Sunday, 19 November 2017

A few more poems from my pen.

Warning poem two has ADULT CONTENT.

Tu Tangata

He sits alone on a canvass of choice,
the room depicting a Hermits cave,
well worn chairs, a threadbare carpet,
all signs family have forsaken him.

His office bureau complete with computer
his lifeline to a world passing him by,
the aroma of sweet smelling tobacco smoke
endless cups of coffee sweating brown ooze.

On Saturdays he changes his sheets, sweat stained,
his shoes spread around the unswept floor,
there are smudges on the carpet where tears drop,
the pain of loss too hard to bear for a once great man.

The walls are littered with the remnants of his life,
children’s photographs, self portraits, Tangaroa art,
a small table holds a malfunctioning alarm clock,
to remind him that life just passes by on a daily basis.


The 12 Hour Timesheet

i.

Forgive the language
it’s about to explode
all over the page
all over the fucken road

ii.

I mated with a black witch
we had a grey child
yet our lips are pink
when mingling

iii.

there’s this old cunt
lives down Framby Avenue
he’s been tormenting children
that stop at his door begging for fun.

iv.

my baby floats in jello
she’s fucked her life badly
I try to rescue her daily
but teasing old men suits her fine

v.

lettuce leaves covered in snail trails
I was and clean
dusting off spam
apple seed coverings
today the fucking light shone black


vi.

ok so he screwed her big time
the life of a sailor hazardous
gonorrhea and herpes
maybe even a punch in the head
till dawn drunken matelots
service the netherworld women
and them they.

vii.

capsicum, green, yellow, red
mixed with mince
a drop of Dolmios
and onions to kill for
a delicious mixture
served with macaroni.

viii.

i delighted in ecstasy
fucked this island virgin
on a beach white
from coral and sun,
we humped like baby pigs
till dawn’s light
she told me - in Tongan
she loved me,
i said thank you, and ran


ix.

the valve on the old radio
sparkled and warmed
the station too sketchy
to tune into.

x.

remorse, I’m sorry
the language so guttural
so esoteric sailor speak
the black humour
a thing to cherish
a dead person
treated like shit
just because we are alive,
pass the remote,
I need to sanctify.

xi.

ok so I went
from the New House
to the outhouse,
my time on the streets
magnified
by days in dust
and rubbish bins,
a passing stranger
treated like crap,
like the turd they are,
they have a life
mines exorbitantly dashed.

xii.

i sometimes lie on my back
under the spreading Kowhai
a Tui wings it’s way in
pecks at the flowers,
a bird song of pure joy
emanates into the ether
summer this year fine
with nature singing “all’s well”


A Mirror in a Window

The flyer on the window says
“Peer into the Magic Mirror
to see things you’ve never seen”

Children congregate and wave
jump and shake in front of that window
the images distorted in reflection

then occasionally a clown will appear
shake his booty, smile woefully
and the children would scream with laughter,

they duck and dive, chase shadows
the reflection now a rainbow
a kaleidoscope of possibilities.

Sanchez the young kid from the cantina
stands lonely watching nothing happening
see his possibilities faltering in belief

the other children shun him for his disability
one leg a wooden replica, hopping along
the other strong from years of practice,

still he sees a wry smile form, tantalising
the clown rubs his shoulders, gives him a pat
points to the mirror, surprise, happy times,

the ladies who are mothers stand back chatting
see the by play and smile, mothers alike
they won’t look in the Magic Mirror for fear,

fear of seeing a totally childlike reality
where husbands are off to work or the pub
working off their frustrations, their hardships

not seeing what their children see, too busy,
even on the way home past this magic store,
their shadows flick the image maker, gone

All the children are tucked up in bed
the Google monsters silently asleep
a reminder of a clown and magic mirror

to ease their journey into Lala land.

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