Heroes
I wonder
about great men and women,
their
deeds often greater than themselves,
their
esteem unattainable to ordinary folk,
they
seem to stand out of arms reach,
I bite
back my jealousy, I was a hero once,
she
died in the ambulance after 20 minutes of cpr,
I had
to swallow her spit, her vomit,
just
to pump air into lungs filled with salt water,
I never
sought acclaim, and none due
just
a ready pat on the back from the ambulance crew,
then
back to reality, another beer, another pub,
wash
away disappointment, drown the taste of death,
As a
kid and young adult, I had my stars,
Ed Hilary,
Amelia Earhart, Einstein,
As an
adult, those change, my lads
in the
survey crew, working tirelessly
night
and day, weeks on end, no mistakes,
the
wheel of the ship turned many times,
to map
the seabed, the foreshore, the coast,
to make
it safe for shipping to navigate,
Yes
my Heroes became me and my crew,
and
a little self gratification there too,
Jobs
done well, and well done to all, medals,
a symbol
of time spent working very hard.
Today
my heroes are poets, the House in fact,
where
people work to a deadline, and a chore,
to write
a poem every day once a day,
to comment
more than they post, hooray,
Go the
House of Heroes!
Grey Ducks and Red Wheelbarrow
i.
Standing
in a bottomless pond,
Grey
ducks flitter,
forage,
fuck
each other,
so other
ducks
with
interminably long legs
can
dunk for food,
in an
interminably deep pond
where
legs no longer matter.
ii.
We drink
absinthe
from
long glasses,
the
scent as faithful
as a
Nun in deep study,
we reach
the pinnacle of sense
punch
gold nuggets
from
flowing rivers
like
a hermit;
Guru
of the trash cans.
iii.
You
take french lessons
to learn
the language of love
your
girlfriends impressed
until
you revert to guttural Kiwi
“come’on
Babe, put it there.
Times
when you question yourself
your
ability to carry forth love,
slip
into french, French Maid outfit,
cross
dressing no deniability
to your
attempts to screw.
iv.
When
she moaned
her
duck feathered boa
quacked
negativity
the
wrong man
or a
pond too deep to dip
interminable
longing
or the
need to replicate
with
the right member of the species.
v.
I read
WCW’s “Red Wheelbarrow” today
such
a simply delightful piece of non fiction.
In fact
I read how the poem was born
and
it had the resonance of two ducks
quacking
each other in wanderlust.
WCW’s Red Wheelbarrow
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.
Free
To soak,
to lie
flat,
to boil,
to burn,
to sweat,
to soap,
to lather,
to wipe,
to feel
the power of her engines
the
roar of Gas Turbines
the
blast of Take Off
as Challenger
roars
into space
to flagellate,
to moderate,
to integrate,
to replicate,
to exonerate,
to pontificate,
to decimate,
to invigorate,
the
blood flowing in heightened veins,
the
blood of revolution and coups,
the
blood of daylight lilies,
the
blood of a horsewhipping,
the
blood of a cat’o’nine tails,
the
blood of virginity lost,
the
blood of a baby born,
to celebrate,
to berate,
innate,
create,
creature,
tenure,
fervour,
furore,
storm
tossed sea,
dogs
in history,
cats
cast in misery,
Challenger
lands safely,
the
bell’s in the Belfry,
sailors
lost at sea,
insanity,
free.
Free Two
To cringe
to crawl
to slither
to fall
to march
to walk
to stare
to talk
about
babes in arms
full
of charms,
soothing
alms,
stretching
qualms
searchable
quims
whales
swim
light’s
dim
to recognise
to despise
to surmise
to reprise
two
seeing eyes
two
replies
two
bye byes
two
great the lies
told
in stories full of truth
told
in books about a tooth
told
in a phone box booth
tied
to a roof
tied
to two hooves
tied
to lies forsake
to bake
to boil
to cry
to soil
to make
whoopee
to despoil
to last
too
long
too
silly
a new
song
a new
singlet
a new
dress
a new
shoe
one
will do,
a wooden
leg
a wooden
peg
a beggar
begs
a drunk
– dregs
a drunk
– a dog
a scurrilous
cur
mangy
coated fur
the
hill – a spur
the
mixture – a stir
the
time – finality
the
day, to wander - agree
the
face the news – flee
to write,
sensibly
made
three
I’m
he
Free.
Another Day in the Nut Farm
A nut
farm
peanuts
cashews
almond
walnut
or an
infirmary
bipolar
schizophrenia
depression
multiple
personality
anorexia
anxiety
just
nuts
like
a farm for sheep
lambs
ewes
rams
white
black
brown
fleece
down
always
ever down
depressed
morose
haggard
tired
worn
out
befuddled
bushed
hyper
up
moody
the
trees in the surrounds a boundary
a stop
a ceasefire
a ring
around the farm
dogs
and guards
exercise
yards
a pack
of cards
time
to pass
passing
the time
life
goes on
no family
no friends
no real
life
she
a husband
he a
wife
mixed
up muddled up world
cattle
farm
no alarms
calves
cows
bulls
cower
shower
power
to read
and write
to pass
exams
to play
with mates
to make
new friends
to pass
on old ones
to see
the end near
no heavenly
cheer
just
utter despair,
no one
cares
climb
the stairs
comb
your hair
pick
an ear
do I
dare
Fear!
‘Twas only True Respect
Down
the bonny wild west Glen
the
soldiers fight a fierce fought war
the
gracious glances of sword and shield
the
battle silent, for the yield.
Down
the Lowlands
the battle rages
Scot’s
versus English, the furore soars,
the
days are long, the heather warmed afar
long
the night, evening star.
Down,
the filler of duvets warming,
the
silent keep, the sleep is grandiose,
the
clash of Claymore and epee resounds,
the
light of day compounds.
Dark
is the sword of Blood, scathing
the
harsh words of landowners and gentry,
the
wash of bodily fluids drain, soaking grass,
the
Scots tell the English, up your arse.
To date,
Hadrian’s wall separates,
two
fierce competitors parted by stone,
the
sound of harsh steel and soft leather,
through
the centuries over Heather.
Gracious
ladies, tend the bairns,
move
from town to town - battle nears,
the
minds of children fraught for ferocity,
the
love of lovers – silent lucidity.
Object
d’art
Those
times I wandered around
looking
for objects to write poetry about
to make
sense out of nonsense
to make
it plain to a reader
that
something in their life makes sense too.
I look
at the pencil on my desk
just
a pencil you say, wait one minute
it has
a shape, like all pencils
long
and straight, with a rubber on top,
and
a sharp point kept sharp
that
whittles away to a stub.
The
pencil is also a mini ruler
serves
my straight line purpose eerily
doesn’t
role as a pen would, hexagon,
I use
it too to scratch my nose,
evict
wax from an over ripe ear.
There’s
a sexiness about that pencil too
phallic
in shape, on a desk covered
in virgin
white paper awaiting a pregnant mark.
You
look closer, there’s a name on it,
Mitsubishi
HB, to denote the maker
and
the style of pencil, this one a medium sort.
Now
Mitsubishi connotates cars and ships
heavy
industry, and Irons, TV’s and pencils,
There
is pleasure knowing such a great company
shares
my desk with ruffled paper and pens
yet
to have a poem written about them.
Finally,
the rubber, why do they taste so nice?
By Christmas I was Freezing
In the
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.
Art
deco illuminated in sunlight
the
icicles dangle rococo style
the
melt sounds like a drip
not
the drop as it falls, splash
Aunty
Hilda hangs the washing
the
ice on the lines dissipating
with
each hand rung article of clothing
her
muscles bristling in the morning sun.
A difference
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.
The
bees have gone to sleep
many
plants all sleeping for a while
the
heads of roses encased in ice
struggle
to drink the sunlight,
Uncle
Ross always chopped wood
the
fire in the hearth going night and day
the
wet back boiling fresh bath water
so children
dirty from frosty play, may soak.
We settled
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.
We were
fostered out to family
but
my Father would call once a year
never
with Ma, always around Christmas.
Aunty
would rub us down with Sunlight
the
cheapest soap available to families
the
bath water was again a dirty brown
when
it was my turn, the eldest, the stink.
How
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,
Aunty
makes the beds, not the children
who
are off to school on the old bus,
pick
out chocolate wrappers and dirt from the yard,
place
the rubbish in a pile at each bed.
Mama
and Papa treated Delia and I well
we never
went without family comfort
sometimes
Ma and Pa would ring
just
to see their children still existed.
The
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"
Aunty
finished hanging the washing
the
ice now just dripping water
the
icicles on the veranda now a puddle
on a
deck readying itself for a new day.
Ma and
Pa are coming to visit today,
it's
not Christmas, but still they come,
Aunty
or Uncle haven't been packing
so no
clue as to where we may go from here?
Africa
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.
Delia
I met at High School
she
loved my muscles
not
bad for an academic she said,
after
dating for a while we made vows,
My family
heard I was getting married
all
were approving, except the ones
who
didn't share my experience
their
sojourn in Africa blinding them.
Aunty
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.
Delia
and Aunty passed away,
days
apart, November the 12
and
14th 1937 respectively.
I cried
a little.
Dad
and Mum came back from Africa
to attend
the funerals, both crying
I don't
know why, they left Jeffrey
and
no doubt forget themselves.
I fought
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.
A sparrow
turns the empty clothesline
the
dust of the desert covered in ice
the
mood of the old homestead dying
as people
move on, better climates.
I write
eulogies for funerals now, many
my family
passing me by, and no one to welcome
I suffered
as a vet,
still
fit if a little one legged.
The
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.
Pipes
freeze, a super cold one this year,
the
tramps on 73rd sheltering in skip bins
Chicago always gets its share of freezing,
and
this year is no exception, deathly..
Sea Nights
At night
far
out to sea
land
so remote
only
the ship stays afloat
At night
under
a sailors moon
the
bow breaks water
as meteor
showers flow.
At night
on a
lonely bow
a sailor
sits and wonders how
the
words of love doth come.
At night
beneath
Sagittarius
the
sailor writes home
to a
love he can’t share.
At night,
before
the dawn,
the
sailors moon
all
forlorn.
On the
morn
the
sun doth rise
and
burns a midnight sailors
haunted
eyes.
On the
morn
the
moon doth set
he drops
his hands
and
gets them wet.
Familiar Strokes.
Kneel
my Father
take
this sword
and
slay your mother.
Yes
my mother
the
family needs saving
the
act of retribution.
Kneel
my son
covet
thy Mother
as I
honour her daily
Yes
my Mother
Father
will survive
his
time in jail necessary.
Oh no
my daughter
your
sister
and
my sister are differing.
Kneel
my step son
take
up thy sword
and
honour your Father.
All
my Family
Take
thy love
spread
it wide.
Take
thy swords
on pain
of death
save
the coat of arms.
Yes
my Love
I shoulder
my cutlass
head
back to sea and fight.
Ramblings in the Key of F and D Minor
New
romantics swoon with heart in hand
their
place in society like the Goths, determined
their
placement in the scheme of things, rosy.
Today
George W Bush, tomorrow Obama
the
murkiness of American Politics to be set,
a time
ahead when the insecurity of the world
is mirrored
by Wall Street bankers.
We place
petrol delicately in tanks thirsty,
place
oil in engines ready for the guzzle,
the
new fields off Brazil not enough
to lower
prices to where they should be.
The
monkeys in Africa still chew bananas
awaiting
their human cousins to regress,
trees
a place to have fun, no longer playgrounds,
the
future as rosy as blood on battlefields.
The
lions in the zoo go hungry, no delivery
the
meat wearing zookeepers uniform,
the
shreds left to decipher for Police
whether
it was murder or hunger?
I missed
lunch today, macaroni cheese
detesting
Holy Food, heretic and naysayer,
We met
outside the café on Rothschild
talked
about this and that, nothing in particular.
The Day God Cried Thunder
He mounted
his Grey Steed,
the
west wind billowing of cumulonimbus
to leap
the hurdle of East Wind's Stratocumulus,
the
white fence inundated
with
grey, the thunder roars the heavens
the
streaks of Gods power wand
scorches
the ground
one
foot away from my demise.
God’s
steed races under the East Wind
West
winning the battle
God
in Command
the
pale purple of lightning clouds
where
the roar of a locomotive is drowned.
You
feel the sleet coming
before
it arrives,
the
hum of air particles rent asunder
as ice
dives in a parabola
to a
ground awaiting punishment.
West
defeats East (it cowers)
God
hops off his might warrior
throws
a lasting lightning rod
at the
feet of the church that has sinned,
the
Ash tree next to it explodes
a flaming
branch through stained glass
the
pews a ready firewood.
I doubt this scribbling means anything.
Saveloys
for lunch
corn
for tea
supper
- coffee and scones.
Ripe
melon for breakfast
in time
for a flaming sky;
the
sun burning curtains
and
placid retina.
Morning
tea, another scone,
biscuits
to fight for,
a cold
urn
earning
a cold cup of coffee.
The
lifecycle of a gnat
encapsulated
in gold,
the
necklace shining dull;
the
wrist watch, Saturn.
I settle
for soup this lunch hour,
yesterdays
Sav’s gone to pack,
the
remembrance party
recurring
in the tummy bug.
I see
Jupiter in the night sky,
wish
wholeheartedly I’d not dined,
the
Moon point’s an accusory finger,
I crawl
back into my grotto.
Three
days ago, I started vomiting
when
the Sun was eclipsed by God,
his
hand held out in mockery;
the
dogs measured their run up.
A week
from now, a brave nouveau,
Mercury
blazing in the heavens,
the
past catching up and slapping
a neck
long used to being given a ribbing.
I see
you coming, a chariot of golden glaze,
the
welcome mat well worn and indicating
you
should park around back to avoid
any
mishaps in a place of misdemeanours.
Amazing,
fifteen minutes ago,
I had
a blank canvass,
now
I have just wasted your time.
Nuclear Winter
We make
segregation a political hot potato
Blacks
and the Whites sit with Grey,
Romans
in ancient times won wars.
The
stupendous development of nuclear weapons
the
rat race, the dog race, the human race
all
in a position to fight cleanly, fists leveled.
The
lamp on the table glows yellow at midnight,
red
in the early morning, then a bright white,
a nuclear
winter avoided thanks to money.
Wastelands
of Arizona and the Marshall Islands,
Remembrance
Day recalls citizens innocent,
burning
in the cauldron of Nagasaki.
Yes
in Japan, Blacks and Whites sit with grey,
the
blacks charcoaled reminders,
the
whites, the fear that pervades society.
The
Grey, falling away, the ones that remember
the
sound of Enola Gay in the distant,
still
celebrated in US Air Force bases.
Paz – a firebrand
Paz,
your ears are burning
turn
the sprinklers of your mind on
drown
the emotions of hate
in the
depths of your thoughts
memories
flood.
You
step outside, mind boggled
a fire
in your eye where people stand
the
reticence of memory swims
in every
step you take South,
the
ears hot with envy.
Break
step, run and frolic,
the
lampposts counted as you dash
you
roll over and skip, mind slip
make
for the guards house
where
security resides.
The
sting in your tail strikes,
a sudden
shift North to lands unknown
a bears
claw strikes your buttocks
sends
a sprinkler message to cool,
yesterday
you made it to Canada.
A throbbing
of an elken heart
the
pace of the chase a click over ten
you
see with watering eyes
the
passage of Grizzlies demise
set
to evolution.
Past
the hinterland of the Ice Lands
into
the cold of the Arctic Circle, astound
then
head back South whence you came
the
fire in your mind still burning
the
redness of ears exaggerated.
We take
you to the infirmary
your
manic passage through time sickening,
you
see no longer, just feel
the
sensations full blown and stark
the
Pdoc administers Cloropixal.
You
take time in recovery
to remember
the fires, sprinklers
journeys
of the mind, startling
you
write it down, past present
an annotation
into the surrealistic.
A Mind Surfers Lament Part 1 of 4
i.
Chastised
for hereditary recklessness
the
clock in your mind always set to 12
your
footfalls on soft carpet a perfect 10.
Those
fairy lights grandma gave you
drag
your mind slipping on all gears into a past riddled with the Seasons of Decay.
ii.
We made
papier mache Windmills
not
thinking of far off Holland,
more
the one in Foxton that spins
and
provides milled wheat
to the
local bakery.
The
bread tastes the same, why so much effort?
iii.
Someone
stepped on your toe
you
don’t know who or why
but
you are inherently aware
that
the bruising is widespread.
iv.
There
it is I tell you, under the bed,
an errant
TV remote sans batteries,
you
used them in your vibrator again,
the
pillow thrown signifies a Bullseye, I laugh at the top of my vocal range
the
more to infuriate your sensitivity,
we leap
for the vibrator, me for the batteries
she
because of her embarrassment,
the
doorbell rings, she alters tack, leaves me for the errant mechanical orgasmitiser, she to go speak with the neighbours wife.
I wander
into the room where they both stand,
waving
the deep purple machine in the air.
v.
The
window flew open, widows curse
ten
elephants flew by, ears flapping,
I looked
out the glass door, rhinoceroses,
the
chimney echoed a cacophony of monkeys,
I checked
the movie on TV, Jumanji
fantasy
come to life, dances by my house
I see
storks pecking at the roses, pansies
the
alligators chew up the vegetable garden,
not
doubt looking for mutant ants and slaters,
I switch
channels, the music channel,
the
serenity of a symphony orchestra in full flight
the
chewed roses sing soprano,
the
pansies tenor,
the
ants and slaters go about their daily business,
forgotten
in the melee of jumping channels.
I look
out the window again, a string section,
sit
down and settle to Beethoven’s Fifth,
the
horn section of the Flax bush
the
woodwinds of the sunflowers,
the
piano an errant Dutch Thistle,
yes
even weeds share billing with reeds.
The
telephone rings in E major, discordant
I answer,
without realisation the sound is huge,
I flick
the remote, nothing happens,
then
I see him, The Mad Hatter snorting coke,
I make
for the TV, hit the off button,
in time
to still hear the phone, the surrealist
passion
play stops of a sudden, time flies,
yet
still the Mad Hatter invades my mind.
Hello,
Thane speaking (I think)
A Mind Surfers Lament Part 2 of 4
i.
The
eleven o’clock whistle blew home time
feet
trudge heavy with mud and exercise
the
mine continues on, a new shift.
Bo Svenson
clutches his lunch box, whistles,
the
tune a calling for the lads, reminiscing
a dog
shuffles obediently at his strong feet.
ii.
In the
mine, Derek Johnston labours
the
shovel pitching to and fro, canaries
twitter
above the din of the box carts,
Five
men killed in 1964, the Great Cave In
the
passageway to the memorial. left, then
down
the next passageway, sarcophagus.
Movements
in the Earth’s crust happen,
the
stretching of tectonic plates, earthquakes,
why
mine in an area that could easily collapse.
iii.
A wife
makes tea and scones, her man home soon,
she
has his bath ready, his whiskey too,
murmurs
from the mine say it could close soon.
iv.
Taste
the Serpentine River,
lick your chops
there’s
a great divide in the meaning of nonsensical prose
seventy
three cars go back and forth
and
forth again, and then back and forward
racists
spit at the underclass, black arse
exactly
what you don’t call a miner
the
melee at the gate, anti mining protestors
the
fight started by someone cajoling.
v.
We retired
where earthquakes are few,
where
the sun rises and sets almost
always
at the same time.
the
soot we see is from Umu’s and fires
the
strong summer breeze wistful and playing.
Today
I counted the pickets
seventy
three in all.
A Mind Surfers Lament Part 3 of 4
Hey
Henry, can you build me a car
slow
enough to pass ladies
fast
enough to run from their boyfriends
agile
enough to dodge the law
mean
enough to run on the smell of an oily rag?
Hey
Wilbur, can you build me a flying machine,
slow
enough to get good views
fast
enough to run from shotgun blasts
agile
enough to map the terrain
mean
enough to save lives when it crashes.
Hey
Babe, can you hit me a home run,
slow
enough for the fans on the bleachers,
fast
enough to evade reaching gloves,
agile
enough to avoid the fence by meters
mean
enough to be breaking records all your life.
Hey
Zeppelin, can you name a famous band,
your
reign in the world short and disastrous
can
you make something safer
faster
than Ford or Wright, meaner than
anything
ever seen before,
can
you reinvent possibilities.
Butterfly Gossamer Accoutrements
You
cut with barbaric thrusts
the
wings of butterflies
pin
them to an imaginary
sickle
board.
You
place seagull feathers
in an
album full of horror
the
bodies disemboweled
thrown
to the rats in the yard.
You
place the rats tails in zig zags
the
page reminiscent of a jail cell
the
picture of a Lifer stapled behind
to show
there is no escape.
The
paste is barely dry, your coup de gras
the
tongue of Geoffrey Dahmer
the
testicles of the Son of Sam
a clock
from the Unabomber’s cell.
A Mind Surfers Lament Part 4 of 4
i.
We sail
on ships of gossamer sails
to ports
and destinations
yet
to be imagined, and tasted.
We ride
on waves crested swells
the
direction at the whim of wind
we paint
Jolly Rogers to pass the time.
One
destined, now full of meaning,
a song
Around Nassau Town
song
to jolly rum flavoured swaying.
ii.
Ambidextrous,
I reach two handed
for
a glass full of mulled wine,
both
attain the prize at the same time
a decision,
to sip two handed
or be
ever the man, lean back and dunk.
iii.
The
children snore childlike snores
the
nursery rhymes well gone, smiles
as soft
whispers pervade the air,
you
stand behind me laughing.
iv.
Out
of the self righteous comes the Man,
six
foot nine tall, muscled like a wrestler,
built
to be an athlete, surrenders to no one.
You
throw tantrums, fits, and leave holes in walls
your
mind no longer in tune with your body,
We come
to visit, to see you’re on the mend.
v.
A Memorial
Day Letter from the President,
to every
household in the USSR, freedom
if you’re
willing to pay for it, work that is,
take
to the streets and protest some say,
others
feel the pull of democracy, rewards
for
hard work and endeavour, cars, PS2’s
everything
the West sells willy nilly,
can
you my comrades, see the end
self
made goods for the free, and good pay,
take
off your long coats, knuckle down
and
soon we’ll be like our American brothers.
The Dalliance of Dancers Green
He stood
supine
in an
avenue
of stunted
oaks
his
height
six
foot
or thereabouts
he barked
orders
to passing
dogs
whistled
at clover
God
spoke to him
though
he was deaf
an amazing
man
he moved
towns
the
whistler, drover
a dog
at his heels
his
cropped hair
dangly
beard
both
ready for shearing
tall
macrocarpa
stood
weather beaten
their
shapes an artists eye
he stood
lonely
his
dog buried
his
brush flicking
he still
hears God
through
love
pictures
aplenty
he whistles
at girls
they
smile, run away
his
loneliness
I see
a supple man
the
mirror lies
I see
dread
the
walls creak
he sees
it with bent eye
the
paper flaking
he dines
on leftovers
watches
noiseless TV
lip
reads
he cries
at night
the
oaks bend over
touch
a wet ground
his
vision his hearing
her
lips mumble
yes,
kiss me please
he salivates
accidentally
she
wipes it away
supplants
her lips
they
run together
down
saw grass dunes
the
nakedness
their
new house
landscaped
with pine
violets
a-blossom
his
brush speaks
shouts
to the masses
simplicity
he dies
a drover death
joins
his dog
she
makes a fortune.
Jimmy.
Come
on Jimmy, I made you
formed
your legs
patted
down your belly,
stuck
pipi shells for a mouth
cockle
shells for eyes
a hairdo
of kelp seaweed,
answer
me boy, you’re mine
do my
bidding, answer me
instead
of dumbly smiling back,
stand
up and move, bugger you
follow
me to mum, she’ll be in awe
come
on Jimmy, I breathed life
into
your sand castle body.
The
water’s coming in Jimmy
you
don’t want to drown
(or
evaporate into tidal flows)
come
on my boy, dance
until
your hair falls off in mock joy,
yes
I hear you answering,
you
sound like a gull or two
chasing
a remnant sandwich.
Sorry
Jimmy, I created you
your
seed pods for buttons
small
stones as studs for your jeans,
the
small straight sticks for bones
in arms
about to crumble in water,
I see
it coming now, a trench you say
yes
I can build trench, a deep one
with
out flows for the tide to fall in.
Come
on Jimmy, help me,
I can’t
save you, you have to help,
I hear
you say deeper, wider, longer
the
water erodes your feet
and
half your denim encrusted calves,
we dig
faster, but the next wave
lashes
at your torso, half man
don’t
worry Jimmy, I’ll save your head,
the
trench has the reverse effect,
erosion
everywhere, my slave dying,
I made
you Goddamit!!
You
smile as you decay into beach.
Innuendo
Your
love is a widening gulf
between
continents on tectonic drift,
your
overspill into a Marianas Trench
splashes
shores around the Pacific Rim.
Your
eyes cry from a dark sky
touching
a sea covered in carpet blue
swallowed
into millennia
to resurface
as love drops on foreign soil.
The
Maxim in Mexican cantinas
long
short of rain, long on dust
the
drops of Corona beer dredged
from
the wells lost on royalty.
The
bass drum in a city band
booms
thunder and lightning, tears
as solid
hail, a hard day runs amok
as the
Pacific crashes with full force.
An Indian Ocean burps, tsunami
races
to a shore not ready to bury the dead,
the
tall palms stand sentinels to new love,
where
have the dogs gone?
Plethora
Inside
me, a mountain grows
a sarcophagus
of living emotions
the
seven sins of defilement
captured
by the lava of blood flowing.
In there,
a small piece of you
skiing
the snow capped slopes of my mind
digging
like an archeologist into my feet
chasing
trees on an ever expanding chest.
I shut
my eyes, let the peak burst forth
my hair
stands on end, ash eruption
my ears
twitch with each earthquake
my mouth
cries in pain “I love you”
Gods of the Passing.
With
Warhammer
he invades
your heart
with
the strength of several
thunderstorms
rushing.
His
booming inquiry
doth
be it love or war,
‘tis
the sound of lightning
Burning
at your synapses.
In the
silence of choking death
your
ever present survival coat
ensnares
trouble, throws it
with
a wanton whistle, Odin’s way.
The
raw of the Valkyrie resonates
on kidneys
long lost to booze
the
God of Reason stands tall
and
explains your death for you.
Your
swollen belly, distended thighs
many
years of abuse, you’re not fit
to join
the Gods of Valhalla, nor the One God,
pack
up your troubles born of misuse.
You
feel the swing of Warhammer
as it
detonates your heart to bits,
the
pain so excruciating love passes
your
legs straight out in front, supplication.
And
one by one they depart, leaving you dead,
least
ways you feel departed, floating
towards
a white tunnel, the passing
and
into Gods domain (for processing).
Things to do before you hit 100
Do not
open others birthday cards.
Do not
tuck in the older ladies.
Do attend
Memorial Day celebrations.
Do not
forget you were once a nurse.
Do eat
well and drink plenty.
Do not
forget your diaper floods.
Play
golf on the front lawn, not in bed.
Play
with Old Jeffrey, he’s much fun.
Play
up to your kids when they come.
Play
with the staff, they secretly love it.
Play
with your old cock to ensure it still dangles.
Play
the spoons badly at Mavis’s Tea Party.
Play
the part of a dapper French man.
Remember,
Alzheimer’s is for those who have no idea.
Remember
lasts years Christmas fondly.
Remember
to pass on your false teeth.
Remember
that shitting in your diaper irks staff.
Remember
the day you turned 99, we do.
Remember
your folks, they sucker punched you.
Remember
to Kiss Mary, she loves you.
Remember
to resuscitate Mary afterwards.
In the
end, you’re gonna be 100.
In a
couple of days you have to see the doctor.
Inspiration
comes all the time, acting on it hurts.
Intrigue
surrounds your family, they’d hoped for less.
In another
room, a secret is being hatched.
In the
years since you retired, millions have died.
In a
selfish way, you don’t care, it’s good though.
After
your birthday they will move Mary.
After
your sudden demise, diapers will be handed down.
After
your coffin drops in the hole, silence.
After
all your life, you will regret nothing.
Kia kaha (Be strong)
Oh speak
to me
mighty
Tane Mahuta
the
wind in your foliage
the
sound of Life passing through.
Oh speak
to me
awesome
Tangaroa
the
wind in your wave tops
the
boom of society bending.
Oh speak
to me
reverent
Rangi of the Sky
the
wind in your atmosphere
dragging
in new ideas.
Oh speak
to me
graceful
Papatuanuku
the
wind across grassy plains
carrier
of the lust of Life.
Oh speak
to me
the
Kingi movement
settling
in for the long road ahead
under
Taupiri eyes.
Tormented
Reach
for my tears
wipe
away the pain
dribble
severely
onto
your right shoe,
take
up the soft leather
lick
clean till shiny
taste
the salt of errant
gatekeepers
as they
sing
aria’s to a new Queen.
Wipe
away your pain
where
my tears fail
to touch
and soak up,
watch
your screams
in place
for the night
the
howling of internal
nightmares,
washing away
with
each gasp of a lonely
warlord,
Henselmartin.
Ply
our love with crying
sated
only by children
the
pain of our offerings
magnified
by joy and peace,
see
the workmen dawdling
as we
walk by, whistling
a tune
or two to hurry us along.
Can
you see my face, ashen
as to
the reality you face,
we face
together, the long years
where
the dreaded cancer
beguiles
and bemoans,
yes
it is in your breasts
we’ll
keep it safely
under
lock and key.
The Corner
I sit
in a
corner
its
arms enfolding,
snaring
me in it’s peace,
Mother
throws a hot cup of coffee
in the
direction
of my
persistent wailing.
Laws of Nature.
I remember
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.
The
yellow skinned girls in the brothels
always
willing for good money
always
compliant to clients demands
the
dollar held sway when sex was concerned.
Margaret,
my personal assistant
emailed
me to say the doctor was due,
said
he had unfinished business,
I only
hoped it was to say I was HIV negative.
I watched
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,
nil.
He said
I had high blood pressure
needs
another look at my heart,
I wrote
a memo to myself
run
another five miles tonight.
The
dance at Tiffany’s was always a favourite,
seven
thirty on the dot, Pacific time,
I chose
one filly to do the rumba
She
was good, but not a looker you hear.
The
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.
Sadly
the rumba ended in tears,
I called
her bluff, her lips pouting
me ready
to drop her mid stride
I think
one of the girls at Macy’s would have been better.
The
doctor laughed, as he does with me,
said
seven miles would not be enough
to turn
around years of pies and sausage rolls
you’ll
need a new diet and exercise regime, boy.
Mrs
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.
Ethereal Nonsense
Largely
proportional to the size
of several
tall skyscrapers and a monument
the
life of a gnat runs by like
a pushbike
on a runway
trying
to attain flight with legs pumping.
A frost
on a high rise apartment block freezes
several
window cleaners, stuck to reflective glass
made
to look even sillier, the Boeing
that
flaps it’s wings for take off,
the
passengers inside made to work the mechanisms
sally
forth and multiply, King Gnat
sends
his many hordes
into
deepest Arizona to eat nuclear fallout
to create
the super race, world beaters,
Rick
masturbates over a Playboy
in his
mothers toilet, not even knowing
the
moths on the walls were transmitting
daily
data to the internet for insects,
till
the phone rings, Derek Mosquito from
deepest
Africa, I have a message
the
lolly paper on the street erupts in flames
seven
Samurai leap akimbo, challenging
the
daily fare for fat Policemen, donuts
indigo
chinese battlers eat rice
grow
old on the proceeds of a steady diet,
the
west enamoured with medications
and
pharmaceutical companies pinching secrets
off
lab rats and mice, the odd goat and pig
stem
cell research long the domain
of errant
cockroaches zapped in the microwave.
I sat
and ate spaghetti bolognaise
mistakenly
thinking the slimy bits were pasta
no they
wriggled, and squirmed
Derek
phoned, he was in love.
