stumble home from high school
along the old road by the quarry and
through the bush beside the beach
roaming among the rockpools
full of green starfish
and little bearded lizards scuttle around on the stones
yeah the beach shack is cool and still
hidden in the palms and the great oaks
take off my clothes
i lay down in the warm afternoon
i put harvest on
on the little record player
neil youngs lonesome old voice
the wide prairie spaces in the music
the melancholy simplicity of the rhythm :
think i’ll pack it in n buy a pick up
move it down to L A…..
a fly drones on in the shack
possums scratch scratch scratch
the cicadas sing outside like the summers tinnitus
a constant deafening ring
but the sounds all melt in with neil
a tractor miles away purrs along like an organ
the parakeets overhead a brief twittering fanfare
the faraway traffic like swelling cymbals
the surf pounds like a drum on the skin of the beach
then in wormholes in my mind that connect me
to the cosmic all
i hear the rush of the planets
i hear the moaning moon bound to this green blue earth
i hear the thoughts of the citizens in their hondas n jaguars
i hear the songs of memorial drive
i hear music from biblical times
oh i tell you it was a fierce and wonderful racket
i hear gilgamesh turn on the radio in his spacecraft
he tunes in fm 69.69
a blast of incandescent sound
behind it all i hear neils weary trembling falsetto
i hear the clash of great empires in the orchestra luna
i hear those fucking egyptians scream as the red sea engulfs them
i come down from my mountain where i have talked to a god
i am in an asylum in france
antonin artaud has smuggled in some ‘ash’ish
look theres van go go
look theres freddy nietzche
look theres poor old willy reich
and all of em talking in my ears
i shake my head in disbelief
i wander out in the back yard for a piss
ants rush at me
black heads n abdomens
scarlet thoraxes
ok ok
i back off elsewhere
on the line hangs a wetsuit
theres a fishing rod n a couple of broken surfboards
neils voice fills the surrounding bush
and goes floating through the leaves
and the pedal steel gets caught in the blue sky
its perpetually the day before christmas dec 24
the day before jesus is to be born
agAin
the day you get the house to yourself
mum n dad n brothers n sisters are going to grans do
but you borrowed a car and made your own way across
the burning sands
and now youre here
where you always wanted to be
and ok
youre alone
but at least youre here
and you know what it means
and you know what you mean to say
but instead you singalong with neil
live alone in a paradise that makes me think of 2
while youre out there
you see a car pull up n theres 2 girls from school
theyre friends of someones in town
theres the pretty one n the other pretty one
gee uh yeah come in ….you say
as you open the gate
oh hi says the pretty one and gives you an unenthusiastic hug
yeah says the other pretty one
popping her cassette out of the car stereo
we were listening to credence she explains
oh ..?..you say….but can think of nothing more..
the girls come in and sit cross legged on the floor
we smoke some bongs of potent east shore pot
the smoke curls up the rays of light like serpents
the girls have a stoned conversation
that brendas such a bitch….
such a bloody scrag…..
shes a little bloody slut
yeah n so’s her friend diane
diane moody…?
no…diane percival!
mick percivals sister?
yeah…..of course….
i was going out with his mate tony crooks…
yeah you told me…
oh did i…?
yeah…a few times….
i tune out their conversation
i exist in multiple locations simultaneously
i’m a dim receiver but receiving nonetheless
receiving and returning what i receive
this is how my travel begins
i stretch out on the floor in shivasana
my body fills at once with golden light
i begin to inwardly shudder n vibrate
next thing i’m out there somewhere
flying the walls n aircraft hangars n factories n mansions
music leaks from other universes
worlds adjacent to ours in the strangest of ways
where we invisibly lock into each other
leaving no trace of our existence in our opposites reality
i scavenge around
at the secret corners n edges for their old hits
i beam in great chunks of fantastical music
youve never heard the like
like the trumpets of phoenicia
and the shrieking madwomen of madagascar
and the sighing strings of sumer summer
and the hanging gardens and the quaint back yards
back in the shack
where its always 24th of dec
the day before every hero is unleashed to die
die for you n me
because the hero will always return
burn
then
return
and in australia its summer
its the day before christmas
the girls drink their cans of coke n rum
they smoke alpine cigarettes
neil young sings on obliviously
it doesnt matter
none of it
its all crazy n sad n mixed up
but it doesnt matter
and
it never ends