Angela King
New Zealand
Night Out

The eager light returns,
Open & obtainable,
Unable to soften.
Keep moving, & the edge
Of you brightens,
The rims of your unreadable
As you offer & rescind
Bargains I'm unable to recognise.
I can't be still
Surrounded by this screaming.
Take, take
It all, offer me
To the idol,
Keep the music


light comes winging down
on the concrete plain
warming & polluting the air
waiting for someone to enter

on the concrete plain
dust quivers & is lost
waiting for someone to enter
and sweep aside the air

dust quivers & is lost
in the eager room
'and sweep aside the air'
said the brain to the body

in the eager room
the shadows thicken
said the brain to the body
something unfreezes and moves

the shadows thicken
warming & polluting the air
something unfreezes and moves
light comes winging down

One Day I Meet

one day I meet
an old man on the street
his knobbly
hat & eager
cane creep
past him
and stare
he says
you are
the sun
to the traffic light
and raps
his cane
on its
knee like
a schoolboy
excuse me
miss he
mumbles to
the postbox
as he
I hope
he knows
how to
be followed

one day I meet
a girl with flowers in her knees
she clamps them tight
so they will not fall
dust to dust she says
her sap will follow
the petal's path
like a warm salmon
she is growing smaller
and slowshooting her stalks
into the ground
she is not interested in boys
and their bits
but snips her shorts into shreds
for a Kansas storm
she says the line goes
right to left and
to see the black end
she will circle the sun

one day I meet
a man with lips of fire
he says they do not burn him
but freeze the air
around anything he desires
his lips speak for him
he walks into a room
behind his lips whose flames
are licking the walls
and legs of women he meets
when he pulls away he says
they stretch like rubber
unpliant, slicing people's skins
another day I meet him
he has had his lips turned
in and sewn together
the flames are eating along
his jaw and through his throat
behind his eyes they push
into his brain
he farts uncontrollably
the smoke, he would say
perhaps, if he could speak
or think. As he goes
his body cramps to move
and behind him the air
blackens in rows.

You My Lovely

colour blue and break in -
the day's set is not done yet.
behind your eyes the threads move
between blue and green.
the apple sky lifts your hair
to take sticks of flame
from an absent sun.
undone I lapse, someone who
does not know
how bodies move only
can stare, and imagine
your warmth and the texture
of your hair in my hand.
colour red and reel in -
the day's pace is coming to a close.
between your fingers the fish move
silver darts flicking quick
in a long loose darkening stream.
undone I wander under a bony moon
and walk a white path home.

Note to Self

It is not complex.
It is simple.
I see you go with the same
Uncertainty when I see
You enter.
Your body is a warm obstinate
Path to you;
Your body is crud over
The painting of you.
You are alright, but you
Are wrong.
You sleep and dream of things
You explain away at day.
You walk the same
Unknowable way as the sea
Whose fingers claw blindly
At rocks;
You see the seabed and see
All is known.
You doubt your certainties
And when you wait
Time is timeless.
You are an age in yourself
And your lusts
Glimmer like mirages.

It is not complex.
It is simple.
I see you with the same
Certainty when I see
When I drown in this
You are walking a safe beach
Alone, untended, raw.
Your reality is the things
You do.
I scrub this like dirty glass
Wanting to get to you.
I wait, growing confusion
Like mushrooms
In a cold dank tank.

It is not complex.
It is simple.
I see with the same
Uncertainty when you see.
I reach with the same
Hand when you reach.
I see with the same eyes.
When you look at me
And say my name
I see myself in your face.
When you hold out your hand
To me I am grasping the void.
I wait, and in your
Warmth I find the coldness
Of my self.

Bio: I am from Auckland and currently live in Wellington. I have been writing poetry since I could write. I was a student in Albert Wendt's creative writing paper as Auckland University in 2000 and in 2005 I attended a New Zealand Poetry Society workshop in association with the Maritime Museum. These were both wonderful and inspiring experiences.
For me a poem is both solace and stimulation, a stillness in the confusion of modern life.