunk n go to strip clubs…
do we have to have these pathetic bullshit excuses?
now me
sk
i never been drunk in a strip club
i only been in strip clubs 2 or 3 times in my life
and i never really been drunk ever
knocking back beers n watching some bint get undressed for money
it seems tedious
i mean if it was smoking dope
n the chicks were doing it cos they actually wanted to…
well
i mean thats more interesting i suppose
but the thought of doing it for money cancels out any enjoyment
that goes for justa bout anything i can think of
imagine that….
i never been to a brothel
jesus…
they should be paying me…..!
same with music too….
if you do it for the money n money only
well…it shows…
dont you wanna know yer performers are there cos they love it
dont you wanna know the artist painted it for the hell of it
not for money?
youll soon pick up on which way it is
or the ratios of money versus love
we have to conclude that our nic
is doing it for the love
because she must be so rich she doesnt need anymore dough
the politicians want the money AND the power
except the ones who already got the money
like our mal
and power…
well baybee
its like heroin
you can never get enough
always leaving you desperate for more
but our kev the oppo leader
he must be pinching himself
an ordinary little fellow like him
becoming the p.m. of orstrayliah
and then
ratss
the drinkin’ in strippin’ rear their ugly heads
now the question you gotta ask , is
can a risque olde roue who likes booze n boobs
still be a good prime ministah?
are the 2 mutually exclusive?
i lose more respect for the geezer with his tepid denials
“i was too drunk to remember”
than if he said
“look i like a drink
i like a bit of naked crumpet
now lets get the fucking boys home from iraqi-nam”
but we already feel fooled before he even gets in
does mrs oppo leader agree?
i reckon
that the electorates opinion is this:
wine women n song is ok
as long as you get us outta the war
and did something about the global doo dah…
finally
i ask the universe out loud
couldnt your humble scribe be prime minister
i am better looking than either candidate
im fitter
i can play a guitar n sing
i’d look better in an expensive suit by a mile
im much much more eloquent n charming
i speak a bit of swedish (i bet neither of them can)
i have no brothel/strip club past to hide
no drinking problem…or gambling
or wife bashing
no dark fascist/communist/terrorist past
ive never ripped of the tax payers (that much)
no drink driving
no violence outside nightclubs
no criminal connexions
except for that one time in new york
ok
they got me
but…
it was a mistake…
look
i was…..innocent
i never took drugs ever ever ever
well not after my rebirth into the church of man, love
well not many times
a few
i deeply regret it all now
it wasnt really me
it was me….
but somehow it wasnt
look
im squeaky clean now
i never did nothin’ ever
please
cant the tb be the pm?

did glynnis johns just walk out on me?

hadda a cold cold swim in the sea
winter has returned in spades
bondi looking empty n deserted n down on its luck
hadda a half hour massage
sciatica says massage lady
are they a spin off from megadeth?
i ask my mouth full of towel
im face down
shes working on my back
outside the door i can hear the pacific ocean pounding
and rain hammering the pool
she finds knots and she leans on em
they try n squirm away but shes on their case
just in the small of my back some nerves misfiring
shes uncompromising
trying to break up the knots….
afterwards
i listened to for your pleasure by roxy music
as i walked thru the rain
a lotta impromptu type material in there
sorta have a blow n stick some words on it
it really struck me today
bogus man
the last track
every dream home
very laissez-faire music
but i never saw it as a kid buying the stuff
i never saw the way people wrote things
they seemed to have fallen out of the air to me
now i can hear it they way it happened
a one note jam n an impro vocal
bang! theres 10 minutes gone on side 2
people’ll interpret it
give ya the benefit of the doubt
cmon yer bryan ferry n its 1973…!
we’re all caught up in this thing
its rushing headlong
intelligent glamourous stars have broken the hegemony
of the prog n heavy behemoths
and little stevie kilbey turned 19
but he still aint written a decent song yet
he just wallows around in 10th rate versions
he cant figure out how they do it yet
the double tracking and the reverberation
the way it all has to fit together
i didnt know you could have a one note jam
throw some words on top n youd have “bogus man”
because ……
n then
i figured it out
i also figured out intentionality
i figured out ambiguity
i figured out harmony n melody
i figured out recording n mixing n arranging
i figured out how to collaborate
i figured out how to do it all on my own
my own self perpetuating well of song
that will never
can never dry up
my own relationship with my own muse
before all that
i was outside looking in
i had my nose pressed up against the window pane
i bought roxy music albums
i thought they were great
i couldnt see i could ever do it myself
1976 -1979 was my hermit era
in a spare room
i took the process apart on my 4 track
in a vacuum
no friends or supporters
no one to listen but my brothers
in a backwater of this world
employed but not working
at night i come home to townhouse in rivett
in the spare bedroom on freezing cold nights
or boiling hot afternoons
chipping away at the puzzle
like a painter working on perspective
i was buying and devouring large quantities of music
i was driven
i was obsessed with it
i imagined what it was like
to make a great record which people would love
yet no one appeared and opened any doors
the people who did hear what i was doing
were puzzled unimpressed n disinterested
i entered contests but had my cassettes returned
every record company in england rejected me
sent me back my stuff
but i loved it too much to stop
i believed in myself so unshakeably
i knew i wasnt the very best
i knew i wasnt the most original
i knew i wasnt the most talented
or any of that
but the sheer awfulness of most of the stuff
being made outside of the greats…..
no one seemed to do what i wanted to do
i loved loadsa music but i never felt it was superior
to what i could do……
deep down
what i wanted
and never could have achieved
was a fusion of all the very best best stuff in rock
as i saw it
enos new discoveries
bowies coolness n voices
dylans intelligence n hipness
beatle boys music
stones image n lifestyle
bolan otherwordliness n childlike naivety
so you see there was a lofty ambi ambi ambition
for a start
if you ever hear those various bootleg records of mine
like preformation n early demos(imaginitive title)
(and they werent demos neither.)..
anyway if you hear on those collections of early songs
i was trying to hit the eno button a lot harder
but eventually market forces led to it being all channeled
into the church
but i was as much an electro rocker as a popsmith
i was doing long ambient bits n noisey things
and everything
it was strange to one day wake up
n realise i suddenly was representing all things sixties
what about kraftwerk n la dusseldorf
what about lou reed n ultravox
ah everything got pushed thru the nozzle
i noticed some people were musicians not stars
i noticed some stars were not musicians
i noticed myself not much of a star or musician
but i loved it
and my love had unlocked some pieces for me
my diligence had pierced musics armour
and my intelligence had wormed its way in
and it started to get rapidly easier for me
i call myself a genius sometimes on here
half mocking half serious
but its not musical genius
not as you would know it
but a genius for recognition
in a mess of sound
i will recognize
in a mess of words
i will recognize
i can assess n decide rapidly
i can detect potential a mile off
i put my processes to work
i had the ability to make great songs appear
apparently out of the blue
but it was the processes
my modi operandi
they were bound to write something
that someone
would like sooner or later
or what…..?
i am the time being
these are my journals…..

io io ao

i dont know what you want
its not even 8 oclock in the morning here
sunday morning coming down fast above you
i need to write something though
and fast
all day n night my mind is bubbling over with ideas…
muse : just show us the good ones
i watch show on the saints
except for one good song..
what a bloody awful racket!
and how amazingly like lord byron bailey speaks
muse : have you actually ever heard lord byron?
no, but i bet he sounded like bailey
ed was lugubrious as usual
wry and lofty
what strange rockstars these 2 were…
damo lovelock waxes v. enthusiastic
even nicky cave wades in with his top drawer praise
to hear these guys talk
youd think the saints were like
guitar weilding tchaikovskys or somethin’
opening up some huge new possibility in life
bobby forster
a man of impeccable taste i guess
goes so over the top
with his descriptions
of the 1st time he heard im stranded
electric pulsations going up his feet and spine
leaving him prostrate breathless
at this stage i says to the wife
an’ you thought i was over-enthusiastic last week……?!
bradley sheppard from the goo-roos
is mystified by its eternal punk enigma
look the list goes on…
but what im really thinking
cos the saints
i admit to not understanding
in the parlance of shallow hollywoodesque cant
i dont get it
i didnt then
i still dont
i dont hate em either
theyre just outside my sphere of reference
(i used to have prehistoric sounds and it was ok)
and it occurs to me
that richard n marty both played with bailey
at different stages
but one thing you gotta admit
is that the saints had that raw sound
before most others
in the middle of the very confused 1970s
they were no namby pamby glam turkey like moi
i guess i jumped straight over punk
from glam to psychedelic comeback
in one fell swoop
like a knight on the chessboard
arriving at different places unexpectedly
actually i watch saints show
to re evaluate whether i would like staff-ish on there
is it a classic australian album album?
do i want a load of lumineries saying how great it was?
muse: i’d say so….
do i want to be on there raving on about myself?
muse : i bet you do….
do i want a load of mega successful hipsters
saying how they nicked everything from starfish?
muse: you might want it…but it aint gonna happen…
and you have no control
there i’ll be
in a shiny empty recording studio somewhere
oooh look doris…its steve fucking kilbey
oh boris…he looks like one of the nine mortal kings
i dont like that silly beard
hes got a good suntan though boris
oh look there he is when he was still glamourous(sigh)
i wish hed stop going on about himself…….
……and saying all those big words
….and comparing himself to his betters
…..and smirking….god thats annoying
…and touching the silly beard
…..and dropping in foreign phrases like zeitgeist n je ne sais quoi
…..and looking bemused and self satisfied
…..clearing his throat before weighty pronouncements
…..rubbing his hands together smugly
…..long rambling answers full of tedious details
…..putting on his english n australian accents, i mean, which is it?
….hey doris
what boris?
the shows over
damn!
i wanted to hear that one good song!
which ones that ?
you know la la la dah dah
oh yeah
the one they did in that tv show
thats right
i wanted to hear what he said about that….
why wouldya.?…itll just demystify it for ya, dear…
ah youre right doris
youre so right

in my dream
im touring nz again
i turn up somewhere
struggle to play my twisted music
my music thats stillborn as the 1st note hits the air
leaving the crowd puzzled and deadpan
my non guitar that warps and curls
my 12 no my 53 string guitar
the strings are all independently doing their own things
the frets are moving or like insurmountable train tracks
nothings in tune
nothings gonna stay that way
i exit the gig
my wifes with me
carrying something and looking concerned
fuck no! i scream n wail
outside in some frozen windy alaskan street scene
theyve stolen the fucking falcon!
my wife looks on sadly but saying nothing
in this bleak empty night street
an empty spot where the falcon once parked
it wasnt much
*but it was mine*
i’m wrestling some memory here
some memory of how my car was stolen
over n over again
in some parallel dream
and i angrily realise that they did it
they
always bloody them
those plotters n debtors n creditors
those olde enemies of the playground
and the scene
backstage backstabbers
mollified molls n oldstyle bodgies
the guys who worked with my father
who didnt understand me
the characters i’d met in books
who put my teeth on edge
them
a great conspiracy of ill wishing clowns
followin’ me around
now they stole my falcon in my dream
outside a long deserted gig
in the middle of the west island of nz
in this raining sleeting street
with my wife who says nothing
but looks on with deep pity
and concern
as i tear myself apart in anguish
a vision comes to me of them
stealing my falcon while i was inside playing
of course i scream wordlessly at my wife
they knew where i would be
she nods sadly like im just raving now
i see them stealing the car and laughing
swarming all over it like termites in a beam
the falcon starts up reluctantly for them
they force it to…..and it revs up angrily
as they all drive away in it
laughing themselves stupid
i can see them
i can hear them
i am in the car among them
as they speed away somewhere secret
where i’ll never see my falcon again
somewhere in nz or even further
but i understand their malice towards me
every little drop of wrath that each one sweats
in the freezing night of my dream
it all makes perfect sense to me
i never stop to say
hang on a minute
back outside the gig
the falcon is mostly gone
but shimmering tantalisingly like a mirage
returning briefly to fool me
each time this happens
my misery seems to redouble
and then
i open my eyes
in the grey light of early dawn
ive been struggling for aeons
im worn out by my anguish
i see wife and baby asleep
but feel as if i must have disturbed them
i feel now that i was mumbling and thrashing about
and they only just slept thru it by a micron
and the theft of the car is still hitting me
but the internal logic of the dream melts
as i wake more and more
yet in that dream
i had been so firmly convinced
that i was i
never thinking i was a man asleep in a bed
i was so sure it was me
and it was all happening
i never would have dreamed it was a dream
that is how this life will seem when its over i wager
you are so sure of the rock solid solidity of your world
but what do you really remember
how far back do your memories go
is it any wonder
we cannot recall
our other lives

i write
what they tell me to write
i take it all down
i accept it as it comes
aint no poetry
aint no reg-u-lar story either
just a feel
a need
a voice whispers
something
i try to hear it
im listening so hard
soon as i stop
the voice runs like a river
like no one you ever met
mr featherstone
containing his own contradiction
will he fall or will he fly ?
his burden is that he is his own opposite
within him 2 natures cancelled out
not just in a name
his desire to fly
his tendency to sink
the struggle for up
the pull of down
man + beast
living + dead
white + black
spirit + flesh
the feathery spirit
that can glide thru the astral like a falcon
at speed of thought
faster than light
lighter than thought
the stone-like flesh
weighing you down
oh you love it
and
you hate it
the need for other stone-like things
pinned in this continuum until it gives out
sourced in a vortex of gravity and intention
needing to decipher great quantities of information
strapped to the age i live in and its zeitgeist bastardry
a timid savage with spear and net
hunting down the last remnants of my own life
running willy nilly and helter skelter
the stone-like flesh
we sculpted with our deeds
the faces that show your kindness and blindness
the years which have meddled in your fine affairs
the seconds which undid the stone
one by one
each second
like a feather flying over stone, brushing it lightly
the seconds have eroded the stone
undone it has become
and the spirit then clings
to a number of things
things like all the stone memory
the world of pleasant flesh and wine and dreams
the hell of disease and bile and fever
the spirit forgets its feathers
the stone must break apart
the autumn stone
the winter almost over
the cold seeking stone miseries will be gone…they say
the stone masons chisel feathery angels wings
for one who will soon both down and up
for what is in your nature
the voices conclude
thats all for today

deliria fevers
youre a hot little number aint ya?
oh you got me my miss dizzy and miss fainte
cos im stuck in this spot herein the blasting sun
but half the time im stumbling in snow
deliria fevers get yer hooks outta me
cos youve trapped me in a loop
and im seasick on dry land
i dont want to close my eyes
and i cannot stay awake
and i falling in the ink
washed up on the sure
dazzled in your arms
reflected in your eyes
transmitted in my head
presented in a way
youre singing to me now
across the black divide
you smashing up my space
you swimming thru my mind
you drowning in my dreams
toss toss toss turn turn
rock n roll over deleria fevers
rockn roll off me deleria fevers
rock n roll offer deleria fevers
rock n roll of her deleria fevers
a sick song has started up
a sea sick warped n horrid snatch of song
a twisted childish melody that stabs
as it squirms throughout my thoroughfares
deleria fevers got a strange strange dagger
inlaid the handle with the blues
double sharp double bladed double yer trouble back
oh that dagger hardly felt it going in
but now you left me its a wound up wound
and my blood rises around my choking ears
boom boom boom it is a monsters drum of doom
banging thru the unholy night
as the colour drains out of the world
and we turn black n white n grey
and then only tiny moving touches of shade
that reassemble in mathematical patterns
marching forward the trillions n the billions of them
no no no
these formulae drive me desperately mad
each little hieroglyph represents a living nausea
these equations are the very fundamentals of sickness
every disease indexed and catalogued in binary germs
flies come and hover
cockroaches carapaces and trails of ants
worms waiting within out own flesh
i cant remember who i am or used to be
deleria fevers serves it all up a la carte
memories and songs
all my songs
go round n round in the spin
the sky spins around me full of my songs
my songs all mutated and truncated
wait wait it doesnt sound like that
deleria fevers singing in her sick sexy voice
deleria fevers dancing in her sick sexy skirt
she comes up real close
but her face is all distorted
oh it looks better from a distance i see
what distance…? im behind your eyes
says deleria whose a minute of hours
and as big as a mountain of mountains
shes screams at you in her silent whisper
she impresses you with her burning outline
she sears you
she sees you
she seize you
sickly confusion
giddy whirling twirling
overheated rut in the sky
where you slip outta focus
forget yourself they say
lose yourselves in us
ancestors
ghosts
phantoms in the haze
and they all have their story
and they all take your hand
pull you this way and that
overloaded with their sadnesses
white hot whispers
the light hurts your eyes
something thumps
and you come awake
awake to another level
awake to another devil
deleria fevers
says
viva!