posted on December 11, 2008 at 7:48 pm

uh huh
i cracked the sea
it looks a little like draped material
but it is the sea
i just looked long long long n hard
i started in a corner with a solitary ripple
n i drew each bloody line or i erased it away
my sea will do
my sea will be just fine
tibor got dragged away to his death
by a scrap metal man
nk n lil sk watch teary eyed from the window
dad…? says lil sk…whats wrong with tibor..
well darlin’ …i say
as they pull his hub caps off n thread a huge ugly chain
through his soft familial cabin…
well darlin’….tibors been a good car…
…and we all loved him….
…i loved ‘im more than anyone….
….but you see …
theres this highway in the sky….
and by tea time tibor will be cruising it
his cd player will be pumping the gutter twins
where cars never run out of petchrul
n never over-heat
n never blow their head gaskets….
there is a groan as they winch tibor aboard
the big truck
he swings uncertainly in the air…
oh god his wheels go round searching for purchase
the men struggle with tibors mighty bulk
pushing n pulling him
at each new insult nk n lil sk softly moan
finally they get him lashed down
a man walks around doing something
oh no exclaims nk
there is a hiss n tibor lurches down…
theyre letting down his tires…she says teary eyed
the truck drives away through the rain
tibor bound n defeated….does he still feel pain?
i see my stupid bumper stickers disappear for the last time
“no fat blokes”
cleverly driving around pissing off half the geezers in australia
although bondi contains many fine specimens
the hinterlands are populated by lotsa blokes
eating lotsa cheesy wheezie
n drinking lotsa beery weary
n doing no exxy-size at all
they have become fat blokes
in other languages rendered thus
der grossen schwine-belly
los bastardos de blubbero
or simply
le grande splodge
anyway no insulting stickers for tibor 2
if there ever is a tibor 2, that is…..
ricki came over n i showed him some of my jack frost in usa 1991
i have 8 hours of vid im threatening to make into dvd
i play ricki the bit where our hapless t.m.
is hopelessly lost in the middle of some sorta turnpike ballsup
hes trying to make a call on a call box but the phones arent working
or he cant find any change
or he keeps dialling the wrong number
(no mobile phones in 1991, folks)
i’m filming him
i’m filming him on the side of a huge freeway
cars n trucks whizzing by in the rain in all directions
i’m laughing and cackling like a fiend from hell
at all his misfortunes
the guy is a strange lugubrious guy with thick feminine lips
n blinking hurt eyes like a cow
but he cant take a fucking trick
he sticks his last quarters in the last phone box
the quarters drop
he turns to me n winks
ah success…
hello …says a voice
the t.m. nods at me n smiles
hello he says
is this radio knqr point 99?
(we were sposed to be doing an interview there)
he waits confidently for the answer
it comes
oh…he says
they hang up
but he goes on saying something to the phone
i start cackling like a 3 year old moron
mclennan sits in the back o’ the car
so fucking imperiously
he smokes a cig
and waves the smoke out the window
in small precise hand movements
like a prince dismissing an unfavourite courtier
i report on our lack of progress
giggling n carrying on like an obnoxious prick
“we’re lost…giggle giggle
none of the phones work
hes got no more quarters..giggle giggle”
mclennan is not amused
he sits in a cold rage
disgusted by this jokers lack of wherewithal
is that camera on ? he hisses at me
as he puffs furiously on his peter stuvyesant
the dopey tm gets back in the car
grant is sitting looking at this huge fucking map
of new york phiilly n baltimore n all its highways
do you know where we are ? asks the dopey one hopefully
yes… says grant pointing to the middle
where a thousand complicated lines n symbols converge
..we’re somewhere here!..he says jabbing at the confusion
n thrusting the map at the guy as a wrinkled up ball
i go on filming n giggling
the guy goes on bumbling n stumbling
grant goes on silent n fuming
finally i try to film from the car
through the miserable drizzling rain
as the hapless tm in a booth
bashes a dead telephone down
over n over n over
in a senseless bloodthirsty rage..
when we finally arrive at the station
hours n hours late
its a little cottage in the middle of a fucking forest
im giggling
grant is fuming
the guy is bumbling
this has gotta come out
in between you’ll hear us playing some songs
and goofing off
grant regaling us with tales
me being me
a real turkey….before my great fall
my hair looks good tho…

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