brief bio: In my world, Smeagol nips Lester and April headbutts the
door, Talulah paints, the three munchkins pull in different directions
and a former newspaper journalist writes poetry like there's no tomorrow.
And I say thanks to the Pole Zbigniew Herbert who wrote: I cannot grow
up/although years go by/and planets and wars/roar above.
MOUNTAIN ROAD
The dust covers everything
Along Mountain Road
Rising from the dead
Smothering the living
We're closer to Te Puke
Than Tauranga
As the dust blows,
On line to Rotorua
The rutted road
Is hard on cars
Seven punctures
In seven months
Stones under the
Carriages work
Into gears, rattle
Around wheels
Smeagol and Lucy
Barking mad
Charge the fence
As cars rumble by
Heading to Mangatoi,
Pyes Pa or No2 Road
Driven with intent
Rushing through the dust
Morepork and tui
Hoot and whistle
At passing traffic
From the trees
The neighbour
Hires a man to
Carve up her
Rambling pastures
And the guy across
The road carves
Up pongas
For Auckland dollars
Behind our backs
Stands Otanewainuku
And to the side
The lumbering Kaimais
She's a fair drive
Into town,
7k on the dirt
21 on the tar
done daily it costs
a penny or two
but that's okay
because at night
Blowtorch stars
Sear your eyes
And the moon beams
Like a halogen spotlight
The quiet envelopes
you until you
sense eternity and
find serenity.
TOMOTOES
All hail Tomotoes
Befallen craps
Upon craps
Inside rolls of
Unforeseen circumstances
Purger of purgers
Trailer of parks and caravans
Underarm surgery and
Upper thigh barbeques
You who reign can only see
Those who don't know where
The toilet is or bathroom
Over yonder in Elvis country
Sparked an arm offenders callout
When she blew her boyfriend
And he came in wads
Of bills through the year
And across the road
Tomotoes by the dozen
Inexhaustibly red
Backer of right-wing regimes
He curled his hair
When she shopped overseas
When the ex dropped
Off the teenager
She called out
All hail tomotoes
In Bethesda across the road
From Peter's favourite inn
Lay frightful hussies in
Lemon curd dresses
On top of satin overcoats
The three wise
Guys hunched back
A few metres to Notre Dame and
With a French letter
Prevented a third birth
And she said thanks
And all hail tomotoes
OBTUSE GRAVEDIGGING
Lisping leather houses
Oak-thick legs
And a trunk of
Burly bronze.
He stands,
Tall as It happens,
Wriggles free of
The wispy woman
And mentions
In a bellicose
Voice that he's
Dying
Of what, I asked,
But he'd lost
Interest and was
Screwing Abigail
The girl who'd come
With Arthur the porn
Making gravedigger
Who'd come with beer
Queer as it seems
The gay guys waived
A chance to drink
My wine
And instead drank up
The atmosphere of
Which there
Was plenty
Until Bobby came in
And all hell broke lose
When he pulled a knife
And spat at Arthur
Who'd dug Bobby's dad's
Grave the weekend before
And the coffin went in
On an obtuse angle
And Bobby's dad
Fell into the
Waterlogged hole
And floated.
So Bobby went for
Arthur and he went for
The door with his porn
Shirt blazing red
With photos popping off
Bobby stopped and
Let Arthur run
For his porn-mobile
And the burly bronze
Guy keeled over
A little before his time
It turned out.
THE FALL
Tall and balanced
Frosty men
Peddle plausible
Dreams to
Desperate
And dangerous
Fools
And so the world turns
One more notch
One more sad fuck
Bites down on his lower lip
Draws blood in the dock
Takes a fall and lands
In prison; in debt; enthralled.
Can't space it out just
Comes like an avalanche
One day you're scanning
The surf for a good wave
The next you're searching
The ads for a good job
We learn, though, to fall
Without breaking the back
And rebound,
Sluggishly at first,
Full of hope - naïve.
The frosty men
Reappear with their
Smiles and faint promises.
They demand you be like
Them
And when you can't they
Cut you loose and label you
Endlessly
