about great men and women,
deeds often greater than themselves,
esteem unattainable to ordinary folk,
seem to stand out of arms reach,
back my jealousy, I was a hero once,
died in the ambulance after 20 minutes of cpr,
to swallow her spit, her vomit,
to pump air into lungs filled with salt water,
sought acclaim, and none due
a ready pat on the back from the ambulance crew,
back to reality, another beer, another pub,
away disappointment, drown the taste of death,
kid and young adult, I had my stars,
Amelia Earhart, Einstein,
adult, those change, my lads
survey crew, working tirelessly
and day, weeks on end, no mistakes,
wheel of the ship turned many times,
the seabed, the foreshore, the coast,
it safe for shipping to navigate,
my Heroes became me and my crew,
a little self gratification there too,
done well, and well done to all, medals,
of time spent working very hard.
my heroes are poets, the House in fact,
people work to a deadline, and a chore,
a poem every day once a day,
more than they post, hooray,
House of Heroes!
Grey Ducks and Red Wheelbarrow
in a bottomless pond,
interminably long legs
dunk for food,
interminably deep pond
legs no longer matter.
scent as faithful
Nun in deep study,
the pinnacle of sense
of the trash cans.
take french lessons
the language of love
you revert to guttural Kiwi
Babe, put it there.
when you question yourself
ability to carry forth love,
into french, French Maid outfit,
dressing no deniability
attempts to screw.
duck feathered boa
pond too deep to dip
need to replicate
the right member of the species.
WCW’s “Red Wheelbarrow” today
a simply delightful piece of non fiction.
I read how the poem was born
it had the resonance of two ducks
each other in wanderlust.
WCW’s Red Wheelbarrow
so much depends
a red wheel
glazed with rain
beside the white
the power of her engines
roar of Gas Turbines
blast of Take Off
blood flowing in heightened veins,
blood of revolution and coups,
blood of daylight lilies,
blood of a horsewhipping,
blood of a cat’o’nine tails,
blood of virginity lost,
blood of a baby born,
cast in misery,
bell’s in the Belfry,
lost at sea,
babes in arms
great the lies
in stories full of truth
in books about a tooth
in a phone box booth
to a roof
to two hooves
to lies forsake
– a dog
hill – a spur
mixture – a stir
time – finality
day, to wander - agree
face the news – flee
Another Day in the Nut Farm
a farm for sheep
trees in the surrounds a boundary
around the farm
up muddled up world
on old ones
the end near
‘Twas only True Respect
the bonny wild west Glen
soldiers fight a fierce fought war
gracious glances of sword and shield
battle silent, for the yield.
the battle rages
versus English, the furore soars,
days are long, the heather warmed afar
the night, evening star.
the filler of duvets warming,
silent keep, the sleep is grandiose,
clash of Claymore and epee resounds,
light of day compounds.
is the sword of Blood, scathing
harsh words of landowners and gentry,
wash of bodily fluids drain, soaking grass,
Scots tell the English, up your arse.
Hadrian’s wall separates,
fierce competitors parted by stone,
sound of harsh steel and soft leather,
the centuries over Heather.
ladies, tend the bairns,
from town to town - battle nears,
minds of children fraught for ferocity,
love of lovers – silent lucidity.
times I wandered around
for objects to write poetry about
sense out of nonsense
it plain to a reader
something in their life makes sense too.
at the pencil on my desk
a pencil you say, wait one minute
a shape, like all pencils
and straight, with a rubber on top,
a sharp point kept sharp
whittles away to a stub.
pencil is also a mini ruler
my straight line purpose eerily
role as a pen would, hexagon,
it too to scratch my nose,
wax from an over ripe ear.
a sexiness about that pencil too
in shape, on a desk covered
white paper awaiting a pregnant mark.
look closer, there’s a name on it,
HB, to denote the maker
the style of pencil, this one a medium sort.
Mitsubishi connotates cars and ships
industry, and Irons, TV’s and pencils,
is pleasure knowing such a great company
my desk with ruffled paper and pens
to have a poem written about them.
the rubber, why do they taste so nice?
By Christmas I was Freezing
Wire Wove days, when beds filled with Kapok and Feathers kept us warm. There was no Air Conditioning, no Oil systems, no Roof
Heating Air Flow heaters. No, but there was sex for adults, and extra blankets for children. My feet used to freeze, the old
iron bed far too short for a teenager.
deco illuminated in sunlight
icicles dangle rococo style
melt sounds like a drip
the drop as it falls, splash
Hilda hangs the washing
ice on the lines dissipating
each hand rung article of clothing
muscles bristling in the morning sun.
between men and women then too. Some chivalry, submission, a belief that men overruled women in the way of things family style.
Of course, once Dad was gone, only one boss, she who had to be obeyed. I listened to what both had to say, and settled for
a little of each.
bees have gone to sleep
plants all sleeping for a while
heads of roses encased in ice
to drink the sunlight,
Ross always chopped wood
fire in the hearth going night and day
wet back boiling fresh bath water
dirty from frosty play, may soak.
in the Pacific North West, Delia and me. She liked my family better than hers, hence the move, to be close to Papa Stanton
and Mama Statham. I worked at a US Navy Base supplying accountancy skills, keeping track of the ordnance. My fathers traits
came through me in this job, his forthrightness and keen eye.
fostered out to family
my Father would call once a year
with Ma, always around Christmas.
would rub us down with Sunlight
cheapest soap available to families
bath water was again a dirty brown
it was my turn, the eldest, the stink.
did I get his traits? I hardly ever saw him, yet his genes and his ritualistic visits instilled a need to do a job well. As
a teenager, I'd fight the frost with Uncle and help chop the wood, volunteering to stack - meticulous. Uncle would pat me
on the back and congratulate on a job well done. Sometimes he'd pass his pipe to share when the job was done. I'd cough, always,
the harshness of the Borkum Riff tobacco etching danger on my lungs. Father was annoyed. Today still, I smoke a pipe,
makes the beds, not the children
are off to school on the old bus,
out chocolate wrappers and dirt from the yard,
the rubbish in a pile at each bed.
and Papa treated Delia and I well
went without family comfort
Ma and Pa would ring
to see their children still existed.
day before, the A/C crashed, water leaked everywhere. Behind the walls was the worst, setting the place up to rot from within.
We had the walls stripped to air the offending timbers, placed toweling at the base of the walls to soak up any residue. I
thought about Pa at this stage, how his academic mind would handle this dilemma? Then Uncle's thoughts entered, "You're doing
the right thing - you're always doing the right thing"
finished hanging the washing
ice now just dripping water
icicles on the veranda now a puddle
deck readying itself for a new day.
Pa are coming to visit today,
not Christmas, but still they come,
or Uncle haven't been packing
clue as to where we may go from here?
they said, they're off to Africa to be missionaries. They wanted to know if me and Jeffrey wanted to go along. Jeffrey, my
younger brother, said yes. I spent a while agonizing out on the vacant patio, now fourteen, and thought Uncle's woodpile held
more temptation than a move to a foreign soil. I liked Aunty too. I think if I'd seen more of my parents I would have gladly
gone, but I was stable now and wanted to go places of my own.
I met at High School
loved my muscles
bad for an academic she said,
dating for a while we made vows,
heard I was getting married
were approving, except the ones
didn't share my experience
sojourn in Africa blinding them.
and Uncle both approved, that counted. I wonder if Uncle would have approved my living in a house with air conditioning, no
hard work there. I still miss his company, but Mama and Papa are filling the roll nicely. Yeah, Uncle died, the hard workers
always did young. I know I'm probably going to be the same, I've never been to a doctor, never had a cold, never needed medicines
to fix what the body does for free. Just like Uncle. The measure of my life is the good I pass down to my own children when
and if they come.
and Aunty passed away,
apart, November the 12
14th 1937 respectively.
and Mum came back from Africa
the funerals, both crying
know why, they left Jeffrey
no doubt forget themselves.
in the war, in the Pacific lost a leg to a Zero round. I now sit in my Northwest Pacific hideaway no longer visiting anyone.
Mama and Papa both passed during my stint overseas. My brother, has disappeared, and my gallivanting evangelistic parents
are lost in deepest Africa. I look at the dripping wall again and wonder how life changes.
The rain outside has changed to sleet and the cold drives me for another blanket on the lounge with me under it. My hair is
now long and unkempt, arm muscles slackened by under use and neglect, but my persistence and petulance still evident.
turns the empty clothesline
dust of the desert covered in ice
mood of the old homestead dying
move on, better climates.
eulogies for funerals now, many
passing me by, and no one to welcome
as a vet,
fit if a little one legged.
bells at St Michaels chimed communion. I haven't been to church ever, yet there is something that draws me towards those doors.
Maybe it's the search for truth, or comfort in numbers? I wonder if the icy chill pervades its solemn hall? I draw the new
blanket up and snuggle deeper, I see a flash of Aunty checking under the blankets. It draws a smile from my chapped lips.
The typewriter on the desk implores me to have another go, to get my memoir out. I have great characters to draw on, but how
would they feel if they were a star in a story.
freeze, a super cold one this year,
tramps on 73rd sheltering in skip bins
Chicago always gets its share of freezing,
this year is no exception, deathly..
out to sea
the ship stays afloat
a sailors moon
bow breaks water
sits and wonders how
words of love doth come.
sailor writes home
love he can’t share.
sun doth rise
burns a midnight sailors
moon doth set
gets them wet.
slay your mother.
family needs saving
act of retribution.
honour her daily
time in jail necessary.
my sister are differing.
my step son
up thy sword
honour your Father.
the coat of arms.
back to sea and fight.
Ramblings in the Key of F and D Minor
romantics swoon with heart in hand
place in society like the Goths, determined
placement in the scheme of things, rosy.
George W Bush, tomorrow Obama
murkiness of American Politics to be set,
ahead when the insecurity of the world
by Wall Street bankers.
petrol delicately in tanks thirsty,
oil in engines ready for the guzzle,
new fields off Brazil not enough
prices to where they should be.
monkeys in Africa still chew bananas
their human cousins to regress,
a place to have fun, no longer playgrounds,
future as rosy as blood on battlefields.
lions in the zoo go hungry, no delivery
meat wearing zookeepers uniform,
shreds left to decipher for Police
it was murder or hunger?
lunch today, macaroni cheese
Holy Food, heretic and naysayer,
outside the café on Rothschild
about this and that, nothing in particular.
The Day God Cried Thunder
his Grey Steed,
west wind billowing of cumulonimbus
the hurdle of East Wind's Stratocumulus,
white fence inundated
grey, the thunder roars the heavens
streaks of Gods power wand
foot away from my demise.
steed races under the East Wind
winning the battle
pale purple of lightning clouds
the roar of a locomotive is drowned.
feel the sleet coming
hum of air particles rent asunder
dives in a parabola
ground awaiting punishment.
defeats East (it cowers)
hops off his might warrior
a lasting lightning rod
feet of the church that has sinned,
Ash tree next to it explodes
branch through stained glass
pews a ready firewood.
I doubt this scribbling means anything.
- coffee and scones.
melon for breakfast
for a flaming sky;
sun burning curtains
tea, another scone,
to fight for,
a cold cup of coffee.
lifecycle of a gnat
necklace shining dull;
wrist watch, Saturn.
for soup this lunch hour,
Sav’s gone to pack,
in the tummy bug.
Jupiter in the night sky,
wholeheartedly I’d not dined,
Moon point’s an accusory finger,
back into my grotto.
days ago, I started vomiting
the Sun was eclipsed by God,
hand held out in mockery;
dogs measured their run up.
from now, a brave nouveau,
blazing in the heavens,
past catching up and slapping
long used to being given a ribbing.
you coming, a chariot of golden glaze,
welcome mat well worn and indicating
should park around back to avoid
mishaps in a place of misdemeanours.
fifteen minutes ago,
a blank canvass,
I have just wasted your time.
segregation a political hot potato
and the Whites sit with Grey,
in ancient times won wars.
stupendous development of nuclear weapons
rat race, the dog race, the human race
in a position to fight cleanly, fists leveled.
lamp on the table glows yellow at midnight,
in the early morning, then a bright white,
winter avoided thanks to money.
of Arizona and the Marshall Islands,
Day recalls citizens innocent,
in the cauldron of Nagasaki.
in Japan, Blacks and Whites sit with grey,
blacks charcoaled reminders,
whites, the fear that pervades society.
Grey, falling away, the ones that remember
sound of Enola Gay in the distant,
celebrated in US Air Force bases.
Paz – a firebrand
your ears are burning
the sprinklers of your mind on
the emotions of hate
depths of your thoughts
step outside, mind boggled
in your eye where people stand
reticence of memory swims
step you take South,
ears hot with envy.
step, run and frolic,
lampposts counted as you dash
roll over and skip, mind slip
for the guards house
sting in your tail strikes,
shift North to lands unknown
claw strikes your buttocks
a sprinkler message to cool,
you made it to Canada.
of an elken heart
pace of the chase a click over ten
see with watering eyes
passage of Grizzlies demise
the hinterland of the Ice Lands
the cold of the Arctic Circle, astound
head back South whence you came
fire in your mind still burning
redness of ears exaggerated.
you to the infirmary
manic passage through time sickening,
see no longer, just feel
sensations full blown and stark
Pdoc administers Cloropixal.
take time in recovery
the fires, sprinklers
of the mind, startling
write it down, past present
into the surrealistic.
A Mind Surfers Lament Part 1 of 4
for hereditary recklessness
clock in your mind always set to 12
footfalls on soft carpet a perfect 10.
fairy lights grandma gave you
your mind slipping on all gears into a past riddled with the Seasons of Decay.
papier mache Windmills
thinking of far off Holland,
the one in Foxton that spins
provides milled wheat
bread tastes the same, why so much effort?
stepped on your toe
don’t know who or why
you are inherently aware
the bruising is widespread.
it is I tell you, under the bed,
TV remote sans batteries,
used them in your vibrator again,
pillow thrown signifies a Bullseye, I laugh at the top of my vocal range
more to infuriate your sensitivity,
for the vibrator, me for the batteries
because of her embarrassment,
doorbell rings, she alters tack, leaves me for the errant mechanical orgasmitiser, she to go speak with the neighbours wife.
into the room where they both stand,
the deep purple machine in the air.
window flew open, widows curse
elephants flew by, ears flapping,
out the glass door, rhinoceroses,
chimney echoed a cacophony of monkeys,
the movie on TV, Jumanji
come to life, dances by my house
storks pecking at the roses, pansies
alligators chew up the vegetable garden,
doubt looking for mutant ants and slaters,
channels, the music channel,
serenity of a symphony orchestra in full flight
chewed roses sing soprano,
ants and slaters go about their daily business,
in the melee of jumping channels.
out the window again, a string section,
down and settle to Beethoven’s Fifth,
horn section of the Flax bush
woodwinds of the sunflowers,
piano an errant Dutch Thistle,
even weeds share billing with reeds.
telephone rings in E major, discordant
without realisation the sound is huge,
the remote, nothing happens,
I see him, The Mad Hatter snorting coke,
for the TV, hit the off button,
to still hear the phone, the surrealist
play stops of a sudden, time flies,
still the Mad Hatter invades my mind.
Thane speaking (I think)
A Mind Surfers Lament Part 2 of 4
eleven o’clock whistle blew home time
trudge heavy with mud and exercise
mine continues on, a new shift.
clutches his lunch box, whistles,
tune a calling for the lads, reminiscing
shuffles obediently at his strong feet.
mine, Derek Johnston labours
shovel pitching to and fro, canaries
above the din of the box carts,
men killed in 1964, the Great Cave In
passageway to the memorial. left, then
the next passageway, sarcophagus.
in the Earth’s crust happen,
stretching of tectonic plates, earthquakes,
mine in an area that could easily collapse.
makes tea and scones, her man home soon,
has his bath ready, his whiskey too,
from the mine say it could close soon.
the Serpentine River,
lick your chops
a great divide in the meaning of nonsensical prose
three cars go back and forth
forth again, and then back and forward
spit at the underclass, black arse
what you don’t call a miner
melee at the gate, anti mining protestors
fight started by someone cajoling.
where earthquakes are few,
the sun rises and sets almost
at the same time.
soot we see is from Umu’s and fires
strong summer breeze wistful and playing.
I counted the pickets
three in all.
A Mind Surfers Lament Part 3 of 4
Henry, can you build me a car
enough to pass ladies
enough to run from their boyfriends
enough to dodge the law
enough to run on the smell of an oily rag?
Wilbur, can you build me a flying machine,
enough to get good views
enough to run from shotgun blasts
enough to map the terrain
enough to save lives when it crashes.
Babe, can you hit me a home run,
enough for the fans on the bleachers,
enough to evade reaching gloves,
enough to avoid the fence by meters
enough to be breaking records all your life.
Zeppelin, can you name a famous band,
reign in the world short and disastrous
you make something safer
than Ford or Wright, meaner than
ever seen before,
you reinvent possibilities.
Butterfly Gossamer Accoutrements
cut with barbaric thrusts
wings of butterflies
them to an imaginary
place seagull feathers
album full of horror
to the rats in the yard.
place the rats tails in zig zags
page reminiscent of a jail cell
picture of a Lifer stapled behind
there is no escape.
paste is barely dry, your coup de gras
tongue of Geoffrey Dahmer
testicles of the Son of Sam
from the Unabomber’s cell.
A Mind Surfers Lament Part 4 of 4
on ships of gossamer sails
to be imagined, and tasted.
on waves crested swells
direction at the whim of wind
Jolly Rogers to pass the time.
destined, now full of meaning,
Around Nassau Town
to jolly rum flavoured swaying.
I reach two handed
a glass full of mulled wine,
attain the prize at the same time
to sip two handed
ever the man, lean back and dunk.
children snore childlike snores
nursery rhymes well gone, smiles
whispers pervade the air,
stand behind me laughing.
of the self righteous comes the Man,
foot nine tall, muscled like a wrestler,
to be an athlete, surrenders to no one.
throw tantrums, fits, and leave holes in walls
mind no longer in tune with your body,
to visit, to see you’re on the mend.
Day Letter from the President,
household in the USSR, freedom
willing to pay for it, work that is,
to the streets and protest some say,
feel the pull of democracy, rewards
hard work and endeavour, cars, PS2’s
the West sells willy nilly,
you my comrades, see the end
made goods for the free, and good pay,
off your long coats, knuckle down
soon we’ll be like our American brothers.
The Dalliance of Dancers Green
spoke to him
he was deaf
at his heels
ready for shearing
shapes an artists eye
smile, run away
a supple man
it with bent eye
oaks bend over
a wet ground
vision his hearing
kiss me please
wipes it away
saw grass dunes
to the masses
a drover death
makes a fortune.
on Jimmy, I made you
down your belly,
pipi shells for a mouth
shells for eyes
of kelp seaweed,
me boy, you’re mine
bidding, answer me
of dumbly smiling back,
up and move, bugger you
me to mum, she’ll be in awe
on Jimmy, I breathed life
your sand castle body.
water’s coming in Jimmy
don’t want to drown
evaporate into tidal flows)
on my boy, dance
your hair falls off in mock joy,
I hear you answering,
sound like a gull or two
a remnant sandwich.
Jimmy, I created you
seed pods for buttons
stones as studs for your jeans,
small straight sticks for bones
about to crumble in water,
it coming now, a trench you say
I can build trench, a deep one
out flows for the tide to fall in.
on Jimmy, help me,
save you, you have to help,
you say deeper, wider, longer
water erodes your feet
half your denim encrusted calves,
faster, but the next wave
at your torso, half man
worry Jimmy, I’ll save your head,
trench has the reverse effect,
everywhere, my slave dying,
smile as you decay into beach.
love is a widening gulf
continents on tectonic drift,
overspill into a Marianas Trench
shores around the Pacific Rim.
eyes cry from a dark sky
a sea covered in carpet blue
as love drops on foreign soil.
Maxim in Mexican cantinas
short of rain, long on dust
drops of Corona beer dredged
the wells lost on royalty.
bass drum in a city band
thunder and lightning, tears
hail, a hard day runs amok
Pacific crashes with full force.
An Indian Ocean burps, tsunami
to a shore not ready to bury the dead,
tall palms stand sentinels to new love,
have the dogs gone?
me, a mountain grows
of living emotions
seven sins of defilement
by the lava of blood flowing.
a small piece of you
the snow capped slopes of my mind
like an archeologist into my feet
trees on an ever expanding chest.
my eyes, let the peak burst forth
stands on end, ash eruption
twitch with each earthquake
cries in pain “I love you”
Gods of the Passing.
the strength of several
be it love or war,
the sound of lightning
at your synapses.
silence of choking death
ever present survival coat
trouble, throws it
a wanton whistle, Odin’s way.
raw of the Valkyrie resonates
long lost to booze
God of Reason stands tall
explains your death for you.
swollen belly, distended thighs
years of abuse, you’re not fit
the Gods of Valhalla, nor the One God,
up your troubles born of misuse.
feel the swing of Warhammer
detonates your heart to bits,
pain so excruciating love passes
legs straight out in front, supplication.
one by one they depart, leaving you dead,
ways you feel departed, floating
a white tunnel, the passing
into Gods domain (for processing).
Things to do before you hit 100
open others birthday cards.
tuck in the older ladies.
Memorial Day celebrations.
forget you were once a nurse.
well and drink plenty.
forget your diaper floods.
golf on the front lawn, not in bed.
with Old Jeffrey, he’s much fun.
up to your kids when they come.
with the staff, they secretly love it.
with your old cock to ensure it still dangles.
the spoons badly at Mavis’s Tea Party.
the part of a dapper French man.
Alzheimer’s is for those who have no idea.
lasts years Christmas fondly.
to pass on your false teeth.
that shitting in your diaper irks staff.
the day you turned 99, we do.
your folks, they sucker punched you.
to Kiss Mary, she loves you.
to resuscitate Mary afterwards.
end, you’re gonna be 100.
couple of days you have to see the doctor.
comes all the time, acting on it hurts.
surrounds your family, they’d hoped for less.
room, a secret is being hatched.
years since you retired, millions have died.
selfish way, you don’t care, it’s good though.
your birthday they will move Mary.
your sudden demise, diapers will be handed down.
your coffin drops in the hole, silence.
all your life, you will regret nothing.
Kia kaha (Be strong)
wind in your foliage
sound of Life passing through.
wind in your wave tops
boom of society bending.
Rangi of the Sky
wind in your atmosphere
in new ideas.
wind across grassy plains
of the lust of Life.
in for the long road ahead
for my tears
away the pain
your right shoe,
up the soft leather
clean till shiny
the salt of errant
aria’s to a new Queen.
away your pain
my tears fail
and soak up,
for the night
howling of internal
each gasp of a lonely
our love with crying
only by children
pain of our offerings
by joy and peace,
the workmen dawdling
walk by, whistling
or two to hurry us along.
you see my face, ashen
the reality you face,
together, the long years
the dreaded cancer
it is in your breasts
keep it safely
lock and key.
me in it’s peace,
throws a hot cup of coffee
Laws of Nature.
sitting in a café in Dannevirke. The clock on the wall playfully elicited 3.37pm,
a time I was used to. Late afternoon in a hell hole was often tinged with mirth
and good tidings, from me mainly, the locals were locked into a 1940’s time warp.
I paid for my sausage roll and pie and went back to my seat. The time
was now 3.41pm, also a time I was suited to.
yellow skinned girls in the brothels
willing for good money
compliant to clients demands
dollar held sway when sex was concerned.
my personal assistant
me to say the doctor was due,
he had unfinished business,
hoped it was to say I was HIV negative.
the clock some more, no one really entered the cafeteria, except some High School boys after a pie or two before Rugby practice. I finished the food, supped from an over
hot coffee cup, and checked the messages, if any, on my cellphone. As first thought,
I had high blood pressure
another look at my heart,
a memo to myself
another five miles tonight.
dance at Tiffany’s was always a favourite,
thirty on the dot, Pacific time,
one filly to do the rumba
was good, but not a looker you hear.
clock ticked over to 4.00pm, time to go. I checked the satchel, loaded it with
the cell phone. Mrs McGinty would not tolerate me being five minutes late. Today I needed to do her last will and testament, amongst other lawyer type things. I wasn’t much of a lawyer, but I charged fairly.
Yes she’d be waiting, 4.07pm she said. I got into the 1963 Jaguar
E type (yes it pays well) and busted a ring getting to her place on time.
the rumba ended in tears,
her bluff, her lips pouting
to drop her mid stride
one of the girls at Macy’s would have been better.
doctor laughed, as he does with me,
seven miles would not be enough
around years of pies and sausage rolls
need a new diet and exercise regime, boy.
McGinty was dead! Per old cow, never knew it was coming apparently. They asked who I was, family or something (they’d seen the car there recently) I just shook my head,
checked my wrist watch, 4.07pm. Yes I’d made it on time. Customers are too few to lose this way. I got into my car,
dialed the office, no work, and took off to go play with yellow skinned girls.
proportional to the size
tall skyscrapers and a monument
life of a gnat runs by like
on a runway
to attain flight with legs pumping.
on a high rise apartment block freezes
window cleaners, stuck to reflective glass
to look even sillier, the Boeing
flaps it’s wings for take off,
passengers inside made to work the mechanisms
forth and multiply, King Gnat
his many hordes
deepest Arizona to eat nuclear fallout
the super race, world beaters,
masturbates over a Playboy
mothers toilet, not even knowing
moths on the walls were transmitting
data to the internet for insects,
the phone rings, Derek Mosquito from
Africa, I have a message
lolly paper on the street erupts in flames
Samurai leap akimbo, challenging
daily fare for fat Policemen, donuts
chinese battlers eat rice
old on the proceeds of a steady diet,
west enamoured with medications
pharmaceutical companies pinching secrets
lab rats and mice, the odd goat and pig
cell research long the domain
cockroaches zapped in the microwave.
and ate spaghetti bolognaise
thinking the slimy bits were pasta
wriggled, and squirmed
phoned, he was in love.