The Writing of Thane Zander
General Poetry Page One
The Hawg Series
General Poetry Six
General Poetry Seven
General Poetry Eight
General Poetry Nine
General Poetry Ten
General Poetry Eleven
General Poetry Twelve
General Poetry Thirteen
General Poetry Fourteen
General Poetry Fifteen
General Poetry Sixteen
General Poetry Seventeen
General Poetry Eighteen
General Poetry Nineteen
General Poetry Twenty
General Poetry Twenty One
General Poetry Twenty Two
General Poetry Twenty Three

Poetry of an eclectic nature on anything and everything.

Watching Kiril die


Everyone knew him as Kiril,

though further investigation on my part

revealed his surname as Goodrundorf.


Yes he was Bulgarian,

couldn't speak to be understood

but you knew if he was speaking to you

or was trying to pass something on-


that knowing smile when you nodded "yes"


He was 79 when I met him,

celebrated his birthday in June,

he smiled then too.


But the last two days - not good,

he seemed confused by life,

and it told this morning when I heard Kiril had died.


Farewell old man, I enjoyed your ethics

and your winning smile

whenever I passed you

I knew we had commonalities.



Fowl Language


What the blue blazes is that popsicle protruding

from your burnt red lips?

Tackled a turkey I'd say, with mild derision

only for the lips to purple and the scene change.


I look at ducks severely expecting a waddle quack

just to cheer me up from death around,


so you farted loudly fluffy chicken feathers

bit like a pillow exploding with laughter.


Sadly today was my birthday and only the tree I lean against

acknowledges and acquiesces to my insignificant demands

as they always do - lucky me.


I wear feathered boa's 'cause I'm gay, well leastwise happy

just to show off the wonderful colours that light up

an otherwise unhysterectomised smile - think no tongue.



We can rebuild anything.


Take any over aged person

plonk them on a surgery table and rebuild him/her,

just as nature designed it to happen.


Old folks learn quicker now

about how to swallow up huge amounts

of health dollars in hospital systems,

often making it hard to pay for those that work

and injure themselves to be repaired satisfactorily.


For fucks sake, 100 years ago the Old Age was less than 50,

now it's staggering very quickly to 85,

a huge jump don't you think.


Old folks, lay down and die

your self satisfaction and longevity is not needed,

as the extra population of humans is not needed.


By the way, I'm a centenarian from Jupiter,

we're sent here to give Earth a hard time.


Rage against reality.


Could fill this void with a diatribe of F words,

spit spittle on my manic screen,

what point does it prove?


Take a few well chosen words to explain the slowing watch,

time, the classic healer,

yet my time appears to be up - possibly.


I don't have a mirror anymore, on purpose

hate to see that in three weeks my grey hair

is a blanket of recently fallen snow - fluffy white.


Then I sink the remainder of my aging appendages

into another morsel of Mrs Mac's baking delights,

and squirrel myself away for another time.


Kiril, in memorium


In places like this, it’s easy to forget others,

Heck, we forget ourselves all the time,

But some stick in your mind

And Kiril was one.


Studious in his duty to empty the bins,

Smartly dressed most times


And a ready wave and smile for any greeting from others.


This week, our little world has shrunk a little.


Dixie City Jam



Trom - Bone



Red Light

Green Light

Stop and slide the bar


Kicks off another New Orleans party


Street party - Mardi Gras

Maarrrrrrrrdi Graaaaaaaas

Kicks in the bass drum and double bass

a tickling of the ivories

and the beat hits everyone’s feet

and a twirl begins

twirl - dance - sex


Hot enough for sure


dig that Dixie City Jam.



The Lamb Whisperer


For weeks now,

have lived in the country and witnessed

things most often not seen at sea, my old life.


My new life, a rest home in the country,

surrounded by nature, and the birth of life,

Lambs, Calves and new Birds on the wing.


My new job, caretaker of new life,

keeping the count, reporting ill health

of lambs and ewes in the middle of reformation.


Also the bearer of news, keeping all in the home

informed of the count, as well as txting my daughters

the good news and to share pxt’s.


Also to help the odd ewe whose mothering instincts

are a little awry, like some mothers can be,

so I whisper ewe-like into the void, to help.


And it does, lambs run for mothers when I cry my cry,

and take to the milk in fear, ensuring their last drink,

before separation, before their impending demise.


Which of course is not what is happening,

but it’s got to be good for the mothers to empty

udders full or near full of wholesome nourishment.


To date there are over 25 lambs in the paddock,

Some a little porkier than others, some scrawny,

but most happy joyful playful lambs happy to be alive.


Conversation piece


Albeit a monologue set in slushy cement

ready to dry and harden in time

as conversation usually does.


Could talk about the latest news from the Middle East

or just shoot the breeze about mothers complaining

about fathers that shirk their family duty.


I do find that reading the latest sports news is a blurring event,

and now takes less time to do than it did yesterday,

perhaps I too, shirk my family duties, who knows?


In retrospection, I'm a computer junkie

locked into megabyte world and the way it's turning,

yeah, Ok I get your point, another family shirk.


Maybe we men in conversations with ourselves

tend to find the answer to our own problems from other sources

and should act upon them accordingly.


I think.


Poetry in Motion Forward



My poetry, like my future

is highly uncertain, almost hand in hand

so to speak,

There is a lack of any light at the end of the tunnel

though I think I left the tunnel on my arrival

at St Dominics Respite Care home.


I sit here typing trying to imagine lines out front

and all I see is the lines diminishing behind

though thankfully I am in the light,

that counts I guess.


Maybe it’s meant to be this way, me in a poor house,

my wife and children all struggling with money and ills,

I wish I could help them all, but their future is in the hands

of the almighty, as is mine.


I don’t want to be on the street again, or arrested again

for being someone that now struggles everywhere he goes,

I won’t commit suicide, it’s not good for those cleaning up,

nor the emotions of whanau left behind.


But that’s my life, caught with the reality I have nowhere to go,

and no way of getting there in a hurry,

Lotto win would be lovely, but highly unlikely,

Or even a Big Wednesday, yes I do fantasize.


So all I do here is day dream of escapes

daydream of a better life for my poor family

and hope like hell I don’t have another manic attack, I’m sick of them,

but I do realise too that I can’t work or be in society much, it irks me.

The Colour of War

A red poppy grows

in a green Belgium field
near a white headstone
etched with grey marble
under a blue,blue sky

and somewhere after WWII
a widow receives a Purple Heart
to go with her black one.


21 Andrew Young Street

You drive down Andrew Young Street,
near the middle,
an off cream two storey building
usually with hobos and whores
parked outside smoking or bickering.

If your window was down
you might catch a sniff of decaying humanity,
might also catch a whiff of glue
or some good dak doing the rounds.

Might catch Manahi doing his hippy hippy shake
trying to light the same smoke for the tenth time today,
happens when Mental health prescribes
so much legal meds it numbs your life,
happens too when your options run out
and the streets paths all go the same way.

Can you enter and see what lies within?
See the regimented nothingness of hopelessness
brewing another concoction to last the day out?
See Hazel dressed to the pins, 55 year old whore
that can't even score a packet of smokes no more,
yet she still dresses to catch her own eye now.

Life at 21 Andrew Young Street is far from life,
it's like all the hermit crabs at the beach
have been stripped of their protection
and thrown together in a tin with one door
and each time you pass out through that portal
a bungy cord attaches you to it
and hauls your sorry arse back in

just in case you offend someone
with your prolonged public appearance.

Another Like Me
Wind in my helmet, bracing
stinging my eyes,
freewheeling down the motorway
with power roaring
between my thighs.
Wheels spinning,
sliding out of control and sliding closer
closer, closer,
into the barrier........

bright flourescent light
walls, white and blue,
pale blue, sickly blue
beds either side,
no sign of my bride.
The still quiet of the room
echoes painfully around my skull,
"where's my damn helmet gone?"

"Where's my bike?"
Oh, the barrier, the endless slide
into what? Nothingness!
Yet here I am,
I look then down the bed
and count my arms,
wiggle some fingers,
they're all there
"Whew," I sigh.

Then I see it.
One lump, not two,
it's not a cup of coffee
but I wish it was.
I try, oh I try, but only one side will
move down there,
where my right leg used to be
is an empty space for my memory.

I don't want to do it.
Move the covers, dammit
don't be a chicken,
shit! you can ride a bike
at 120 miles per hour
but you can't do this,
Can you?
Go on, move them and see,
see if the toes are missing too
(of course they are, you joke).

Oh well, no point crying
over spilt milk, you say.
You are still here, 83 percent
and you live to fight
another sunny day,
Now what can I do with one,
that I couldn't do with two?
World Hopskotch champion for starters
and maybe a skittles instructor.
Opportunity abounds.


An English Summary

Oh, this was going to be so burdensome,
an epic beyond the calling of Wordsworth,
or Coleridge as they lay in their beds, composing
lengthy dirges to the fallacy of man and natures
everlasting impact on this dear earth,
The sun shone on words of black ink
no meaning, until a ray of thought burst through,
lines the way to understanding
of anothers impression of his own reality.

T'was oft told in those days ere poets roamed,
people laughed at their folly, brandished swords
of dementia towards their impassioned offerings,
burnt volumes and tomes of fashioned english
upon pyres, and fires burned until the death of innocence,
but the spoken oratory lived on, in poets and apprentices,
followers alike, singing the littanies, harkening words
with many committing it all back to paper again.

Then soon, oh so soon, the books reappeared.
the words of fanciful dreamers spread
from kith and kin into the centers of arts and education,
The poets who uttered their spartan thoughts passed on
leaving their legacy to burn into our conscience,
calling all who read to wonder at the ease of a painting,
without easel, harsh English colours spread
upon the pale white spread leaflet of paper.

Open a tome of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Keats or Shelley,
smell the heather, spring time joy from their special valleys,
Hark, hear the words, listen with your eyes,
bring to mind how each bird flies, and how each
man walks, and the colours of everything brought
to life, with the ease of matrimony, man and wife.


Byting away at you.

I am the sleeper,
buried deep
in your systematic apparatus,
sending a signal to the world.

Bent on reciprocation
to implanted codes!

The Mote that hides in your registers
slaving your brain
for nefarious gains
and those that have the
true power
use you, abuse your freedom.

Alterations to your
processes without your knowing!

But you can see me
and hear me, if you look hard
see those that use me to gain access
to systems way out of your range
and when you do, you freak
and run your anti viruses.

Altered them though,
to my own needs, hahahaha.

Lo, mindless one, you are alright,
I don't interfere with you
if you leave me alone
but try and destroy me
I will make your life an endless misery
The Windows of your existence
rent with strife.

Powerful, yet innocuous,
Yep, helling in Troie.

Fear not little ones,
I live in your gadgets,
like a cold virus lives in your lives,
waiting for a trigger to activate me,
but woe back there, I do have
my own protection too,
so leave well alone.

Feel now, your paranoia,
feeding off itself, self duplicating.

Reach for your mouse
open browsers at will
I mean no harm to you or your system
But am a welcome parasite
chewing on the ether of your existence
and relying on you to keep me fed.

If we both cease, we are both dead.
Do we move elsewhere?
Perhaps I'll be byting someplace else?


Dancing on a Wave of ambition

Yasmine stole glances
waltzed dances
Fandangoed her life away
she was gay
in a flowery sort of way
took chances.

Marcel drove taxis
sailed on sleek maxis
Followed the course
upon dancing horse
showed little remorse
No complexities.

They both married
thrust and parried
met their matches
battened down hatches
stalled in patches
often harried.

She danced no more
he fucking swore
watched x rated
she got berated
and castigated
'til they split the core.

Her dancing died,
his carefree ride,
both waxed and waned
the fire had flamed
each tried and blamed
too much pride!


Heart of Gold

Rub the cherished rock,
plain as day
dark as night
reach in with your eyes
and visualise the core.

See the glitter and
warm sparkle
of a nugget,
or just see,

Take the rock axe,
ready to hew,
change your mind
thinking gold will spill
and grey ensue.

What to do?
Admire the rock
for what it is,
or risk ruin for the sake
of human vanity?


The Room at the end of the......

There is a room at the end
of the cold dank hallway,
Where a door of oak,
opens with a croak
into a life so different.

In that room at the end,
is a new beginning
for each new life
Man, with/without wife
accentuated diffidence.

Deeper into that dank room,
A lamp aglow
casting Bogart movie hues
onto unclean shoes
and the reel runs on, itinerant.

But that room holds a dark secret
in every nook, cranny
A whiff of french perfume
lightens the smokey plume
and yes, Bogart, reminescent.

In the room, the halls end one,
memories close down
as sure as the door closes
characters bend away noses ,
The scene closing off, incandescent.

Casablanca wistsfully plays
on happier, loving days.


Saying Goodbye

Pitiful site, weeping and moaning
Siblings bury their beloved Mom,
What a joke, some hated her, they cry
while those that loved her stand idly by, thinking.

The rope slowly sinks the casket
into her last resting place
everyones actions so jokingly profound.

I gather my thoughts, and shun
the foolishness that prevails.

Today, my Mom was chucked in the ground.


The Barbeque

Invited guests mingle, drinks in hand
ladies in summer frocks
guys in shorts and T shirts
kids run amok amongst party paraphenalia.

White linen covers rough trestles
adorned with plates of salad
bread and condiments
flies try to settle on white gauze covers.

The host stands amongst the smoke
turning barbequed steak,
sausages, and chicken,
chargrilled to absolute perfection, blackened.

Happyness rules in summer heat,
kids glad to be free
adults sated by the food
everyone repasted to a state of joyous glee.


A Moment on The Beach

Black ironsands strewn amongst
golden beach grains
Cold in winter, hot in summer
beach is still packed with passing life
juxtaposed with long dead trees and shells.

I make my way among the scrimshaw
wondering at what each was, living.

Waves lap away at the structure
of sand dunes and edifices
undermining nature and humanities efforts
scouring away at the foot of it all
eroding the life that once was.

I see the erosion, and the new sand bars
way out to sea, building new dunes.

Dogs leave their telltale calling card
people skirt them, dig them under
so others, especially children don't
step in the crap of some others
major indiscretions, and cry.

I see the turd and think to myself,
Humanity is such it doesn't shit openly either.

And the sojourn finishes with a bottle,
pale green, bleached by sea and sun
Pull the cork and read the message inside
and find some drunken couple in love
on a sea journey many miles away.

I think of the act of throwing rubbish in the sea
and wonder if the couple are still one?



A flock of seagulls
drop guano on chromed rails,
the various painted yachts,
champ slowly on their moorings
in the sleepy bay.

Orca glide past rippling
the serenity, and snorkel
spray into the air to mark their passing,
the ripples run away smoothly
to lap at distant shores.

The cafe set sit drinking
in the scene that beckons daily,
gaily chatter about the gulls,
whales, and pretty yachts,
quaffing cakes and gallons of coffee.

A punt glides smoothly
out from the boat house to a waiting
vessel of blue and white,
pristine, with mast so tall and ready
for a days sailing on the briny.

Seagulls scatter noisely,
the sailor wipes at his chrome,
pulls himself aboard, hauls up sails,
Gladioli's moorings and sets course
for the tracks of departing whales.


Madonna Images Seen In A Window

She stood there
behind me
right shoulder
I couldn't see her
except for her image
in the plate glass.

She was singing Baby Blue
it was all I could do
to turn around and
dive into my pocket
searching for a pen
damned erection.

She disappeared
I looked left, right
behind, nothing
but I saw her
Madonna in the window
and my excitement ebbed.

Damn! she's a woman
just another bit of crumpet
on the smorgasbord
of lifes lunch
but she had my hunger
eating itself raw.

I turned from my window
my reverie collapsed
and buried in memory
castagated for being a fool
and the hardness of my tool
tripped me up, damned pen!


Nose Just Scratches the Surface

Damn my face

multitude of thoughts

Nose most prominent

Eyes too close

mouth tool full and twisted

Chin doubled and protruding

what can I do.


That was me in the mirror

aged thirteen

now at twenty four

a successful model

and yes, it was worth it all

hardly recognise myself anymore

and I like it that way.


Eyes are still too close

but it's sexy

Nose remodelled and that

just scratches the surface

Lips been thinned and shaped

Cheeks heightened

Chin filled and reformed.


Now I look in the mirror

and see a new me

one people love to see

and pay top dollar to use

Yeah, my nose does scratch the surface

and the rest of it it is just fine

to my way of wanting.


A Moment of your time, please?

The magic of a moment
is that it can be captured
in a photograph,
or a poignant poem
and displayed for all to peruse
at will.

We have it covered
as do the snappers,
capturing many moments,
logging them in format
for others to glow or gloat,
or tackle that moment by the throat.

I've taken this moment I snared
to tell you what you already knew


Student Habits

It's a thing to behold,

health department would have a fit,
shit everywhere, in the sink,
on the floor,
ants with their prizes
strolling out the door.

Dishes piled seven high
in a sink with three day old water,
a daughter sits and smokes
not a care,
six day old shampoo
rots in her hair.

Open the fridge and gag,
bottles of beer, crusty pies piled
higher than the stench,
coagulated milk
stands guard in the door,
and reflects it's ilk.

The dog food in the corner
rots, no dog would touch the stuff,
it's rough, the ants love that too,
as much as the salami
on the chooping board hard and dry;
where is the sushumi?

Basking in the glory of it all
a boy, six foot tall and hungry,
he rummages through the dross,
unable to find,
anything that is edible
from what is left behind.

Mum and dad send food parcels,
unwrapped and eaten where they stand
bland baking, fruit cake, and dried plums,
vie for space,
and the waste disposal chokes
countless moronic faces.

It's amazing how things change
when love is the order of the day,
and things get cleaned and put away
where they belong,
soon, teenage flats become clean
as they join the throng.


My favourite blankie and a chiffon surprise.

Laid my favourite blankie at the table by the door,
sauntered in, ballgown pink cherise and black,
ready for that indefatigable manhood attack,
and the boys parted, dates on arms, admiring
my few hidden and not so hidden charms.

Band played deaf music, too loud to dance to,
made assertions to myself I would find that guy,
the one, the man who would sweep me
off my dancing feet, and into the arms of eternity
my dream was hard to find but I tried.

And then half time, sweaty bodies mingle
in the cool summer air, and my body tingles,
there he is, with the girl in crimson black
my senses roil at the challenge, the possibility,
my mind loses itself to the dream and I roll.

Distraction number one takes me gently by the arm
and guides me back to the dancefloor, I whince
the imperfection that is the acne of his face
creates a vision of flight, and the dance doesn't help,
as I crawl on hands and knees trying to find the right one.

Now I look up, and everyone is looking at me,
where am I? my idiocy plain for all to comprehend,
and I bend back into my fleeing path, grab blankie,
tears well up and run mascara so patiently plastered
only those scant hours ago in my ever hopeful bedroom.

I make it home, disgusted with myself,
why do I always do it, embarass myself for a man,
because of a man, well a boy really, but everytime
I guess I got a lot of growing up to do,
and rejection to take care of, or is it I who reject?

I stare numbly at myself, the torn and ripped
discarded chiffon of the dress now littering the floor,
the bed, and anywhere my maddening twirl took me,
I wipe incandescence from my face, and dull
what looks back and wonder at plain me, not the other.

Daddy is playing sweet sixteen on the jukebox downstairs,
yet I don't dance to it, don't feel sweet at all,
but my toes twitch to the possibilities of the song,
and I start to look at myself in the mirror again,
with a new light and the light glows, I change
and become that woman I want, me, matured.

And I see her, married, two children,
a boy and a girl, and the dog Lucy,
I wonder at my journey to that point,
knowing I can see makes me know I am growing
I smile to myself, certainty, a picture now.

I place my blankie on the floor, under the bed
the ripped chiffon in the waste basket,
tidy the makeup table and the likes,
head off to bed with a surety not there
so many hours before; Mr Right, meet Miss Right.


Bibliographical Octet Parts I-VIII


I Dream Science

Charlie lay on the floor,
sparks of sodium chlouride flew above his head,
dyed purple, the beaker bubbled dreams,
a psychology major out of his depth
played with the chemistry of mind.

II Missing Pieces

He awoke from his sidewalk stop,
the booze worn off and morning light
streaming into a fogged compartment,
he scruffed back his dishevelled hair
placed the key in the ignition. Power!

Nowhere too soon, left nor right,
no straight ahead on the gears,
excelerating forward and backward, nothing
out of the car onto thin ice, slipping
and there, the missing pieces, no wheels.

It was a good night, a worse day.

III Watch Time Fly

His legs were fast, damned quick
flying like a suited business man
to a very late appointment, sadly
he lost control and tumbled, wrist watch
catapaulting into somersaults,
dying in a crescendo of Timex parts.

IV A Stone Gone Mad

When I first saw this title, I thought
"Stoner gone mad" and thought, yeah, true!
but no, 'twas a granite or igneous particle,
off on a rant or a crazed flight into infamy,
someones window. smashed beyond belief,
yeah, could have been a stoner going mad.


V Life Support

Delilah breathed heavily, the breath of a saviour,
clutched Samsom to her expansive busom,
he stirred some,
and she clutched tighter, the scissors near his heart,
he groaned, not sure why he was where he was,
and felt her heartbeat through his ear,
the sharp metal close to his chest, felt his hair
and gaped anew, how could she, do I live or die?

VI Life Estates

"And I leave all my estate to William and Shane,
my two homosexual partners, they served me well,
to my sons and daughters I leave my life,
breathe me, feel my cold dead skin,
and cry, for you have pained me when all I seek
was joy and hope, but you fought over me,
and you fight forever, with yourselves,
not my lovers. They have always loved me. Life!"

VII A Cry in the Night

"Your turn, darling" she whispered to me,
the same me tired from a 12 hour shift,
the same me that loves her dearly when
she stays home all day and sleeps, when baby sleeps,
but I love her, and move to the room next door,
the crying in the night, urgent, nappy change
and I smell the detritus of infant expulsion, reach
for the new disposable, change Lucifer, clean
and put back to bed, contented and happy,
I sleep, and then he calls again, food this time,
"Your turn, darling" I whisper as I drift off to sleep.


$35 dollars for Jay walking,
A sunny day, no clouds.
I am alright, just dandy.
The cord was sinewy, very sinewy.
Yes, everything is fine.

Bibliographical Octet Parts IX - XVI

IX The Pull of the Moon

Saurus and Junipon, stars of nights heaven
pull together apart, a love dance
of epic preportions across the scene,
and lovers dance too, on Earth and know
the moment when their love consumes,
look up to the dark night sky and see
the shuddering as each pulls on the Moon.

X Trial by Water

Your Honour, I beg of you
hark the words of my daughter
stake my heart to your desk,
I expect a Trial By Water.

I will be vindicated by the wet,
and the evidence we shall give,
like fish in water swimming,
we shall walk free and heartily live.

XI Flashback

Fuck dude, bad buzz man, alliteration
Sucked seventy saucy savanas succulinctly,
and dreamed of being somewhere else, punctuation
had a thought: "Fuck man! What Happened?", inspiraton
I walked my memory back in rerun, saw the beginning
raged at what was to come,
dark patches as smoke roiled,
and then the Flashback ended as I toked another joint.

XII The Sibling

Sysiphus, great poet, hark thine words of joy,
thy daughters repose, garnered for all to peruse,
doth thou maketh past the watchdog at yon gate,
sail youthfully upon sword of indifference, his son,
and sibling rivalry doth endeth in demise of one,
or other. Harketh now, sibling, live.

XIII The Third Twin

Three mountians stand,
triangular in disposition,
one next to the other
next to the other
and only ever two visible
from any viewpoint, twins
three twins, Herecule, Junas,
Serecles, only three,
yet any two together
is a twin without the other.

What of the Third Twin?
Made invisible by tricks of light
and made visible by tricks of motion,
but always when visible
another is not, the Third Twin,
it's destiny to be alone, unseen.

XIV Arc Light

Two diodes, standing in a lab,
one transmitting, one receiving,
between, a flourescent blue flash,
an arc of light pure, energy raw,
manufactured, yet real and solid,
reaching from one point t'other.
"See it? Now, there, pretty eh?"

XV From Potter's Field

Bruiser walks the furrowed lane,
furrowed from weeks of rain
and wagon wheels, and the clay
droppings from the Potters field.

His daily grind, hail, rain, snow,
to walk that lane, dig that field,
carry that clay back to yon pottery,
and to mould it into a figure or two.

From the field is born art,
and the ability to create life,
make things people see and touch
and want to take home with them

all for money, and love t'is said.
Left unread, the How To book
for the Potters Wheel is oft
discarded into the Potters Field
left untouched, true art is born.

XVI Leaving Pico

Here I was, seven days there and now I was leaving Pico,
Little dirt town, in the middle of the back and beyond,
no dirty town water, clean folk, crime a measure of no policemen,
I had left my mark, spend many dollars in the saloon,
yet all too soon, I was busted for a drifter, and now,
I was leaving Pico for sure. for reasons beyond my control,

Two bit town, twenty buildings, mostly houses, one store,
a saloon with barber shop attached, oh and the lady's hairdresser's
attached to the store, each place in a place and a purpose for each,
Pico, doctor's surgery closed past ten years, too small for one,
and the sheriff, well, he went when the state budget forgot,
forgot that Pico existed still, yet it does, I have been there.

And now I am leaving it, leaving that place of no identity,
yet I feel at home there, my identity fits the bill, the reason Pico
and the likes of me exist, because we just do, and bugger the world,
Now you see me turning, facing my destiny, my life,
my anonymity takes it's place with the lack of identity,
I mingle, lost in the crowded saloon, amongst the voices familiar.

I can leave Pico, but you cant take the Pico out of me!

Bibliograprical Nonet Parts XVII - XXV

XVII Blood and Gold

Morbidica, the larycose mortician and druid,
parted the flaps and inserted fluid,
like an ancient priest practising arts of old
and removed the Blood, inserted the Gold,
a rich vein of conceit you have never seen,
as a shining finger washed through a remaining spleen,
the time had come for the service now
time to transplant, human offal for cow,
the service would be as they always had,
dogs barking, cats meowing, witches so glad.

XVIII Bad Memory

Sweat pours off my aching brow and I wonder,
why this damned nightmare day after day,
headaches from the incessant pounding of it's rhythm,
and I etch out the times it leaves me breathless,
minus my true direction, the dream sits as a
bad memory that wants to erode my very being
and I cringe,
shock back into myself,
try hard to be free,
to kick the damn thing away,
yet it clings to me every night and mocks my existence.


XIX Icebound

Climatis Aurora, high in the sky,
cutting the blue, as ice cuts my life,
stuck in a floe, arctic bound, stalled
and all aboard freezing as fuel runs low,
steel hull crumpling under icebound fury,
will I survive this torment?

Northern Star points my way north,
yet my motion does not mirror the ocean,
I am frozen solid in a liquid prison
prismatic light refracts and sends of a sight
to behold, light pictures dance in the cold,
make way, rescue ensues, cutting through, icebound.

XX Cards of Grief

He may as well have held a pack of guns in his hand,
each one turned shooting a pain into my gambling heart,
each turn of the deck stretching the rope round my neck,
each flick of his wrist a shot in the dark and a hit,
He may as well held my fate in his hands, he did!

I walked from the gambling hall, alive,
wondered at that final hand,
how my cards turned green and gold,
and his turned with grief,
I had everything on it, and won,
took his money, car, wife. and though brief,
I read his cards of grief.

XXI Blood Music

Mozart wrote an unknown suite,
a tribute to the butchers of the streets of Venice,
and it was lost to time, a menace in it's simplicity,
true duplicity saw it's demise, yet surprise,
it lives, Blood Music, for the pageantry of the dervish,
and devilish peons of the city squares
dancing to light footed mood and full bodied groove,
and the music spills on the floor and follows the trails
of red gore as they pass into history again.

XXII A Darker Place

I've been there before, the black hole,
a place to hide from the light, the fear,
a place to dwell in my own miserable hell,
a darker place noone can share, nowhere
a place to be when I feel the mood to hide,
and I do, all the time, hide from me, my life,
but for all the darkness if offers I can't get away
from the bright light that is my wife, she always finds me.

XXIII Ancient of Days

Days of Sumerians, and Mesopotamia,
days of Sanskrit beginnings and the Indus,
the moments when Ottoman and Turk hated,
Alexander the Great spread greek culture,
like a vulture of passion, looking to be Dyonisus,
and the Romans crucified men only, women who knows?
Bodecia swung an axe, very bad BO she had,
and some Arabs wrote down what someone had to say,
in the Ancients Days.

The archeaologists dig with trowels and tools,
and read the signs that tell us of those times,
tell us that Tutenkhamen was a boy prince, godlike,
let's us know that the Israelites travelled as the book says,
confirms the word of mouth of the Persians
and Indians who could have told you all this,
and history holds sway,
from Ancient Days.

XXIV By the Light of the Moon

I sang a song for a second, remembered it's name
realised that this poem and it were not the same,
that wasn't meant to rhyme,
I really don't have anymore time,
By the light of the Silvery Moon
sounds better than this poems tune,
and the cat ran away with the spoon,
By the light of the Moon.

XXV Fear Nothing

Stand proud, puff out your chest, and always
do your best to survive, fear nothing at all,
face the music, face reality, and fly,
fly in the face of fear, and you will get there.

Believe in yourself and others, abilities
things you all have to face that which you fear
and it becomes clear what to do, fight
for what you feel is right, fear nought.

Take a deep breath, and puff, huff and puff
your chest out, be rough, and kind, just be,
the best you can, run with the wind, faster
than the chasing dogs barking at your heels, no fear.

No Fear, no worries, no need to say sorry
to everyone that you step on, upon the night
you know it is alright to hold no fear, and hold it
dear and near your heart, and fear won't get a start.

Wrecking Lives

"Aaron, get off ya bike and get inside, idjut!"
I shuddered, my ten year old head dived a bit
the gin laced tirade of my mother was on song,
I dropped the bike in the shed and ran,
ran for the solace of my bedroom before she
found something else to breathe all over me.

"Aaron, what the fuck you doin' boy?"
Oh shit, Dad was home, home from the pub
and smelling no doubt like he always did,
I went downstairs, I dared not to,
he thwapped me around the head, his bear hug greeting,
I hated it, wish he could just say "hiya boy" for once.

The cops asked me if I wanted to press charges,
heck I was only thriteen, but the bruises spoke,
yelled really, "who" they asked, and I cringed
cowered before them, authority, were they drunk too?
"both of them" I whispered, and I was taken away
to a foster home, where are my parents?

I made a mistake, I hit my foster sister out of rage,
she was high on cocaine, but I hit her, she goaded,
but I was wrong, and I went down for it, a warning,
I found a bottle in the cabinet, swigged a sip
woke up the next morning, smelling of vomit, more than a sip,
my foster family chucked me out for the day, never to return.

I found solace in the park, newspapers, benches
the rubbish bags of others refuse, and their offerings,
tried to associate, but everyone else were loners too,
then I found the tools to survive, the screwdriver,
burglary, a chance to redeem myself, to find more solace
and the booze flowed, I was athletic and never caught.

I saw my real mum and dad one day, looking for me, I thought
but they went into a resaurant, I waited, they left drunk,
I said "hiya folks", they said "fuck off arsehole", I wasn't surprised,
ducked away and drank another bottle and drowned,
drowned in my sixteen year old misery, even thought about it,
about ending it all, but arghhhhh, the booze took it all away.

Today I sit, forty years old, wife, kids, and a happy life,
Thank god for the Sallies, they caught me, showed me love,
gave me a chance to forget, and to remember anew,
tasted a job, a sense of real worth, people were kind, I found,
if you spoke to them in the same manner, and they all didn't drink,
or get mean, to forget their own pain, they used commonsense.

Now I bask in my reality, and I help out at the shelter,
help the young, the ones who's parents show them nothing,
nothing but hate, or disdain, and I welcome them in,
show them how to be real, how to be human, show them love
and they return it, and that is the measure of my worth,
the return is in the effort, and the effort is minimal compared to the booze.

All material this page Copyright of Thane Zander.  Any requests for reproduction to be emailed to me at