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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