Posts Tagged ‘rock’

Fried

Posted: August 8, 2017 in poetry
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fried

 

I want to get fried under radiant skies

Toasted like heated bread

Stoned like a rock

Folded like a sock

Smashed like a broken bottle

Trashed like Shane MacGowan

I want to be high like a cloud

Weird like an anarchistic alien

Bent like a coat-hanger

Blasted like a rocket into space

Wasted like a wastrel

Till all pain is gone

And all anxiety vanquished

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urizen

Urizen rages against his cage
Beats meat in the corridors of the house of God
Stares down from a cross impaled on nails and laughs
He who Plotted creation in intricate detail
Builds an angry fortress with his pain

Urizen measures his universe
Like an eagle eyeing his prey
Malevolent eyes-balls pierce each molecule
Desperate grimace over mountains
Megalomania strains against iron fetters

Urizen deluded and insane beyond reason
Thinks he is God and God above God
Doesn’t realize he’s messed up creation
By failing to infuse the right amount of love

Urizen rages against his own children
Who locked him in prison to save the world
Plots suffering like swatting flies
Murder’s moments with a swish of his tail
Bludgeons the butterfly hope and drinks blood-rivers

Granite pathology
Rock grinding rock into dust
Under the mountains Urizen is enclosed
Thrashing and beating against what binds him
Birthing earth-quakes and volcanic eruptions

Despair for him is the making of heaven

crazy

Come all you twiddlers at the edges of sanity
Come all you cases, you syndromes, you diagnoses
Come all you students of advertising for secret messages
Come all you crazies, you weirdos, you saints, you martyrs
Don’t be afraid of your aromatic nuttiness
And take it all a bit too far
Dance in the mud on magic mushrooms while angels dance in your hair
Nod of in a corner on immaculate Thai white smack
Smoke rock and get a tattoo of a Wookie
Thrive on the helium atmosphere of pixie dust perversion
Hit on your nurses and steal other peoples’ medication
Baste your bottoms in cream cheese and stuff that monkey full of plums
Until it feels more real than sanity knows while your madness grows

Beat down the bushes around your consciousness and let your spirits soar in infinite space
Because now is the time and this is the place

Meeting Nick Cave

Posted: December 20, 2014 in poetry
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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’

Meth

Posted: November 8, 2014 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

meth
I have spent vast quantities of time waiting for drugs
The wasted hours stretch out to infinity on the wings of vultures
Daylight dances across the eucalyptus
Kookaburras bend air into original shapes
I look at my phone and make a game of waiting for the next ten minutes
And then it is here
Transparent supersonic methamphetamine crystals
And when my friend hits the vein the blood in the fit is the brightest red I’ve ever seen
Soon we’re racing off our head on rock
I can’t stop talking about how good I feel as I rush through time
I could take the whole world from behind and pull down its trousers

madonna
Hungry wind blows out from the festering grave
Weird meat on nauseating display
Love’s innocent wife is summer bright
She wears a stiff white linen dress and her breasts are bared
She suckles a grown man on nipple opiates

The wounded wind growls and wife weeps
Hot nerves at the base of her spine
Her body in rebellion
In need of rock-chested grace

Drifting sands blast across dead shrubs
Ruin lurches across the land
All around the crooked couple
The burning sand-grains sculpt meat so strong their blast

Her eyelids are dazzled with tears
Which run down her face like two sad and noble rivers
She does not love the man
She does not like the man
Lightning dissects the sky
Then thunder like the gods dropping furniture

Perversion, perversion no baby at the breast
Just the pulsing suck of the man with a murderous tongue getting high on nipple opiates
She stands on a rock available for all to see
With a naked man hanging from her breast like a bat

Depraved Madonna with hairy child
Coupled, corrupted and suffering
The man applies greater suction
The bride groans with electric agony as he drains her dry