posted on January 13, 2013 at 11:03 am
pink freud

pink freud

low hangin’ garden of sky

seaside suburbs under long grey

tiny rocks n stones white against orange

sandy soil throws up palms and arms

the idyllist at his work …no ordealist….

oh that theme from some a place

threw and threw those waves washed through

swimming between the oceans legs at woonona

dad says steven wake up we’re nearly there…..

oh my dad who now lives in my heart guide my fingers over piano

dad look i have done this and this and this….

the unmistakable sound of an empty room

i am not talking to nothing…am i…?

that old devil Mr Doubt……

soft laughter in the distance today …oh how kilbeyesque…..

i spit out songs like gods hurl out suns

42 years on the bass has paid off hand some lee in spades

oh how my hands glide and roam

i still like the simple stuff

the perfect equation of notes within the bar

the slight muffling on certain sections of inter string dialogue

the way the wood has soaked up your vibe deep and big time

oh my old friend how i bless the day i first laid my hands on you

softer than silk you effortlessly throb

your slender neck yet so easily strong

your notes linger on in sex in darkness in acrid scorching summers

i wrestle with your weight then youre nothing but light

the idyllist and his bass alone in this holiday planet abandoned

the idyllist with his songs from shallow callow youth and on

down swims idyllist and bass

down down down into specific ocean

into underwater realms and green shelves of melting ice

the steady pulse keeps me locked down

we pushing a gain white door polar vanilla

the idyllist wakes up at his desk

here are his pastels

here are his songs

the songs other people bought to sing to their wife

the song i cut short because it threatened me

the song i wrote about you that you hated

the songs with the meandering hippy razzmazzataz carryon palaver

the songs i didnt mean to be so mean

and the songs i didnt mean at all

drift deep child now

listen to your old soft sugar daddy dreaming under cloud

listen to the idyllist touching his bass

it is almost inaudible

listen to the rings ear that resonates on after universe is gone

listen to the monkeys in lemuria chatter like swans

my songs interrupt me who want to be fed

what did you come up with kilbey today?

how is that cold ocean water laps round your heel

how is that sound of seagull so magically done

oh mister my bass is playing your song

that song about that woman who done did you wrong

you begged to her to shut up you begged her to stop

a pity she was engaged to a cop

my songs on the verandah are growing fine hairs

my songs up the chimney that mantelpiece scares

my songs under rocks in pools by the shore

singing i wonder why our steven dont come down here no more

some woman giggling a few windows away

while over her antelopes nice zephyrs play

and inside her garments of flesh and of soul

the love that is healing her blind as a mole

just like some mother licking a foal

i shot up sea creeks and each tiny shoal

my bass leans against the wall havin’ a sleep

i tether my thoughts with a gossamer chain

and neither of us will ever be unhappy again

but my bass grunts derision my bass starts to growl

my bass is murderous beast on the prowl

with the talons of eagle and the fins of an owl

with the razor snaked line the goes round the block

some of those gathered had walked right through rock

theyd arrived in a cloud but they  left in a blaze

they gathered in storms with summoning gaze

they asked for more songs more songs for idyll

idyll man

idyll woman

idyll photospheric stream of dream pumped down to me

idyll idyll on the wall

who idyllist of them all?

oh you mighty time being you freckled man hag burn

oh you mangy panther decked under halls of tile

oh you white hippy moses who leadeth his people to……nirvana

oh you nevets yeblik thrice cursed with empathy entropy and ache

moving in all angles your idyll mansuit captures experience

you are the universes fawn

you are st steven beloved of summers and idylls and caravans

flippers and snorkel and spear and mask  

oh its is you time being

you are the true idyllist

there is none

can be none

will be none

more idyllistic than you!

the bass was too saturday-fied to respond

the songs were still hungry

the wind waited

what does kilbey do next?



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