she's a why ----------------- in time
soundtracks erase the shutter ------------------------
myths & breakage ---- gossip ----
far-fetched
'n charming --------------- 'n speeding -----------
on cooler
breathless ----------------- 'n devoid
of specialist moments
waiting ----- for sunset
in a dusted carpark
rustle the mongoose ----------------------- dinner & show
-------------------------------- autarky ------------------
shadowland ----------------- flushes -
in vain ----------------------------------------- the tv age
behind us
she ----------------- 's an --------------------------------
automobile in traffic
autumn showers -------------------- summer drain
a highway
drenched in lightning
'n bugs
Author: Davey Dreamnation (page 134 of 240)
Davey Dreamnation (1972–?) is an Australalian musician, vocalist, pirate and record-label owner who now lives 'in the third person'.
we were in a secret band called 'circadia' kind of like the tantric fantasia music's b generation oh how i monitored that crush crossed my sine waves with whiplash kisses† the next morning you got up early walked yr dog & sipped the hair of one showered &/or dressed then slipped back into our bed of rushes searchlights nude cameo appearances you may never know i was sleepwalking even though we found traces of glass in my feet asphalt from your faraway suburb's avenues i fell into a daytime answer to a question that was yes that was yes just in case you guessed the subtext in this imaginary mess the streetlights rhyme the drizzle happens & rainbows yer morningness never suspected
We are planets. Some endure. Others melt, or spin off course, like tops. I'm one of those. This poem is my brand new abstract moon, a satellite whose strange attraction causes moods to rise and fall like waves, abstract tides. The truth is, by the wooden wharves, even fishermen are gods. Inside each plastic bucket, offerings to the moon. Each hook's a hope or prayer; every cast an arm around the shoulder of a tearful stranger. I'm one of those. Lightning is a kind of poem, a song sung by clouds as they rub together. I'm one of those. Shoes on cobbles, words on the wind. Ask somebody if they'd mind walking slowly. Who knows, they might just say goodbye. We're abstracts in each other's eye. That's okay. You'll find a flower in the smog; I can already hear little white trees. Hands hold onto us. You're the kind of person who sees a single moon. I'm one of those too.
Last year, as part of my Asialink residency in Seoul, I wrote an article for the Australian National Tertiary Education Union (NTEU) on the subject of my experience of teaching a course on Australian culture at Sogang University. Here’s a quick excerpt:
I have sung the national anthem (‘a capella?’ one incredulous fellow-traveller asked me) and ‘Waltzing Matilda’, tried to explain bizarre Australian terms like ‘beach bum’ and ‘laconic’ and even spent a few moments discussing Shane Warne’s penchant for cigarettes and text messaging. I now have sitting in front of me a stack of essays on famous Australians, including Ned Kelly, Kylie Minogue and Oodgeroo Nonnuccal. Strangely enough, only one student chose to write about John Howard.
‘Taking Kylie To Korea’, NTEU Advocate (March 2006)
The article has been published in the March 2006 issue of the NTEU’s Advocate magazine but you can read the original version online or download it here: Taking Kylie to Korea (PDF).
The article contains one small factual error: in the final sentence I state that the way to say ‘I am Australian’ in Korean is hoju saram, when in reality the correct way to say it is hoju saram ipnida.
Just in case anyone’s ever called on to explain US foreign policy while travelling in Korea.
Then again, perhaps it’d be even more useful to know how to say ‘I am not an American’ in that delightful but difficult language.
As I look back on my extraordinary career, I sometimes wonder if it’s all been in vain. I mean, I’m not one to blow my own trumpet but if I could, I’d certainly be blowing it every day. It seems, however, that no one else feels confident enough in themselves to ask if they could blow my trumpet instead. I used to love the time I spent alone with my trumpet, polishing it with Brasso, cleaning it lovingly in the bath like a newborn baby, oiling its pistons, emptying the build-up of saliva from its valves. Blowing my trumpet just after it has been cleaned remains one of life’s unique pleasures. I could blow all day. I used to play the theme tune from Dallas, then Rocky. Usually I tired of these tedious tunes pretty quickly but this was okay because it would give me a chance to move onto more exciting compositions, including a number I myself had come up with. Blowing notes through a big silver trumpet and then listening to the results using my finely-attuned ears remains one of life’s strange and eerie pleasures. It’s like I’m a bat. Or an elf. Do elves play trumpets, or do they just blow? I’d love an elf to blow my trumpet for me. I’d like to see an elf and a bat blowing trumpets all day long. I’d like to write a composition for two trumpets, played by two elves and three bats. The details escape me but the big concept remains one of life’s tremendous build-ups of pleasure, the satisfaction of which only comes when I blow long and hard. Better still, I’d like to see an elf blowing a bat’s flugel horn, lowingly and keen. Do cats blow? They certainly do. Just ask Andrew Lloyd Webber.