book ’em danno — okay, so, anne, for your birthday this year i’ve decided to leave the country… extravagant present, you think? what? oh, you’re thinking it would’ve been a better present if i’d paid for you to leave the country? oh… well, surely it’s the thought that counts? <grin>
itinerant — what was i saying? oh, yeah, okay, so… i fly out of sydney on the twenty-first of march, stop overnight in tokyo & then get to italy on the twenty-second… then i get to see keri! (& probably some buildings & other related blah, but definitely keri…) & i fly out of italy on the seventeenth of april, arrive in tokyo early on the eighteenth, spend a couple of days annoying rob, then fly back to sydney late on the twentieth of april, arriving early on the twenty-first…
hmmm — guess i’d best gets to organising some things… the time’s kinda creeping up with a rush… uh, rushing up with a creep… uh… gosh… i mean, i leave in four weeks…
no details, but i’m gonna persuade you,
the right stuff, the right stuff, the right stuff,
the right stuff, the right stuff,
in the red villa, the right stuff, the right stuff
the right stuff, in the red villa with you no names,
no names, no details, but i’m gonna,
the right stuff…
woah… that’s a kinda rough approximation of the start of life without buildings’ “ps exclusive”… bought life without buildings’ cd any other city tonight & i love it already… “ps exclusive” is like some amazing undiscovered treasure from the mid-to-late-eighties, sorta siouxie & the banshees crossed with early cure & maybe early church, altered images, lene lovich & any number of english guitar bands… it sounds so much like a heap of records i used to own, it’s a total nostalgia trip, but somehow sounds amazingly fresh… recycling a different set of influences i guess, kinda eighties indie redux, rather than, say, more dumb synth-pop revival… hmmm… i wonder if my pointy black boots are still in the cupboard…
meanwhile — back in the early nineties, the sound of archives creaking open…
how much longer will these flowers
keep bugging & in their bugging shine?
how much longer will these flowers keep bugging,
& in their bugging shine?
or the shape of the wind drift past, wafting,
going, “woooo, woo?”
could the perfect day end up out here with my nose
& your glamorous chief? you bet! you just
keep rolling those questions & the hot steam takes care
of the rest, like sandbags in the hip-pocket.
so why don’t we stay & see who’s the first to go nuts?
or pass the biscuits? or think formidable thoughts that smell
the end for poesy? isn’t it great? i mean, it can be.
& in the afternoon those buggy old flowers
trigger nature poetry like hay fever,
because of today getting beautiful, careering around
the driveway like hot spit through a tissue.
sibylant
sweeter the sugar bowl or the weight of history
hissing like subliminals flashing theory;
now a joyous pause.
we remember photographs we can no longer
find, & frankly, do i want to be seeping & sleeping,
embracing another attitude against aching
as pieces of skin loosen the self into a slower,
slowing silence?
nah. not really.