The Writing of Thane Zander
General Poetry Seven
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

Facial manifestations


The edge of the razor,

delicately poised over whiskers

three days old from lack of drive.


The picture in the mirror

lacking for a better word,

reminds one of ghost stories.


The channel between lips

skewed sideways

to make a smile more difficult to bear.


Laced-lined eyelashes

woven by errant spider

during a night dreaming of a gravity-less planet.


A nose deliciously bent

from years of contact sport

and a desire to put my nose first.


A comb hovers

above a head awashed in gray

the melee that is hair folds in supplication.


I can count now,

every hair on each ear,

the downy substance residue of childhood.


A gnat (or sandfly)

lands on flickering eyelashes

made centuries long by neglect.


The twin dungeon that are nostrils

flare with the pain of the blunt razor,

snorting hot air to exhale and burn an upper lip.


Lastly the twenty seven year

growth of red, orange, white and gray,

beneath  a mouth dragged down by it’s weight.



Needful Things


In the gutter it slithers,

death to children and other Kerb hoppers,

death to automobiles running the gauntlet

death to autumnal rain pouring down

it's svelte channels to drains


where hands suddenly jump up at you,

grab you by the ankle, a scream lost

in the pelting melee of rain and hail

lost to the thunder of juggernauts speeding

lost children never found - near the Drain.


Underground his lurking lair, half wolfhound

have residue of bad experiments in places

design to change DNA and spit remnants

down a hapless sink to who knew where,

the cries of a little girl, the horror of sad parents,


the howl of wolverine tyres on hot tarmac

sun showers the creepiest moment for kids

do the "crack Dance" to avoid the "Drain"

skip hopscotch on a pavement safer, safer

than the dreaded curbside crawlers lair.


The Gunslinger


Walks into Dry Gulch
trailing his favourite stead
and miles, many miles
of clogging desert dust.

Sees the Gulich Saloon
down the road, second right,
veers to the hitching rail
licks his lips - in anticipation.

A whiskey sour slides down the bar
a gun toting barmen recognises -
sees the tall dark stranger
for a man meaning business

yet seeks his own company.
Men and women squint eyes to
take in everything they need to know -
to know whether he's friend or foe.

The drink slips down in one gulp
The Gunslinger turns and walks
through batwing doors scarred with
old fights and untimely deaths.

Not this time, Danny O'Hares Eatery
beckons, a bean-less feed,
steak and eggs the measure
of a man subjected to days in the saddle.

Double guns left at the door
as are the rules of any eatery
don't kill a hungry man
kill the hunger instead.

All to soon, the man and horse reunite,
walk down to Gaze's Saddlery
a feed of fresh oats and water
the dust rubbed off and freshened.

The back side of both as they trot out of town
no bullets wasted, or wanted
The Gunslinger a man of reaction
not action as some are drawn to.

A dying cigarette ember the lasting
remnant of a Man and his Horse
as the dust ridden desert
enshroud both to memory.


The Two Dead Girls


Coffey sees it all
he's a man mountain
not a murderer,
more suited to the supernatural
and the goings on with God and martyrs.

Sees the girls slaughtered
the man running from the farmhouse
Coffey "tried to make it better"
"tried to make it go away"
the murders the last thing they hang on him
the electric chair awaiting his saving graces.

The law in Tennessee in 1927
says execution for blood on your hands
the investigation says "pick the Black Man"
and "He's huge, must have done it"
But the Mile knows different,
two dead girls from another's hands.


Albathetic Nonsense



brave coin

darts eons

for good hide in

jack knife lessons main

nurtured on poems quince

rested sagely through upper

voice-box wailing yodels x-ray

zinc another browny car deserves

everything fighting growl hidden inside.


Violet Candles


My wife collected candles,

all shapes, all colours,

all scented to give ambience to a room.


I used to use the candles

for work reasons,

camping mainly, not a good thing.


I'd never use the Violet ones,

something to do with church

or perhaps the ignominy of self.


I never knew their special scent,

just from sniffing the wax,

never knew their smoking smell.


Now I can't find a candle shop

and violet candles allude me

as if I was a sinner of the worst kind.


The Song of Susannah


Legless and wheelchair bound
dark bitch, hot hound
the lady gunslinger draws her piece
and fires salvos to enemy spread,

Sweetheart of Dear Eddie
the crack freak from 1995
not her time, she was a little later
but beaus they became, 'neath others stares.

She sang her homie song
the sound of souls singing in Sunday church
the sound of bullets flying,
the dreaded lobstrosities.

The Song of Susannah is lasting,
as lasting as her part in the story
as lasting as the death she deals
as lasting as her relationship, he'll die.

The wheelchair not an encumbrance
rather a weapon of war, peace
and pieces of eight in a bargaining round,
the sound of Wolves of the Calla reaping.

Sadly though, things move on
people live, people and other things die
the mournful song of Susannah gone
as gone as the breezeless Lud.

The Gunslinger places a plaque
places it to lean against a gun
to lean against a broken wheelchair
to lean against the heart of Eddie.



A new flower, cross pollinated

Hydrangea and human DNA

given a new path to bud

drink a Bud

enough hint to necessitate love

between the species.


Sort of Ruby Reddish Pink

hint of green snot in a single nostril

built to replicate

to pontificate

to extricate

and plant in a flower bed

by a back door, sunless.


Ghostly apparitions of midnight moon

a flower walks the backyard searching

searching for a mate

another Ardroderangia

to profligate the species

'oh, asexual' you moan

yes I know, go fuck yourself

mindless moron

go where the sun never shines

where the moon touches with soft brushstrokes,

where the cats and dogs leave messages

to those others that roam the neighbourhood.


Get the drift flower, leave your droppings too

leave the back yard and go sniff backyards

up and down the street

up and down the neighbourhood

up and down Moonbeams flashing

until a new asexually derived plant/man

is born and the whole thing can continue.


Tulips suck.


The Market day – a dairy exercise.


Dear Dairy - Entry One


Otara Market opened as usual

the stalls erected

shade clothes unfurled

the goods placed on a slanted table

the food of the Pacific

displayed for longing ex-pats,


the gates thrown Open

humanity of Pacifica a

and bug-eyed Pakeha

mingle amongst Lava-lava

and sarong, the phone booth

littered with last nights tags,

Bloods and Crypts

and other copycatters

The handset missing

as it always is market day.


Dear Diary Entry Two


The graffiti on Maceys’ Mad Butcher Shop

reminiscent of a young Dali

and another, a rampant Picasso

the law needs to capture these hounds

and nurture them in some upmarket gallery.

Williams Lighting’s front roller security door

an easel to some struggling Mila Otto

the great Samoan artist, shells on beaches

beeches on leeches, lechers and has-beens,

the right to reply in the form of a four gallon

tin of British Paints White Topcoat acrylic.


Dear Dairy Entry Three


The trains that stand still near Otara

treated the same way by the same graffiti artists

their mark seen the country over as they travel

to parts known and largely unknown

by the young larrikins

the paint fading

as days do



Dear Dairy Entry Four


I paced myself in Otara, a bit after six p.m.

The stalls gone

the carpark empty,

the day long gone of foreign fare

and peoples with ‘now’ futures, the kids imagining

what they can draw if they stole cans of aerosol

to paint the lives that live in Otara and surrounding areas,

I stand and see a gang car cruise by, young boys looking for life gangsters live,

I walk into a shadow, hiding, but also to blot the bright light, that shines on unwelcome vagrants,

a rat scurries past my feet, looking for leftovers, spillovers, over flows,

Busily heading to the police booth locked for a secure night, gone home pick pocketers captured and release, like a fishing trip in a sea of brown.


Dear Dairy Entry Five


You hear the hiss, the kiss

new graffiti mapping an old wall

perhaps the roller doors

the artist a half an hour away from being a crim,

Otara, suburbia, suburban, superbly dressed.


Heart of the Heather


Roamin’ free, lowlands green

the heart of the stag beating,

tinkle of milk bucket

rings aloud - the Highlands

calling the Master to hunt.


Callin’ free, the roar of the beast

from arch grey wheat fields

to the mordant east

the roar of a jet flying overhead

one gunshot, the stag lays dead.


Bones in a fire, bones in the heather

bones of the stag to change the weather,

barking of dog

howling of cat

two stout Scotlanders stand and chat.


Green of the red, rub of the green

nubile maidens and rampant dreams

the scream of the soldier

the action of a mother,

another lowland woman loses a brother.


Brush of the wind, sin of the brusher

bonny Scotland free of the Usher

bairns cry loud

children cry foul

the sage old English visiting Owl.


Ketchup with the Cat


Heinz Ketchup, Heinz Ketchup

the dual tongued pussycat meowed,


Taste of tomato

redness of blood

the lifeline for burger lovers

those with sausages to dip

the flavour, aroma, sensual

the direction of the sauce

flows ever stomachward


rudimentary red purred the cat

a dozen more bottles for me.



Side Salad


I made a conscious thought/decision

to pass the Heinz Ketchup to the mum,

there’s a red mess all over my plate

swimming frankfurters and roasted buns

the love affair joined together, enticing

open a mammoth mouth and sending the lot

down the hatch, fill the stomach

yum, the taste- gotta love Heinz Ketchup-

a side salad watches jealously.


Grasp an Ideal


Have you got that yearning

to open a bottle of Heinz Ketchup

have you got the gumption to spill some

on a bun with ham and eggs.


Have you got the inclination

to tip the bottle and pour

copious red fluids

onto a dinner beckoning


have you got sex on the mind

when handling a bottle of Heinz Ketchup

is the aftertaste sweet and yummy

or is it all too much to admit

sauciness wins the day.


Aggravation in a Case of Hissy Fits and Spasms


Read between the lines

the message unclear till paper burnt

ash settling on an eyeball not used to reading,

the fire of Wordiness in Flight

burns potato chips on an open hearth

the day red rover signed out of a bowling trip,

Saturday the traditional day

when fireflies espouse the Bible pages

turns rhetoric into cor-blimey huge manifestations,

Adrianna sucks men’s pencils

trying to imbibe knowledge from afar

the scar on her back says whipping girl, sadly

I see the blur of vision

as things just don’t gel into reality

the day the Bible reaches to me to read and intake,

Jesus sways in a Roman wind

swings freely on history’s path forever,

feet at the base of a Cross tap out a followers rhythm.


I read the story of the Holocaust

what the hell it has to do with this poem

is beyond belief, if the holocaust was true, so be it,

pictures and news reels from the time

don’t lie, they settle a raging truth, unreality

the choice of the viewer to read and digest inwardly,

doubt settles on the shoulders

of those that play Playstation murder games

reality of their life likened to Columbine, rest in peace.


Saturday again, why Saturday

do I have some affiliation to that day

or is it just the way this poem wends it’s way,

of course, Saturday. not Sunday,

Seventh Day Adventists ply their trade then,

walk the streets most other days looking for converts.

The Day after Friday too,

the day I spend all the huge amount of

dollars and nonsense to assure I still live, another day.


A Plane flew overhead just now,

reminded me I wanted to fly once, before -

before I realised the hair on my body wasn’t feathers.

A train just went by, clickety clack,

the long procession of carriages once again

reminded me of cattletrucks filled with Jews of Europe.

If that car drives by, another shooting

a 2 year old girl murdered by last week,

the madness of gangs and drugs and guns/weapons.


The days of the maniac, short

but for the power of recovery and acceptance

the need to feel life again in a way normal folks do.

Sadly, Devourness the Mind Devil

crashes all normalcy parties and eats

thoughts, the stuff that keep people on an even keel.

The day, shortened by apathy

sleep the common denominator,
the time on your watch reminiscent of days passed.




A few thoughts to ponder.


An aerosol can whispers

death to flies

and other pesky insects floating nearby,

the event more specific

with a child with asthma choking

live girl or dead insects,

the cans go in the rubbish.


There’s more to this girl than meets the eye

blue baby at birth, revived

then months, years, eons of struggle

for a mother ill equipped for tragedy,

love the only common denominator

dead at seven they said,

I celebrated her seventeenth birthday with her

last night.


The Middle East, we know

a powder keg of indifference

and diffidence

it’s a pity Palestinians dance with death

instead of celebrating life with their foes,

It’s a pity Israel doesn’t stop the shootings-

another powder keg – who backs them?

Christendom perhaps.


The province of Kashmir

where Hindu/Sikh  Meets Islam

the Hindi’s/Moslems of the Hindu Kush

prisoners to another war

where peace is all that is asked of.



Brain power.


Ignorance dance macabre

the inability for the average Joe

to place commonsense ahead of ability,


A degree from the university of life.


The ladies with twink for erasers

place mesmerizing dots on screens

to show the boss they know what they can do,


technically speaking.


I pick cotton clothes in case of fire

She picks anything that makes her sexy

bugger that fact that the UV rays go through it


and burn second degree.


The sexually innuendo, when girls tease

enough for a married man to chastise,

a single man to swoon with the compliment.

Sadly age separates and commonsense prevails.


Only closed eyelids speak whispering

the love of darting web spinner, web maker

the lady of the love triangle running back up.


She alters the words in Word 2000, just to be sure.


An old man, well older man really,

taps away at keys all day long trying her love

trying to emulate her self styled explorations and likes,


they tangle over what education has to offer.



Scariest things on the planet.


Loaded guns in the wrong hands,

alligators biting in the wrong lake,

tiger snakes in an extending desert,

White Pointer sharks in their domain.


all four things to be feared,

the scariest the man or woman

that steals a child’s mind

or a sibling that has no fear,

the writing in the local paper

you know, at the back, A-Z,

who died naturally,

who was killed,

which name, you wonder,

made headlines

for the wrong reason.


You tie two and two

to make six, such is life,

read too much into reality,

use the information

to light a winter’s fire.


That’s life too,

transient meanings,

luciferous intent,

godly malcontent,

The Father that got done

for doing more than teach

the choir boys to sing.


Who kept an eye out for Geoffrey Darmer?

His hands dirty with dried blood and victims,

victims that have no names, such is notoriety.


The Love of my Life


Who said she was as sweet as candy?

Who said she’d outlive me?

Who said her body language spoke separation?


I just tasted sweet sensation,

bathed in her glory,

shone because she polished me the right way.


Today would have been or 21st wedding anniversary,

the sheen still glows wildly,

but separate we did - had to,

mental illness versus a special needs child.


She looks sad now, a life ruined by my Bipolar

that sings - rampant obsessive/compulsive,

the need to spend borrowed money,

the need to have sex with prostitutes,

the need to get more from a marriage,

than she had to give,

The signs she saw but couldn’t act on,

the need for me to see someone,

how could I refuse – I did though.


The shine still lingers,

Ill never have another,

no other could replace her,

I still wear our ring,

she too, dangling from her neck,

a sign we still have mutual ties,

children who care,

but don’t know all the questions,

they will do one day,

when old enough to know,

soon I hope.


The Pilot Light



that light

that glows white

a love that shines

the way two dancers

merge on a battle ground

sultry features lap dance pure

the shape of night in bed sublime

her corsetry wrapped in a laced bunch

The sound of sex pulsing to humping beat,

The process of lust smashing gold plates

those messes from the dining suite

but not enough to meld love

nor those copulate myth

the sound of grunting

to an end - BOOM!

death orgasm




Rock of Ages (in a bed sense)


Igneous Rock


The hard brittle explosion

of fire born rock

left to cool from volcanic up thrust.

A bit like an orgasm that dampens sheets

left cool to go crusty and awkward.


My line on this is deviant cooks spoil the crusty broth.




Years of layering on seabed’s foreign

The rock soft and brittle

yet capable of building large hills

and wear away over above water time.

This is like not washing the sheets

and layering new ones on old ones.


Eventually the bed topples.




Crushed sandstone with other nutrients involved

brittle under and over seas

contains fossils and the likes

animal and plant residue.


If you look into that stacked bed you’ll find underwear.




Compressed everything until it becomes Mountains

the movement of the tectonic plates

moving large rocks in small boulders

and eventually stones and pebbles.

A bit like compressing the bed and it’s many sheets

adding the weight of time and eventually one mass.


Try finding anything it’s now one large bed boulder.



Time Journey – the trip of David.


The life of a vagrant is often mingled with near crime and breaking the law, though there are times they receive accolades for keeping the street clean. David’s been this way for some time now


now I stand neath the Capital Bell

waiting for the chimes to announce

the coming of a new order.


A smattering of crowd gathers

the time rung out for all but the police

still searching for an errant bag snatcher

snatching snippets of praise and phrase to see why dogs leave their droppings where feet tread.  The Goatherd on Mt Sinai signals a new day with the waving of goatherd crook


as crooked as the time when Christians

stole religion from the Hebrews,

then the Muslims hailed Allah,

the goatherd, Eli abn Diazo

passed on his timekeeping skills

to a mountain that amounted

to nothing much,


much the same as Jennifer Bainbridge in an apartment in New York brushed 9/11 dust from her windowsill, an attempt to pay her homage in a rather noxious event. Her alarm clock buzzed eight a.m. to remind her she was one hour away from work and another mundane day on the keyboard processing tax files,


files the tools carpenters and cabinet makers

use to hone creations from bare hands

the shape of a cabinet

the throw of a rug

over a carving of Michelangelo

the Greek notations meant to confuse


as confused as anyone walking the Grand Canyon finding a large lake, maybe a nuclear bomb gone wrong, and now a large lake shimmering neath a gothic steeple in Moccasin AZ.  The town’s crier, a hangover from the old English days checks his watch


the watch that cries Hear Ye, Hear Ye

the time now is twelve past eight

the new lake looks great

the chick in my house


just to listen to this atonement, reverie


the same reverie now suffered by a New Zealand timekeeper, cum vagabond cum vagrant.  David stepped down from his perch in the Square and made for his refuge at Shepherds Rest on Andrew Young Street.  Alone again in his room, the replay of the strange journey he had just been on resounding around his mind.  Checked the pockets, nope no drugs, yet an interesting trip nonetheless.


Silencia sweet angel

rest your weary head

the journey you have just been on

was the walking of the time dead,

the matter of actions attempted

ring true in what you saw

now up off that deathbed

and scramble out the door.

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