Steve Kilbey

infernal avenue

you hit  the pavement at 7.30 a.m.
eastern standard time
bits of broken glass
3 types of ants
the weeds relentlessly push push push
everything is cracked broken and flaking
oil on puddles pitted by the viscous rain
the soil is sandy
the dead lawn befouled by mans best friend
the flowers are limp but the thorns are sharp
silver cars blast past like metallic mirages
behind those black windows joe blow on the blower
to his missus to his mistress to the TBA
still pissed from the night before
hes telling his boss he will be there soon
a wave of nausea precedes the steamy sun
and the moment it appears amongst the glowering clouds
the rats vomit down the drains
and chains rattle in minor industrial areas
and lights flash amber over n over
the hospital throws open its doors
the pawn shop with its cheap guitars but no pawns
the fitness joint that went bust
a riot of rusted neglect
stagger up the road sweating already
the poor day
it needs a fix
it needs a meal
it needs a hundred bucks
it needs to get away somewhere else
some red faced fat jogger wobbles by
some ugly mother with her ugly kid
some pinstriped monster in a testosteroni suit
some hag with a plastic bag dressed in rags smokin’ fags
two dirty little school bullies on their stolen bikes
a cat wails
a dog pisses
hey its raining AND the sun is shining
stupid tv shows blare out of uninviting windows
a lotus bloomed in the gutter but some heel crushed it
the gutter gushes
the sewers gurgle
the mortar powdered
wasps live in those gaps
everybody worrying hurrying scurrying
the clock is fucking with time
the gate is lowered
the horses are off
dealer meets user exchanging almost imperceptibly
the user fingers his package and melts into the crowd
the dealer answers his phone in the incessant shiny drizzle
a truck skids by half out of control shuddering and juddering
sirens go off in all directions
no one take any notice not the cops nor the robbers
cash machines cough up cash begrudgingly
you may be charged
you may be photographed
you may be filmed
you may be overlimit
you may be broke
old mean foreign women glare from the doorways
the drunks roar and guffaw in the early opening public house
some guy from the council grimly hacks at the only tree on this street
an electrocuted bat in the wires
sneakers hanging from the lines…what does that fucking mean?
cranky bastard weather
passengers on the bus in a miasmatic haze of odours
the rush
our crush
the push and shove
bugger all love
everyone in sunglasses and wired for sound
suncreamed aftershaved besuited captains of industry
idle workmen leaning on their shovels drinking tea from tin cups
their cigarettes stink
they lear at the graceless bimbos who flounce by
no they are not all bimbos
some are merely shameless hussies past their prime
well past any prime they may or may not have had
some are bits of fluff
some are dopey bints married to thick lugs
or brainless oafs who drink grog and shout at the television
or shady operators dealing in dodgy matters
greasers and wheelers n dealers
the inevitable squealers putting out their feelers
the pushers and the pullers
having a pull in adult shoppe over kitty fellatrice
while the franchise joints churn out piggy burgers
and DT shakes
and the locks only keep out honest people
and the bars cannot keep out the stars
and the bouncers bounce you like a ball
the spruikers insult you challenge you
the tramps call you all on your bullshit
the trains thunder underground
deep in the earth in its tunnel
more rain
more sun
more grease
more tears
lady muck in her dead cow shoes
a slick of brown frangipani slime adorning her heels
drivers hurl abuse in the vulgar tongue
they stick up their fingers
they pick their noses
they drive off of the bridge
or to the southern suburbs
or to the polluted coastal waters (only eat one fish caught here per year!)
or to that satellite town where the strugglers struggle
or to the airport crumbling in the rain surrounded by swamps
or down to the street man
yeah do the hustle n bustle
yeah do the crawl
yeah
do the limbo

 

 

 

STEVE KILBEY

steve kilbey was born long ago n far away. he lives with his many children by the sea. he plays bass in popular local beat combo the church who perform their hits around the traps. hes written a couple of poetry books. hes a good guy and will beappearing soon in a good venue near you soon. hes a virgo.

12 responses to “Steve Kilbey

  1. Pingback: Stylus Poetry Journal #37 – Street/Life « Another Lost Shark

  2. bhahahahaha! What a fantastically poetical rant.

  3. hellbound heart

    what wonderfully grimy imagery!

  4. cazziem

    Having enjoyed Steve’s blogspot for many a month now, I reckon a hell of a lot of people can identify with this one. Sounds as though Mr Kilbey has been on his time-travels again cos ‘m sure Infernal Avenue is about 5 minutes drive from my place which is on the opposite side of the globe!

  5. Hey kilbs..! Could you find time to churn out another ‘earthed’ type poetry book about where you are at now.. as i think you do the whole 60′s footnote type stream of consciouness thing well ..really well. and apparently what a virgo needs to do is draw upon his polar opposite which is pisces (which is me) so thats; be more dreamy , dream-like i.e. of the subconscious.. dream it out on to the page and let your mind be like a calm river. we would all buy it. after all its YOUR immortality. :-)

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