Posts
28
ya potentate
don't you go proscrastinate
enervate n elevate
suck a lemon salivate
paul mccartney he's ya mate
take yr clothes off
entertain us
go on tour
go do some dates
cos the rolling stones
need lessons mate
how many women in this house
have slept with you?
it's 102
sweet 102
sweet 102
sweet 102
maybe you forgot the broom
luv ya smartie
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
The Church - yeah, the band - have been en regalia lately. Had the good fortune to see 1 Steve Kilbey fiesty poetry reading in Northcote + 2 Church gigs (Corner Hotel & Spiegeltent) in two days. Bravo gents on all fronts. Kilbey the elder is is fine quipping and spiffing form ready for hosting his tonight show featuring the fine musical talents of himself on vocals and bass and Peter 'the rock' Koppes, Marty Willson-Piper & Tim Powles in an astonishing game of instrument-swapping musical chairs. I signed The Church to Mushroom after noticing they'd become part of the wallpaper at EMI, and they pulled 'Starfish' and 'Under the Milky Way' out of their hats. To hear them play now, you realise just how many hits and great LP tracks this mob plus early drummer Richard Ploog have given us.
Now they've become part of the wallpaper at Music Sales Publishing OS it seems, with rumours that Kilbey's publishing was repeditively on-sold and many thousands of dollars are unaccounted-for.
This band are relaxed, healthy, delighting in performing and in their prime. Current Liberation 'unplugged' ARIA nominated album 'El Momento Descuidado' selling so well that the forthcoming new Church album featuring some band co-writes has had to be held back. And so good to see these sweethearts and even catch up with my long-lost goddaughter Elektra Kilbey and her sister Miranda in the Bondi waves, sweet warm soul sisters here from Sweden and hi to their mum Karin in Stockholm, miss ya
http://www.thechurchband.com/
and Steve's terrific blog
http://www.stevekilbey.blogspot.com/
De Havillands Bookshop has closed (so long, Shelton Lea, who died 13.4.05; you are so missed pal). I'll be doing some writing and interviewing from Melbourne this year for Mediaweek, James Manning's subscription Sydney newsletter with all the news for the music industry, radio, TV, advertising and the film industry. Keep those werewolves from the door! And continuing to do some editing...write novel... Fourth book out round April, poetry through Flat Chat Press. Back to Uni Melb B. Creative Arts... Love on the horizon? Hmm... Universal love always on the horizon...
tired but wired
eyes propped open with straining matchsticks
roll on beach escape
Now they've become part of the wallpaper at Music Sales Publishing OS it seems, with rumours that Kilbey's publishing was repeditively on-sold and many thousands of dollars are unaccounted-for.
This band are relaxed, healthy, delighting in performing and in their prime. Current Liberation 'unplugged' ARIA nominated album 'El Momento Descuidado' selling so well that the forthcoming new Church album featuring some band co-writes has had to be held back. And so good to see these sweethearts and even catch up with my long-lost goddaughter Elektra Kilbey and her sister Miranda in the Bondi waves, sweet warm soul sisters here from Sweden and hi to their mum Karin in Stockholm, miss ya
http://www.thechurchband.com/
and Steve's terrific blog
http://www.stevekilbey.blogspot.com/
De Havillands Bookshop has closed (so long, Shelton Lea, who died 13.4.05; you are so missed pal). I'll be doing some writing and interviewing from Melbourne this year for Mediaweek, James Manning's subscription Sydney newsletter with all the news for the music industry, radio, TV, advertising and the film industry. Keep those werewolves from the door! And continuing to do some editing...write novel... Fourth book out round April, poetry through Flat Chat Press. Back to Uni Melb B. Creative Arts... Love on the horizon? Hmm... Universal love always on the horizon...
tired but wired
eyes propped open with straining matchsticks
roll on beach escape
Monday, January 02, 2006
birthday boy
'i always was an open door girl,'
i said, getting into the death seat of the stranger's car.
well it strikes me as the kind of thing i could have said.
david's doing wheelies round the Boulevard of Divulging All,
revved up with these damn stories
i was in no condition at the time(s)
to have any business remembering
now, should i even want to
but his buddies look at me expectantly
a ring of bright otter eyes over the wilting salad.
it's his 60th birthday.
this morning he fell weeping to the floor -
no-one will come!
they'll all find me boring!
but his implacable wise madam wife
(who'd usurped his address book
and invited its contents)
just said oh-ho. i see. uh-huh... alright.
i skate around the seething, snapping details
of my alleged sex life (really david? did i?)
- the flagrant name-dropping
- the raping & pillaging of secrets
but after our host, loud with joy, shouts
about the time he fucked the polite guest he is at pains
to repeatedly point out is gay to the rest of us on the back seat
of some jag or other,
i repeatedly try to remove the glowin' throbbin'
laser-shootin' glass of alcoholic champagne
from his cement grip re our possible slide
into a bumpy, bumpy ride. i try. i fail. oh christ.
we wobble inside to escape the mosquitoes' savagery,
at least.
in the corner his puzzled daughter droops
awaiting one of her three acceptable dinners
& christmas lights frolic in her hair.
her tamagotchi dreams of its perfect owner
as i raise another loaded glass
to you, on your birthday, mi loco amigo!
& he's as happy as a... well, i wish i could remember.
i said, getting into the death seat of the stranger's car.
well it strikes me as the kind of thing i could have said.
david's doing wheelies round the Boulevard of Divulging All,
revved up with these damn stories
i was in no condition at the time(s)
to have any business remembering
now, should i even want to
but his buddies look at me expectantly
a ring of bright otter eyes over the wilting salad.
it's his 60th birthday.
this morning he fell weeping to the floor -
no-one will come!
they'll all find me boring!
but his implacable wise madam wife
(who'd usurped his address book
and invited its contents)
just said oh-ho. i see. uh-huh... alright.
i skate around the seething, snapping details
of my alleged sex life (really david? did i?)
- the flagrant name-dropping
- the raping & pillaging of secrets
but after our host, loud with joy, shouts
about the time he fucked the polite guest he is at pains
to repeatedly point out is gay to the rest of us on the back seat
of some jag or other,
i repeatedly try to remove the glowin' throbbin'
laser-shootin' glass of alcoholic champagne
from his cement grip re our possible slide
into a bumpy, bumpy ride. i try. i fail. oh christ.
we wobble inside to escape the mosquitoes' savagery,
at least.
in the corner his puzzled daughter droops
awaiting one of her three acceptable dinners
& christmas lights frolic in her hair.
her tamagotchi dreams of its perfect owner
as i raise another loaded glass
to you, on your birthday, mi loco amigo!
& he's as happy as a... well, i wish i could remember.
the ozymandias parade
(for the nancy & ed keinholz concept tableau sculpture)
[after shelley]
leaders:
you rear & rot
trumpeting our might (?)
unsaddled by greed & technology;
button-fingered, red-handed, rampant, erect
dangling from the belly of doom, chancres
mounted on peasants & stallion grease
frozen, mirrored, hellbent
mounted on triumph of a resin-spattered
kind
a parade disemboweled
screwed bitser battalions
roustabouts & roundabout
the heat
of your red/white & blue a pervasive decay
faint overlay creeps into the nose
of horrified transfixed righteous
observer, a flag-whipped hooray
a dead horse day.
tinpot your pompous orchestra
corrodes. alors, a bell disintegrates
sound degenerates, flayed
the tattered
aussie flag flaps in your
fan-slung wind
my pen borrowed from the guard
marches on
in this live shell
the wars of all ages unwind
their litanies. profane initiations
demand the murders of strangers
in different-coloured uniforms
rearing into the dreams
of corporal corporeal
corpse
...who goes there?
you are all of these and more
beloved son, dear daughter.
you are vaporised
a trail of reality
shimmering between the buttons
of your uniforms
boxing day 2005
sydney, museum of contemporary art
last revised May 13 2006
[after shelley]
leaders:
you rear & rot
trumpeting our might (?)
unsaddled by greed & technology;
button-fingered, red-handed, rampant, erect
dangling from the belly of doom, chancres
mounted on peasants & stallion grease
frozen, mirrored, hellbent
mounted on triumph of a resin-spattered
kind
a parade disemboweled
screwed bitser battalions
roustabouts & roundabout
the heat
of your red/white & blue a pervasive decay
faint overlay creeps into the nose
of horrified transfixed righteous
observer, a flag-whipped hooray
a dead horse day.
tinpot your pompous orchestra
corrodes. alors, a bell disintegrates
sound degenerates, flayed
the tattered
aussie flag flaps in your
fan-slung wind
my pen borrowed from the guard
marches on
in this live shell
the wars of all ages unwind
their litanies. profane initiations
demand the murders of strangers
in different-coloured uniforms
rearing into the dreams
of corporal corporeal
corpse
...who goes there?
you are all of these and more
beloved son, dear daughter.
you are vaporised
a trail of reality
shimmering between the buttons
of your uniforms
boxing day 2005
sydney, museum of contemporary art
last revised May 13 2006
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