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
A
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.
Ardroderangia
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
farewell.
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.
Allegory.
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
Hope
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
Love/War
Doom.
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.
Sandstone
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.
Limestone
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.
Granite
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
masturbates
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.