An Errant Poet Paints an Andy Warhol
with a painting at auction
ninety five million dollars
artist passed away in 1988
same year another artist, my mother
away, though her works command
free fee, such a giving lady she was.
on the other hand, Green Cars Crashing
a load of cash out of some suspecting buyer,
a mish mash of paint and papier mache
likes of school aged kids splattering with love.
times when he held a can of Campbell’s Soup
art, cracked my funny bone, I have a gift then
dabble freehand with pastels and watercolours,
senses his pop culture versus my kiwi culture
outweigh the latter. I search my room
a masterpiece, something worthy of millions
spy a decrepit translation of the Maori in me,
displayed and received reverence and accord.
would a dead artist do with ninety five million?
would you do with that amount? Swing from
rafters and do bally hoop with chickens
foul house of life, cluck cluck, what the fuck?
my next attempt at Art, raise the hands
the keyboard, and………The End, signed me.
The Shawshank Redemption
real story is a good read
movie a tribute to King
this is a story far deeper
than anything I know.
a sporting type, built like a rhino on heat,
lacrosse with his buddies down Wessex-way,
fact he runs an ice-cream parlour is pointless
fact he runs it well, necessary, illuminate.
(yes Bob or Robert according to his mother)
an F100 with an old time radio installed
up channels of old time rock and roll,
the commentaries of Jocks on sport and sex,
lady on his left last nights lust on her way home
redemption for not using a condom, itchiness,
a dose of the crabs or silenced gonorrhea,
need to fulfill animal lusts when the shop closes.
Ice Cream parlour dotted on the store
emblazoned in White/Blue on the side of the truck
redemption now, get well, get better, get clean
opening the shop on the corner of 12th and 9th.
sundial in the square (more round really -plaza)
in his eyes as he contemplates his life, no love
born without love tends to have that effect on you,
time squarely (or roundly) defecates late afternoon.
to the corner of 12th and 12th, one gross
cruiser standing alone checking empty meters,
town not ostensibly busy this late in the day,
throws Bill (strange in England they're
call the old Bill)
from past war passages, when both were Marines,
for an Ice-cream Parlour and empty parking lots,
for the lusty ladies that create itches in society
problems for wayward loners and their mates,
shake hands (eeeewwwww) and walk into Ray's Electrical,
as the voodoo doctor as well, evil spirits
unwanted ruminations, unwanted love bombs and
innuendoes, the time closing when he passed
hand to Ray and was offered a shake in return,
now facing Loretta’s Redemption, passed Shawshanks,
time when stories find themselves getting uncontrolled,
time disease eats into all stories and shocks aplenty.
Space – the fiscal frontier
in my rocking chair
veranda swathed in scrimshaw
lights of Hacienda Thane
to save energy
blot out the view from the horizon
to just above my head, obscurity.
the final evolution
revolution of stars and planets
my own personal planetarium
delicacy of shapes astrologically speaking
of Angeplanus this and plasmacoated that
for my formations folder
of night sky
with my trusty Nikon
amplified through my Ziess spyglass,
plays of dots and polkas
sound on the stereo that of featured Star Trek
tracks, Klingon’s vs. The Borg
James T and Bones
(now passed God bless his soul)
Ahuru and Sulu
there somewhere in a our imaginations
own personal Heaven Sent maps
minds that travel fantasy and fact-
day we’ll be flying those realms
baby suits and gaga tunes
the salt of tears the only water
shared amongst star travellers.
away a tear trying to map Sagittarius,
settle on the familiar Southern Cross
Andromeda, Alpha Centauri, and Jupiter
in the night sky on it’s way to other places
the likes of me replicate to view ours
ours, unless you have a visitor over
alas none too many share your hope,
scope, your vision, your reality, yours
only yours, each pass across the sky
from any that have scanned before
I close the book and go place it away
another night perhaps when time isn’t a burden.
The Free Man
could be anyone
in a summery field
bare and tickled by barley grasses
could be Alexander the Great
to take over the known world
to make yourself God of all you purvey
you sit and feel Mother Earth
her heartbeat of life, surety
your arse bared to defecate
minions that don’t understand your stature
size of your brevity the loneliness of timelessness
right to be king of the field, queen of nothing,
is life as a court jester that unfolds mischief
pranksterism upon the masses, to fool not berate
lifelessness of knees folded for too long
that bare-arsed attempt to dream of realms
possibilities, the thoughts juxtaposed
sexual kingdoms and how size rules
play the Ace and nature cries Snap –
topples to the ground behind you
out from years of dangling, swaying
that blow at such a rate to kill and maim
unsuspecting wanders below.
beside the point, royalty is never
always in the wrong place at the wrong time
like a hedgehog on a road busy with
flattening tyres driving by, none though
field of Dreams and Hopes after all
eight you should know better, should know
family should amount to the sum of your daily
stripped off you by wild circumstance
free to live dreams, live reality, write stories
enthrall people, from when you started
years ago, until now, several short stories and hundreds of poems, nay thousands, whatever
removed from that field and placed in a secure
of computer, bed, wall hangings
with destiny fast approaching
Alexander the Great, little alone Thane
for the eye
a fresh outlook
beauty to behold now
swirls of colours pervade air
care to grow, plant them cautious
place them in a canister for sale.
motion up and down
with grinding health
with a gulp of pleasure.
light downy vapour trail
azure baked sky-
feathers of planes passing at altitude,
to writing poems patterns.
feathers of a dancing Fantail
me of a dying spirit-
family will be losing someone soon.
The bend on the Avon River where the Body was found.
a picturesque spot,
out like an English Country garden
brook, with high sloping banks
trees dangling their tickle branches
and steersman (in Vaudeville topper),
couple sipping champagne aboard
in the sights as they love-
along between Haskell and Tuem streets
the weave of the bank
it by, the police well in control
Tuem Street and MacDonald’s Pass,
a hipflask of whiskey from my pocket,
a sip and wish the body’s family well,
the young lovers a wee bit down stream
the look of horror, no time for love
must have seen, I assume
me, my footsteps turn
gallop across Mayfair’s Bridge
Ice Cream stand,
better after a nip of the hard stuff.
Pop Culture – Warning - Cars going fast
about you folks dere,
V8’s roaring down drag strips
up Jappa cars
stereos pumping the vibe
Doctor on the corner
a birth for free.
the roar of Jet Cars
salt tarmac of Bonneville
apart by an Indian
broke 200 miles per hour
a 60 year old pilot onboard,
local diary owner isn’t Indian.
purr of a NASCAR as it rounds
Brickyard at two twenty six miles per hour
shredding at millimeters per revolution
to hold another speed demon on track,
babies in Ward twenty three were mixed
in a quandary as what to do.
a mint condition Nineteen Eighty Five
Laser cruise by underpowered
eight kilometres per hour,
tasty two occupants more than a mouthful,
dream of being naughty nurses
meant to entice and hold men.
seventh car crashed on the home turn
driver burnt but safe, holds hand high
acknowledgement to the fans, they enjoy
burn up and close racing,
track doctor passes fit all the drivers
is dubious about No. 7’s pit crew, hung-over.
and kingly, thunderheads
and wispy, queen reigns,
there is no tomorrow
at night – red
in with the thought
will be ok.
day ahead a beauty
for the morning hue.
me to water and I will drink
me to a cloud filled sky
I will think.
Beyond the known path
starts with one foot moving
attuned to what’s ahead
ready to inwardly digest
sweet taste of Newness
feeling of blood through veins and arteries.
sideways looks at visions of green
sea of grasses
staunch mountains of trees
rock solidness of grey asphalt
morbid signposts hailing destinations.
luminescence of Sun shining
that day moves on
longer the shadow stands
taller the journeyman’s stature
on a jet overhead hot from combat.
end, rest neath the moon and stars
delectable fare for a wanderer
to motion sickness
to the scant core,
moss of the Oak roots a bed for a weary head.
morn, birds chirrup the morning call,
journey once again one foot after another,
gait, a woman’s vision
chewing motion across and down
voice of a child’s delight at a new toy,
in the maternity ward take his name,
that affect on people, President,
of honour and fortitude
the right thing, to lead by example
shoulders with the rich and infamous.
step back reverses the process innately
doubles the journey, experiences
all for the good, never a bad scene.
The Ballet of Ducks Swimming
seen it before
weed covered pond
little duckie poo trails
feathers pointed skyward
– weeds of course
wheels of someone’s bike – floating
tossed salad of Mum’s Barbecue
talking point amongst mourners
she managed to provide in death.
I hear you say, ok fine!
ice freezes time
eons of matter
onto it ‘til Global Warming
Tubowitz studies under rimmed glasses, the finer details of carbon emission from fifteen millennia ago, pastes another slide
in a petrie dish….
slowness of time
inherent death of things telling
ring barked in trees too
growth measured by the fires
shrinking water passages
team at University of Cambridge
study the sudden onset of Man. The trees seem to tell a tale and there’s a three thousand year old giant redwood that says an axe
slime in the pond oozes oil
time of man, diesel
time of trains, planes and dirty old cars
time when people walked
the planet from itself,
Grove unearths a skeleton
man nor beast,
Meast - Man Beast,
slides under electron microscope
where be they now?
Reporter sees the article in the dumpster, seventy nine pages on why Nuclear fission is dangerous to the planet, the lasting
inequality of life, the very much repressive news of non existence, as if an asteroid had hit the mark.
dinosaurs didn’t die
were killed in large numbers
was too small for that to happen
it was an asteroid, strongest of the fittest,
MacDiarmid studied nuclear fission
to understand how megatons
required to dust the Earth enough to blot light.
poet writes about the intervention that can and can’t be stopped.
like a wet cloak
a song on a bicycle spoke
a drain very deep
slip on the bank steep
dance barefoot fancy
fingers massage a pansy.
Bentley with the lady flaring
caress of an F15 on landing
heads of states disagreeing
minds of children daring
milk of goats disappearing
bristle of a brush fluffing
mouths of babes staring
times for age concern nearing
beast in the backyard blaring
truck through the fence searing
days when gayism foreboding
nights awake illuminating
sigh of sun, sharing
death of moon fearing
time on the alarm clock alarming
barn doors ajar, swinging
songs of the choirs singing
salt of long tears stinging
children on the path skipping
ships on the ocean shipping
sounds of footfall stepping
money in the wrong account debiting
wings of the cargo jet sidestepping
fines in court, distending
poem you write, never-ending
play of words franking
words of plays clapping
claps of plays wording
plays of claps changing
days when night roars, snoozing
night when man roars, snoring
night without noise, boring
fire in the hearth roaring
flick of a switch, ending.
The Gamechnoid Trilogy – Part I - The Eibe
death – life – rebirth
in a tower
flowing silver blonde
a love spell dove mail
the freelance jester
on the dragons tail
donkey honks goose calls
slayer of dragons
wizard of Etheron
wise man of Sagerious.
to the call
shape to giant man
River Eibe shallows
a huge foot leaps
shadow cast on little animals
death of a dragon ensured
man and giant battle
by side, the hiss of steam
drowning of smoke in a frigid River Eibe
sings, dove mail returned.
The Gamechnoid Trilogy – Part II – Pansture Castle
A lady in red
lays in bed
as if she was wed
Prince of Ewermore saddles Actuute,
for the long ride home
the Peregrine Falcon swoops
small rodent for cat food
ice covers the Glade of Hericles
wash clothes through holes
with sturdy Whippet Poles
lace of masters and mistresses
in a drying winter sun,
passing of an entourage noticed
eagle floats above the group
wise eyes and knowing head
ahead for vagabonds and thieves
that can interrupt love.
castle flexes it’s bulk,
strengthened and garnished
and dirt thrown off
ladies and gentlemen warned
stalks every second.
The Gamechnoid Trilogy – Part III Harmenquast
horns of invisible trumpeters ring out
billowing blossom of fluffy white clouds
majestic wave of long green grasses
raising of Hell’s Gate at the south end
direction from which the travellers come.
Post seven on the edge of Glockmere
old petrified forest of Etheron, now the great
the banner proclaiming the passing
retinue, The Prince of Ewermore
and falcon, eagle wizard overhead
now looks from her seventh tower window.
fanfare grows louder the closer they approach
an Eagle swoops and becomes a man
prince disappears into a jester
leaps around as a frog
the whole menagerie turn away from the castle
find a place in a passing circus.
yellow daubed sky,
from the Bible
tuts near no trees,
salad bowl of desert brown
dark of cloud
to hit the ground
shapes of essence
a dream in obscurity.
The Finite difference between Green and Red
of traffic lights
separation between stop and go
between cheeks - meant to tickle
opera singers ululate
little boys in dad’s room – ventilate.
suns, Red suns, lost sons
rumoured to offer hope
shot wound away from a wheelchair.
at 59 Rawene Road
piano Dixie Style
postman nods and smiles.
fart in the observation room
and practiced, no owner hands up
smell forcing humanity to cower.
in the corner chemist
peoples gaiety, photo’s for pleasure
shop assistant captures each image in hope.
The Foxglove Conspiracy.
brought me Foxglove for my birthday
you a kiss of supplication, sweet
the passage of time we shared,
sang me a song from Grace Slick’s album
favourite, eaten by moth ears and dust
voice gravelly, the kiss a flowing disguise,
you a song of doubt, doubt sown with dread
last days of my life not spent in your bed, here
hospice for the yellow skins, the cancerites
devoid of it’s resonant bass, baritone
I tweak my balls down a touch, and squeeze
upper range garbled with gravel too, we sing
relieves itself on my window pain, spooky
glass shatters the light into a million possibilities,
are all chewed up, spat out, regurgitated, dying
nervously, you fondle your silver blonde hair,
one hand, with the other you brush my beard
grey and red after all these years, a tribute to you,
knocks - enters, administers adjustment meds,
stuff that keeps me alive from the pain, what pain?
pain is in your song, your longing look, your slouch
me my darling, touch the heart that beats for you
heart that carried your cross-beat, your love, kudos
smile and the pain dies, I smile ready to die.
Moon, quiet yet filled with Latin love
Moon – succulent and daring
Moon – staunch and true
Moon – the ladies full of swoon
moon – the sound of lions roaring
Moon – Vodka and Tavorivich comrade
Moon – dainty Geisha Girls paint lust
Moon – on a ship beneath, like no other
Moon – Krishna dances and Mumbai mass
East Moon – the moon of Islamic faithful,
Moon – the sage green/grey of Sargasso Sea.
Moon – The maniacs roar
The Ultra Man
than ten giants,
than the Empire State Building
than the TRV in France
thoughtful than Rodin’s Thinker,
than the Scream
like little Robbie in grade school.
the colour of his flowing hair,
the colour of his nails
the stretch of leg and arm exposed
boots Purple – the flier
– eyes of the wolf
the soot that footfalls make in passing
– the squeezer on a balding head
more weight than Santa Claus
in this world for him,
as if love killed,
as a backless man,
when falling in sobs,
his appetite to run,
a way off the planet,
an Amazon for life.
I awake from my nightly soiree,
beading down, check the arms and legs
no blue hair, no yellow eyes,
a dream about what could have been.
could bend and piccalilli
that pickle’s that nice,
Pick a Lilly
lovely blue flower in the pond out back,
ruin it’s beauty by removing it?
could stand and eyeball the moon,
that a moon is a healthy action,
the Moon on high,
roving maker of poems and stories,
nursery rhymes about spoons and cows.
could write a poem about love
to make women swoon
Love, the lady down aisle three serving,
piccalilli on shelves for many to share.
The Castle of Timelessness
is a grace in a four year old digging sandcastles
preciseness of innocence, the calm of an adult,
need to finish the task no matter how much water,
action of placing shells for windows, scallops
of placement - twigs for bridges or fences,
draws on as the tide rises, hurriedly builds a moat,
girls run and giggle, try to capture his gaze,
he’s riveted on his domain, king of his castle,
going to breath fire over this mammoth,
mum wanders over, slips him a drink, Coca Cola,
for a man working hard - without interference,
knowledge, just a desire to be an engineer.
Billy, his two year old brother, on unsteady feet
to the left, then right, his aim to see his brother,
unintended toddlerish target the castle, oops
Mummy, Jared ruined my castle, wah wah
beach goes quiet, all enthralled at the boys feat,
watching how a little man handles disaster.
this doss house
panders for the wants and needs
and women life failed to smile on,
ten years of poison
drinking vial in this house
patrons dying as life passes them by
relics of antiquity don’t sign their name,
metal reeks of cash
gold leeching society
for penniless merchants and loves
doctor singing the forms accused, malpractice
ladies wipe dead spots
where fights mark
stench of faeces, the daily urine in the corner
sick from reactions to illegal drugs consuming.
a house in the middle
testament to societies success
the upper ladder, crossed no boundaries
the death in a doss house continuum,
by life, status
daily in food stamp’s and soup kitchens
prize for onerous yet rewarding duties to life,
a dish on a roof,
in life, sky news
vagabond on the street outside, bent double
for a stray cigarette, or can of drink.
burnt the house down
Street, thirty rooms
law stated the rooms weren’t fit for humans
residents relocated to other towns, displaced.
law arrests them for being vagrant
aren’t families charged for not caring.
driving around Allentown,
winds are wafting,
walk behind the kids
the black sandbox
Police Cruiser keeping the peace,
vagabonds disguised as trees
park resounding to a stereo
in a clock tower.
Tonka toy of my Mercedes Benz
middle Lifelessness Avenue
on stilts laughing
dinner sets on the post boxes, glowing.
the Butcher, shop open
like an overgrown Sausage
his wares, and his ways
of surfboard days
tarseal melting under summer sun.
Ladies of the Seventh Day Adventist
out words of wisdom
out in the heat
each other with Lovey Dovey cloths,
Greengauge passes, discerning.
figures of humanity, walking
day set to the tune of the clock rock
chime of the Eleventh Hour
soldiers bow their heads in remembrance.
Time Journey II – The Slave Traders
the history of the time
good, the bad, the indifferent,
Greeks under Alexander the Great took slaves, Persians, Egyptians, and others, for
the betterment of Greek Society, to make the likes of Homer and Aristotle have easier lives,
American behind me
out the African scene
Muslim invaders captured
that couldn’t defend themselves,
them back to the Arab states,
as slaves of the wealthy,
somewhere the slave trade
of Africa by ship)
with the British needing manual labour
the Industrial revolution
using children in mines and mills
Islands of the Caribbean were the first slave traders port of call for American slaves in the seventeen hundreds, the likes
of Uncle Sam’s royalty picking cotton with a humanity beaten down by sea journeys and whips,
streets of Brixton in London
blood of years of repression
etched on the freed’ calendars
time when racial intolerance boiled over
like Birmingham, Alabama when a brave lady sat with impunity, to challenge eons of inaction, to stand up for her brothers
and sisters, to sing about the day in church for years to come,
was a God of the Old Age,
white man and Arabs
everything to shit
a lot of Africans.
balance restored, parity, unity
for the good of the world
say though there are countries
Asian world that pay slave rates,
certain populaces underprivileged,
in America you hear the likes
and Asians used for slave labour,
shops and the likes, construction gangs,
of fruit and vege, the time is nigh.
George Washington III - a proud man, an author, a wannabee, stares proudly at the certificate he has from Harvard, clear in
the knowledge his forebears were behind him in his endeavours. He can trace his
heritage back to Jamaica, but then not sure if he’s from Nigeria or Sierra Leone.
It doesn’t matter now, the flow back is starting, the knowledge and wealth back to where it began, before the
Arab masters arrived.