blackmail press 34
Bernie Coleman
New Zealand

spirits of the forest  Vanya Taule'alo
An aspiring writer, he was born and raised all over the North Shore of Auckland. After completing a Commerce degree having skipped lectures to read books in the University library, he embarked on a new path and has recently finished Honours studies in English Literature at the University of Auckland.
the man woof like he a god or sumthing

I am a dog       and I’m not proud of it

the problem is that I’m on holiday
and holidays aren’t really Fijian sunbeds or Parisian flaneurings;
holidays are hell like Kiribati because you’re essentially a suburban Auckland dog
with a family of four children and two parents all at work and school
and you must sit through a day without talking or seeing nobody
without going anywhere
without even seeing your reflection for hours of the day
but instead all you see is the big ocean, the blank page, the picket fence,
where something might come
but usually doesn’t

if you’re lucky,
a few lines, a few pages of writing
or if you’re really lucky you might settle into a book
that you desperately want to read
and you’ll surf a few waves sing a few songs ride a few girls or eat some grass
or something

     but in the end it’s hard to read because you’re a dog and you only see the weather
     and it’s Kiribati and there are no ships today, only an airplane this afternoon
     and it’s suburban Auckland on a tuesday
     and not even that

because you’re waiting
and waiting for someone special
to just walk into your life and announce
‘who’s a good boy?’:
someone better and bigger than you
that makes you feel humanity again or something

genesis (gewgaw)

there is an orange bag in the oldest of old trees
outside, window
wind shaping it into
a balloon, free in open country

I have (heard from unauthorised third parties) the mind’s willingness to be bored
and so and so
to watch this orange balloon
above trinket amidst leaves that ease
upon it and don’t pop it

is it knowing you will die
that makes you think nothing can’t be like this?
nothing, nothing can be
as thinking you’re watching …

let it be
while skiving suits me – I
depend upon it alone
to begin with beginnings

a bigbig boy with a bigbig thought collect(ion)

i think of it like i think of my poetry
and how i must make it bigger
and harder and experienced
and wilder and sexier         
like the nipple i’d nibble for play
a little bit at a time

it is me or i or it or me or i is like
what it is to just have all the books in the world
to make me seem real big
when really i’ll just be overcompensating
for my lack in poet trees and my
averagely mortal average brain inheritance

                  and that sum-thing of me is
like a cortex veined with possibilities but never fruit(ions
with only the potential to rot
one day like an off on(ion
without the poetry to induce tears
once in a while for a short while
having all the while tried to make it big gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!