Posts Tagged ‘music’

man-sleep-apnea-using-cpap-machine-18586450

 

When I’m alone in my head

Possum headed and cosy

Ready for my voyage through the night

Willing on dreams

Of naked women and beer

And vast swaying fields of marijuana

Wishing and waiting on sleep

RTR on the radio

Some weird disconnected hip hop spoken word extravaganza

Loaded up on psych drugs

Name yourself

Critical unit

Bloated man

Cliched stoner

Madman magnet

Smelly hippy

But in dreams

Not

Advertisements

Weed

Posted: February 7, 2017 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

cannabis-cup-640x401

Chop up about half a gram of green crumbly weed

With some tobacco

Take a pipe, and fill it with the mix

Ignite and inhale

Almost always cough

 

Don’t you love it when that warm satisfying numbness

Invades your brain and settles into your body

Kisses your cranium and renders you stoned impervious to paranoia

A rush of green apathy and carefree abandon as eyes redden

Loneliness fades and anxiety dissipates

Music starts to sound like crystal stars floating through the ether

Everything is more amusing

Everything is beautiful

Thanks to magical marijuana

 

cannabis-cup-640x401

Cones make patterns in my brain

Cones will never fuck your veins

Cones make music shimmer and sing

Cones make life a better thing

Cones make sex a funky thrill

Cones are much more fun than pills

Cones will clear up your depression

Cones will help your self-expression

Cones are crumbly, cones are green

Cones will never make you mean

Cones have brought me stoner friends

Cones will make your suffering end

velvets

 

When I was in a band

We thought we were going to be famous

And snort cocaine out of groupies’ butt cracks

Get married to some hot models

Or maybe Winona Ryder

And take an amount of drugs that would scare the shit out of Keith Richards

We had a go at doing the drugs

One time we even got paid in Morphine

And pretended to be Lou Reed

Many times I was kicked out of my own gigs

Drunk off my head and acting like a lunatic

So I didn’t have much luck with the women

‘Cos I was too fat and weird

We always did well with the bizarre guys with dreadlocks at the back of the bar

‘Who would love our silly pot songs

And ridiculous attempts to channel Iggy Pop

When the band broke up

‘Cos the other members started breeding

I was sad

Scrapes

Posted: November 1, 2016 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

 

5bb5b5acb0901229ccec9f340d939688

Rapid scrapes
In my mind
Pot music
Carousing
Imbibing
Sometimes
But
Not
Not
Not
To a great extent
Only
In dreams
Forest
Earth-light
Oranges

brain

dead beat delivery
from the radio station
overflowing rivers of sound
music suffusing
brains effusing
all about that radio song

Like a renegade saint
With my mouth full of plaster
Dancing in the hereafter
Dead beats weighing my heart
Transfixing my emotions
Ripping out my preconceptions
Rearranging my desire
Setting my soul on fire

Like a renegade saint
Listening to notes fluttering on a psychedelic breeze
And imagining the spirit of a tree
An ancient Jarrah
Immaculate, grounded, bound to mother earth, immense of girth
With the chords spiralling in the leafy canopy and whirligigging to infect my dark green mind-matrices
Great gouts of glorious melody mutating from dissonant noise to nurture neurons
Fizzle fizzle electro-chemical frying across networks and networks within networks
Dopamine surging releasing super-charged head rushes
Musical vibration for my salvation
Better than medication
Tastes like honey

a-new-heaven-and-a-new-earth

Rapacious corrupting cancer of the throat
Metastasized and devouring the poor bloke in at least ten different body parts
He shrinks into a corpse-like shell on an old chair- waiting for death
At three in the afternoon he arises from his dead-weight slumber and says
‘It’s time’
When he stops breathing, the whole room is suffused with light
Pale blue refracted through infinite white light purer than sunlight
Soaring angel music constructs crystalline castles of cold beauty
Music beautiful beyond words
His soul leaves his body, enters the arms of cerrubim
And begins ascension to Jesus
As angels fall and rise down a heavenly staircase singing Hallujah
He says good-bye to this world of tears and suffering

Meeting Nick Cave

Posted: December 20, 2014 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

nick-cave-04

Metropolis, Fremantle, 1990s.
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds and the Cruel Sea are playing
My legendary brother Nick, passed on now, possessed the gift of extravagant bullshitting and gets us in back stage
Nick Cave and Tex Perkins are playing pool
We are in rock and roll paradise, and the deepest vaults of hell at the same time
The Bad Seeds are there looking like the ‘before’ ad for a drug rehab, but elegant in suits
You’ve got to do it with style
My brother and my mate play them at pool, but instead of shaking hands at the end they brush their hair back- too cool for school
Nick Cave asks me: ‘Hey man, have you got any speed?’
Captain junkie darkness, Mr Black Trousers who towers over Rock and Roll like a dark brooding demon wants to score drugs from me
I curse myself for not having the drugs and apologize
Imagine what it would be like shooting up with Nick Cave
They find some somewhere else and have a dang in the toilet
Then the gig, which was awesome like a threesome with cocaine-basted Swedish identical twins both called Helga
We watched from the side
Afterwards, the bands had a rider of at least twenty cartons of Heineken and we all get into it
I approach the Master.
He looks like a particularly cool vampire-devil with unearthly pale skin and an explosion of night-black hair
Piercing dark blue eyes with massive pupils
Thin, spectral, gangly yet more real than any person I have ever seen
Nick Cave
Who once wrote his twisted nightmare lyrics of death, perversion, murder and retribution in blood with a syringe
Who is an Antarctica-cool gentleman-junkie, living embodiment of the blackest rock and roll mythology
Who wrote a brilliant, dense novel about death and deformity in the deep south on blitzkrieg Berlin speed and smack
Who inspired a thousand crappy Goth bands but never sold out
Who has did a shit-load of drugs and produced great art by always following the muse

And that is the trick, that’s the gimmick
To turn the fractures in your consciousness into mountains and valleys of creativity
To mutate into a seer and visionary prophet by putting your senses in a blender
To transform your worst faults, fears and nightmares into art
To create from primal sex, death, addiction and hallucination with the aim of visionary transcendence and transformation.
To birth a comprehensive universe of pain and perversity which pulverizes the powerful forces of conformity and destroys monolithic totalitarian mind-fuckers
To embody new creation, revolution, rebellion and subversion
Not just be a stupid junkie nodding off in a corner doing fuck all, more conformist than a yuppie.

I ask him about what drugs he was on when he did the ‘Nick the Stripper’ video
‘Speed and Heroin’ he replies
Said he doesn’t like pot much
Likes drugs you stick in your arm

We talk about a song on the Tender Prey album that I like but they have never performed live
We talk about art, literature, music and the shadows of religion
I sing him a song I wrote about trying to score ganja from Syd Barret and smoking the corpse of Jimmy Hendrix
He says ‘You’re a pretty funny cunt.’
I take it as a compliment.
Afterwards we steal his empty packet of Marlboro Lights, and we stick it to the wall with a sign saying ‘Nick Cave’s Cigarettes’

woofer

A vegetable oscillation inspires new beats for a broken egg-shell meditation
Queer wind through the cracks in a vulgar picture
Thoughts chewed over pensively to pristine rhythms
Till night-time whispers become overwhelming, belting at a door inside my head
Sounds bebop a transmutation of fingers twisting arcane melodies
Quavers and semi-quavers interlaced with whimsy iterating and reiterating
Synchronous day-glo symphonies dance through the twilight and ignite the atmosphere
Sympathetic sundials spin in time with the rapscallionish tunes
Vibes format and reinitialize spider-webs of delicate intrigue and frenzied fractals of suspense
Subterranean bass through the souls of my feet
Sexual tension and apprehension played through a moog synthesizer
A prehensile mood alters comprehension of tuned curlicues of cogitation
I count the holes in my arm as the beat reverberates

winona4
Beautiful people have beautiful lives-
Love is easy to find.
Ugly people have ugly lives-
Love is a dream and a gaping hole in soul.
Longing for touch is a way of life.
If the lights were out, the ugly wonder,
If anyone would dare to touch them,
Or kiss them full on the mouth and hold them.
Oh take me out my darling,
To where there’s music, and people, and beer.
Dance with me and make me forget the secret suffering of yearning for you.
Wipe out my loneliness with the power of your smile.
Help me not to think of myself as ugly,
As we square the circle of tedium that binds the town.