horn blown jazz
fusion
confusion
confession jazz
better than Confucius
on its day
miles -
miles behind
miles ahead
double drum
trouble tread
hope enough
to wake the weary
but Babylon
is a place where
the sleep is deep
dirty mean
and downright
dangerous
only say so much
then trip back
to your own
fantastic
hey wow far out
‘coz people don’t like us
no one likes us
spikeheads that we are
to consciousness
no one likes us
to come upon them
unbidden
miles away
and now miles is dead
only so much puff
left in me now
take the back roads
one day
onto the plain
into the scrub
again an’ again
never would be possible
to run outta
no places to go to
cardinal blandness maybe
but instead of nuthin’
there is everything
as horizons shift
from rollin’ along
to little bits
little pieces
testaments to territories
mirrored in sameness
yet different
with barely a tree
between them
and on the edges
mines
vines
shacks
by the roadside
but not here
no, nuthin’ here
only bushes scrub
multicoloured
tree-twisted
soil red enlisted
until sun punched
into desolate beauty
untouched
night ridin’
super collide
thoughts from inside
back to nuthin’
onto the plain
in moonlight
starlight
faint south
extraordinary configurations
lines to somewhere
single tracks
meet upon the
acoustic horizon
terrestrial
perfection
gone lunar goodnight
shuffle ride
high collide
rollin’ on
another station
seen so much
seen so little
hard to say
what it was
to find the words
in which to say
illuminated celebration
rocks!
great vision of cities here
on this plain
1000 yrs to come
empty visions
naturally
probabilities plucked
empty pretty
and so they gotta be
unless the
mineral crunch
machinery
digs around
makes it less of nuthin’
but kills the crust
holed up in some station
sleep now gone
berth hot
and outside
sounds like steam pumps
and the neon
would make it cruel
to pull up the blinds
hibernation safer
station to station
last throw of the dice
for these plain ride writings
sittin’ on the bunk
aboard the lunar terrific
that has now gone
writings
trails, traces
god knows what...
never suggested
they were supposed to have
any kinda destination
just squiggles
and the occasional dot
prettified
sense twisted
i kid you not
- from Nullabor Song
