& if i ever do learn a word of dutch
as in really learn it learn its body
then the only word i want to know
is kus this beautiful word for a kiss
or is it to kiss as in the verb to be
to be a stranger in the mouth of
another language another way of
breathing after all isn't that just
another way of writing language
the way the mind breathes air &
creates tangible concepts like to
be as in i am or we are they're not
& then to move on to know plurals
as in kussen the verb couple to be
a pair of kisses against my lips as
in the curve of this chocolate egg
to know space between two kisses
& to understand the possibility of
breathing meaning into chocolate
chickens or word lovers in dutch
after all there are several points at
which our languages rest against
each other like two tired bicyclists
kissing forever in a quiet lane
& to know the space of this space
the physical meaning of a word not
meant to live in a dictionary but in
the mouth to move through dutch
like stars through unexplored space
after all isn't language like a shiny
spaceship forever tumbling toward
the kus the kussen the be the to be
bright & exploding stars our lives
full of curved static words we wish
to move between like stations on
space lines our destination kussen
& if i ever learn the word for kus
in my own half language in which
i could have been born to be to not
be heard to speak without hearing
the smack of that kus against the
porthole spaces to hear it coming
or departing perhaps upon arrival
i will breathe that air called dutch
& know its velocity its private kus
in between kussen as soft shadows
born of lips parse what is felt into
being to be i am to kiss to be alive
Author: Davey Dreamnation (page 132 of 240)
Davey Dreamnation (1972–?) is an Australalian musician, vocalist, pirate and record-label owner who now lives 'in the third person'.
This audio version of ‘There’s a wild Jack Russell in the Moon’ was recorded live at Babble by Sean M. Whelan on February 1 2006 as part of my feature set.
If you listen carefully, you can hear the sound of a piano, coming out of the speakers of a very old Walkman. Sit back and imagine me pretending to play the piano while I recite the poem.
Think Billy Joel.
Is an arsehole.
Merciful and rapid-response editing of this piece (originally over 10 minutes in length) was carried out by DJ Sassy Pants.
Unfortunately this means you don’t get to hear me go ‘woof’.
The towers of her private agony shut out even the night, no lamps or open windows – just two red lights on top blinking away her tears, so the airplanes won’t get smashed. And who was I to be there, looking up at the dizzying heights grown crooked, in the rain, without her face?
Someone called me an idiot but I’d heard that one before. More than once, in fact. Darling. There was a sign designed to dissuade youths from throwing rocks at trains but bring it on, I said to no one. She said she’d wait. Just a short journey station to station.
I stepped out into a future Canton, whose restaurant signage spoke volumes of the dumpling joys to be found within. Up the stairs to a red and green-themed neobar, racing through the cocktail menu, seeking heat.
April brought along its own idea of a party and in the chilly urban evening’s throat-clearing ceremony I heard something more than blisters, larger than hurt, stronger than fear or getting caught in the rain. I chose to ignore its warning, not unreasonably. I mean, what do you know? They’ll be playing Mogwai at my funeral, I can sense it.
In a house set diagonally on its block as if a child had thrown it there, a dog waits for her mistress. She liked me. Something about black dogs growing grey as they reverse into old age. The corridors were cold but clean, as if no one had ever seen them before. Such deep basins. No lamps or curtains. Projects, or at least people in projects. Major emotional violence on display at every intersection. Inside the saddest love of all.
But she’s a plus sign at the end of an equation. Rumours of line extensions. One more drink. The directness of her eye. The sadness in her houses, to which she had grown oblivious, and who wouldn’t. But when the red light blinked I knew it wasn’t the CD player telling me something in the dark, it was reality bright.
Something about how it wouldn’t have been so bad if only she’d come away with, you know, nice feelings.
Lock up your bandannas, plectrums and notebooks, people – there’s a man on the streets who’s aiming to break your heart, like the way Wilco said they were trying, only this time succeeding.
The man who introduced the world to Catholic Autistic Terrific, who is now in the middle of a post-Balderdash hangover to rival anything tied on by the Rat Pack, stirred the hearts, minds and various extremities of the Melbourne spoken word scene two weeks ago with his show Death To Your Dreams, featuring Sean on vocals and cool hat, and ace band the Mime Set on everything else.
The performance, as part of the Emerging Writers’ Festival, was actually the second one put on by Sean and the band, after their apparently barnestorming show as part of last year’s Australian Idol competition. Think fab projections accentuated by moody shadow work from the Mime Set’s guitarists – okay, think Rattle and Hum.
Think big sound!
My God, the Spanish Club PA made the band sound like a cathedral. Think heart-breaking lyrics and songs. Think about how much Sean’s gigs will cost to get into in the future. Think eye-patches. Think think. Think ‘four letter word starting with s, containing one e and ending with an an’.
PS: rhymes with ‘lorn’.
