Rage against the light or its dying
Or punt downstream in a pleasure craft for two
The foolish inventions of another time had their own uncharted value
Do not seek to know what Nigel can do for you:
Nigel is as Nigel does
Nigel is for the best in the best of Nigel possible worlds
So I did it Nigel’s way
For more years than I care to say to the likes of you.
for Cathy, after seven years
My heart is full
Our pulse of days
Simply cupped both ends
By our hands knit
Shaping turning light
My heart is full
(thanks to Oscar for the mans in road)
Jobs and growth
Blobs what float
Flubs and bloat
For rubes and oafs
Gets on goat
Grubs in brogues
Yards and strophe
Stabs my faith
Middle of a life a work a love
Stitches cannot hold
Holding days and nights together
Horizon not a seam.
Why is he so anxious?
If all of it is worthless
He has nothing much to lose
Even if there’s so much of it.
Lost the thread
Knew he had it going
A cheerful moron now, and rich.
Because it’s all inevitable
I repeat to pass the time
Because I have no choice I have no choice I have no choice
Because my life is chocolate
I eat sweets all the time
To leave no gaps leave no gaps leave no
I sing because I must
If no song comes I make one up
Radio isn’t good enough.
Isn’t that creative?
No, it’s war.
I have been thinking about the little girl who died by Darebin Creek. So have others. There is a poster advertising a newspaper that mentions her on my route to work. I hate this. There have been a couple of articles in The Age about why someone would kill their 15 month old daughter. One is a short google on some instances over the past few years and a few stats. The other is someone, like me, who knows the area. But there have been a few murders in the suburb. There are kids riding trail bikes along the muddy track beside “my” creek to the point where the police had an accident with a cyclist while looking out for them on a quad bike. More than once I’ve seen four wheel drive vehicles trundling along where there is no road, almost no path in places. Where when the water rises, eels cross. It’s a magical place. It has been damaged.
Algorithmic flap into burning
Rush backward to egg
Beard on a heron
Whistle on a pigeon
Run by with your tongue hanging
But without your head.
Compulsion free for a change.
Lift your face to grey louring
And live in the pale
Pushing air out is all
Past your useful age
From purpose into meaning.
Watch ripe brittle without comment
Prepare being without management
Hope for platypus
Do with far away swallow
Stay by me
For two swings
And a chase.
I sob without recognition these days
Groan after nothing much – not even bones
So I accompany morning’s night with arse trumpet
Although I can very well help it.
Noon’s brief passage is alright
Evening’s better. Less frantic saturation
To formula. To getting somewhere.
Roy feels so bad and got a worried mind. The opening to one of the most recognisable songs of the Twentieth Century, sung by a voice that seems so restrained and innocent by our standards, the musicians so cool while playing difficult runs on a simple progression, before the kind of key change Dylan would laud as making no sense. (Not that I’d know if this happened.) Listening to Linda Ronstadt belting it out for half again as long on free-to-bandwidth video makes me realise why I instinctively disapproved of her as a teenager. That of course is unkind, when Elvis Costello lists her version 9th on his greatest country songs, she was in the Mr Plough episode of the Simpsons, sang on Graceland, and has Parkinson’s. It’s just that the Orbison, if cheesy, is classy. Even his backing vocals are a Greek chorus of subtle urging to go, go, go. Also, she left out many of the lyrics, most contentiously, to my mind, the early lines of the first chorus – but we’ll get to those.
dating to the nobbliest ancientest most civil liaison
ye emergent fresh from yung silver spaceships
ports delievers poerms stark buckety buck
)part from the glassy globe on theer heeds(