Posts Tagged ‘nick cave’

handsup
Who wants to die?
Hands Up!
Pigs bleed from an assortment of orifices in the slaughterhouse:
Treacle blood snakes down the drain.
Offensive
Pungent
Like emotional napalm from the mouth of a black angel
Like a skull-shrill yelp of a dog beaten to death with a tire-iron
Like maniac moaning from a storm drain
Like horrendous howls from a perforated soul
Like crazy chattering of skeletons’ teeth
Like skinning a live cat

Who wants to die?
Hands up!
Bludgeon bean bags
Bash pillows
Blast feathers
Beat meat
Such inconsequential actions
Are nihilistic metaphors
For nothing at all
Who wants to die next?
Hands Up!
Formica feelings
Frigid grimace
Cancerous asshole
Bleeds suburban angst
Far from important
Not even newsworthy

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’

cure
One time in the nineties The Cure were coming to town
The Cure were so cool, probably best in the eighties but still a potent force for black trousers and dancing in the dark to dispel fears of normality
My mates and I decided to line up five days before tickets went on sale at the Entertainment Centre
There were amazing people there in the line, all dressed in black, icicle cool and groovy
Boys and girls with black eyeliner celebrating all that is dark
I played Cure and Nick Cave songs on my guitar and flirted with the gorgeous gothic women
I almost fell in love with one of them as she held my head in her lap
And every day there were people going up and down the line selling acid and pot
I dropped strawberry acid trips five days in a row and didn’t have one bad trip
Timothy Leary would be proud- set and setting were perfectly divine
Time was totally distorted, I blinked my eyes and hours passed, but a minute could be an extended eternity
In every precious moment sunlight was transforming the world into diamond speckled water-colour abstractions and tessellating patterns of colour were everywhere
I could see little pixie people, dressed in black running all over the place and the Akashic records of my every thought and impulse scrolling out before me
Then I could see a thousand time-lines of a thousand intertwined souls reverberating to the music of the spheres
A glimpse of eternity in every moment and at night the stars were mutating into oscillating fractals of mutant energy and light
I saw thousand foot high monsters with hundreds and hundreds of eyes but I wasn’t scared
The power cables that set the universe in motion became visible and formed intricate patterns in the air
But when I went home, and had the tickets I was overcome by a peculiar sensation
I suddenly thought I was Birthday Party era Nick Cave and covered my stack-hat with poignant desperate poetry
Then I put it on, refused take it off and started sprouting profound gibberish of black nights dancing to Sisters of Mercy, desperate death lurking at every corner and mad conspiracies of angelic gothic women whispering my name to bring down Moloch
I wasn’t making much sense so my parents took me to the hospital
They gave me some pills and I fell asleep, still wailing the military industrial complex and the police conspiracy to destroy fun in my twisted brain
When I woke up in the morning they said I had had a drug induced psychosis
I didn’t learn any lessons and when the time for the concert came I dropped acid again
It was tremendous I could see sound and hear the colours howling secret melodies of the night
But I did forget who the guy singing with the funny mop of hair was for a while