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!