The Writing of Thane Zander
General Poetry Twenty
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

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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




Standing in a bottomless pond,

Grey ducks flitter,


fuck each other,

so other ducks

with interminably long legs

can dunk for food,

in an interminably deep pond

where legs no longer matter.





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.




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.





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.




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

a red wheel

glazed with rain

beside the white











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,








storm tossed sea,

dogs in history,

cats cast in misery,

Challenger lands safely,

the bell’s in the Belfry,

sailors lost at sea,




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



Another Day in the Nut Farm


A nut farm





or an infirmary




multiple personality



just nuts


like a farm for sheep










always ever down





worn out







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








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



‘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




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.




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?




Someone stepped on your toe

you don’t know who or why

but you are inherently aware

that the bruising is widespread.




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.




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




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.




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.




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.




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.




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




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.




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.




The children snore childlike snores

the nursery rhymes well gone, smiles

as soft whispers pervade the air,

you stand behind me laughing.




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.




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



he dies a drover death

joins his dog

she makes a fortune.




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.





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?




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.





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.

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