Ordinary tin man
confessions of an ordinary tin man and his breakthrough monument on the avenue. he was the purveyor of the rusted. a man must leave something when he dies. corner stores selling all the conveniences pumping petrol from the bowser all gold and red.
grab hold of the days to sell so cheaply. two for a penny and ten for two. burnished bronze rusted lovebirds and singing songbirds.
tarnished lead soldier figures with clay feet must we leave a stone only to be remembered on birthdays, Christmases and rainy gloom.
the quarter acre was much greener then. and recalling blue skies he could see no clouds. forgetting the storms he could hear only distant rumblings of far away thunder. Over the ocean he had looked for Khaki fathers, brothers and sons of mothers who loved them and lovers who waited
he still remembers when rugby was a game played by real men from the farms, hard men glorious. and a golden kiwi speaks to him from a mist saying these days were better. gold or no gold. his father taught him well. all the past is in his shadow. it never sleeps
flakey weather aged painted signs a welcoming civic community or 50 mph, exit, entry, lawn cemetery, no parking, road marking, so he must leave the monument on the avenue neighbours would remember, families too he would forever be the tin man, ordinary no less. But what killed his father will claim him he guesses.
Rabbit Island
across the bay to the
sandy plains
where the white peaks
fall disheveled upon
the shore
little ones and grand parents
toss a Frisbee
while standing
in the wash
big pictures in the sand
must be seen from
a distance
or
high up
three or six seabirds
stand reflected in the
wet sand
a group gathers around
driftwood
they are from the school bus
parked in the shade.
they all should have
hats on
a couple in their
fifties walk arm in arm
like teenagers
along the beach
would they have met only
recently?
they seem new to one another.
Kriegluud smalls
His fondness for Kriegluud smalls he says,
pausing to clip the cigar, is in the
appreciation of fine quality craftsmanship.
Hand rolled, individually wrapped and the
finest Liberian leaf, picked mid-summer.
A solid teak humidor sits on the side table
in the study. Inlayed with polished brass
and embossed with a school of parrotfish
swimming past a large sea horse, the eye of
which is opaque obsidian, black as cancer.
the tua marina massecre 1843
a greenstone taiaha,
found in the marsh
at Wairau Pa. carved
expertly with arero
licking down the blade
savouring Pakeha blood
and the hands of the
tangata rakau.
the Pakeha guns silent
and cleaved on Massacre hill.
Cross and Crescent Moon
can you taste the blackened
shards of a thousand fires heaped
upon ashes of sand and the caustic
stench of roasted men an oil?
the leaves of them borne upon the
fuming arid wind of death angels
brightly coloured holding filthy leather
sheilds bearing cross and crescent moon.
The full story behind the end of the world
At 7.07 am CNN announced the world was over
a gathering depression to the east caused a
blizzard to rush upon my TV and dump a foot
and a half of cold wet snow across the screen.
At 8.14 am the BBC attempted to confirm the
unsubstantiated reports from the US network
but all they got was a cellphone message saying
that CNN was unavailable because of the world ending.
At 11.31 am Larry King, in an effort to prove the world
had not actually ended, conducted an in depth expose'
he interviewed God live and asked the hard questions God
just smiled said Larry worried to much and have faith.
At 2.39pm Oprah had as a guest the entire world, the
logistics needed to talk to everyone and ask them
was it over, proved too much for some and they evoked
the name of Jerry Springer and smacked each other silly.
At 4.00pm Saddam Hussein, a thirteen year old boy living
in Idaho, rang the president to ask for help with his
homework. The CIA was immediately dispatched to apprehend
the lad, but they didn't know algebra that well either.
At 8.56 pm a live feed out of Baghdad showed that a Ringleys
brothers circus was in town. The correspondent; a short purple
haired man with large shoes, bright lime baggy shorts and a red
nose honked a horn whenever he was asked had the world ended.
At 11.42pm the BBC said they would have an exclusive update
on the ending of the world situation straight after the movie
"I Know What You Did Last Summer". The British Prime Minister
Tony Blair, who had rented the video last week, was unimpressed.
At 5.15am CNN came back on screen, their was a public service
announcement saying that due to technical faults over the
Atlantic with their satellite signal they had been off air
and had inadvertantly declared the end of the world as a result.
At 7.02 am in a boardroom high above the streets of Los Angeles
the CNN board met to discuss the embarrassing slip up that had
bought panic to the World; that is until they discovered that
the ratings were huge, so they scheduled another apocalypse
next week.
the Kaikoura strike of '79
The road to Goose bay
embraced the
southern arm
of the tall white alps.
Coming over the hill
into the little
harbour town blue
with the ocean wind
spray the bright
crisp mountain snow
blinked
in the early morning sun.
The rotten fish stink
of the crayfish
trawlers birthed at the
unionised wharf
abundant reminder
that heaven and hell
are divided only by
the picket line.
Fegelmeyer's all cure remedy
he was a cowboy and he wore a red banded hat
what made him different to the rest?
the town feared him
the town feared many a gunslinger in those days
but he wore his gun low and on the left
he had fired it in anger here before
at a man in front of him reaching for the same.
Coz I remember smoke and agony and
blood in the dirt
a preacher came to town last month we reckoned
he'd hitched a ride with the man selling
Fegelmeyer's all cure remedy
two bits for two tins.
Set up a stall and a tent; one selling, one saving
preacher had himself a big ol' black book
the cowboy reckoned it was a seed catalogue
preacher prayed that indeed it were
'I'm a sowin' glory seed' he claimed
after that they say he got religion
church 'n all that in his sunday best
led a right good life for a week or two
didn't kill anything or anyone
but the Henry gang rid into town yesterday
I heard 'em shoot their mouth off
in the Falmouth saloon, heard the gun
when the preacher tried to get 'em saved
blood mixed with the spilt whisky on the floor.
then I saw it passing above the saloon door
a red banded hat. the glint of silver from
his colt in his hand
and a faced etched in stone
as he shot them and as they died and as the blood ran
there were more tears and agony as he too fell
onto his knees and sang the words
'amazin' grace how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me'
today I bought two tins of Fegelmeyer's all cure remedy
for one bit in his gettin' out of town sale
gave one to the cowboy, said he didn't need it,
I reckon he was right
a good catholic lad
Beneath the laden apricot tree Missie Huntly,
the green-eyed fighting Irish girl, cried. She been new
to the country, from County Cork I'm told. Her folks
'scaping from the orange men and their protestant ways found here.
On her first day at school Mr Flannery, the headmaster, saw me staring and gob smacked, said to me face " shut yer cake hole Irwin yer dribblin'"
But Missie had turned God's green earth and all that was in it
sepia brown and she; vibrant as me aunties flower garden
..not that I had an auntie or that she had a garden,
but you know what I mean...
She'd been accosted like, by the Jenny Poole gang and teased
about her accent. I loved it and I told her so when I found
her under the tree. She asked me name, so I told her and she
picked an apricot split it in two and licked the juice off her fingers and gave a half to me, then kissed me on the mouth and said I was sweet I licked my lips and said she was salty and she laughed and asked me
" Irwin Kincaid are you a good catholic lad?"
The Picton road
A gray track nor'ward.
Onward to a blue pond
the sky weeping grievously
The yellow periphery
shadows every move.
The radio crackles with
disdain; hush hush.
If the wind cannot
hold itself then it is
intolerable.
Like a drunken song
the heavens burst forth.
When frosty the sign
waves on a hinge.
The funeral sea awaits
it's dead, mourning loss
feigning grief.
Gold grows in them
there hills.
Not that it is a secret
it just rolls off the
tongue, tumbles out of
the mouth, violently spews out.
Red speeding lights at
screaming distance.
Passers by take no
further interest.
Although they would
remember intricate details
of why, how and when.
Sickness comes with the
following complaints:
long journeys
wet weather and
being too hot.
