'Of fruitful flow'


If photos are your saviour, then mine would be found
in tragic words, underground, buried in lead,
dismissed with a trumpet's call.

You say I'm a mixture of
seventeen year old precociousness
and sixty five year old staggered wisdom,
a recipe calling for a quick whisk,
a patient eye, and a mouth that's tasted
countless times before.

I say I'd bury myself in philosophy
if I knew there was one sparkling incentive
to know the difference between right and wrong,
between oranges in Seville looking lonely and pregnant,
between the grapes down in the Marlborough Sounds
picked by a fussy vintner's hands.

See? I dream of volcanoes erupting; 
of the pyroclastic flows enveloping my senses,
I'll taste willingly. There, over at Mount Merapi,
whom they worship as a God, they pile baskets
of banana leaves with vegetables
and fake money. 

If you must click a hundred times
to find that perfect shot,
do it now; do it
while this earth is yet fruitful,
a trial of perfection and love
a yearly labour for sunburnt lands.

I shall visit there one day.
I shall till the fields and dance amidst
their circle of drums, beating me onwards,
skyhigh, skyward into the lofty reaches,
into that mix of filth
and life.

'like taffeta'


what if? a poem
is a fractured stiletto,
flung off
from the nearest balcony
onto tarred pedestrians below.
they look skyward, search
for a disgruntled woman,  
find prayers
unreturned.
this day is
tarnished silver
tinged with blue.

and what if? poems
are sleepy infants
in soapy water,
the bath tuned
to lukewarm,
chamomile candles
offering benevolence
to all.

i
gave eve
over to starlight,
and dreamt
i was
one of  
anais nin's
fingers
clutching
a pencil,
a sketch unfinished,
waiting for more.

what if? amongst
skylights, teacups
and saucers,
i write a poem
for you.

'Craig gives this a 3 out of 4 on his poemeter scale
(4 now that his name's on it)'


You talk of silence and austerity being gifts
to soothe a troubled man. I am that man.
I am sky-high and ensorcelled in my definitions
of what purity and satisfaction truly mean.

Here, in this life, I am a wayward creature,
too caught up in the essence and art of
knowing absolution to be an impossible vision.
Hold me now. Tell me you believe in believing.
 
I think often we share fruitlessly. We speak
of terrible, tortured things. We drink and laugh,
dance and forgive unforgivable transgressions.
Show me a life of stability and security.

The idea of inviolable beauty drives me.
The taste of forever, while seemingly foolish
is what I've always strived to achieve.
This last line is an anti-climax for a reason.

'run-on, run on'


i'd
hoped to evolve
and returned
empty-handed,
a scar
and a rosary
all
i had.

time to
dip
below
the skyline,
find fault
in the earth's crust
vomiting green
and dusting off
its brown shoes.

it welcomes me.

i wave nonchalantly
back; my faith has
always been
of that swerv-
ing kind,
dodging, catching
silver bullets
between teeth
better
suited
to
munching
mutton chops

and stringy beans
grown
for a dollar a bag
at the local farmer's
front-of-house
setup.  

time to find the trail
i used to sniff with
my staffordshire terrier;
last time, my jar
of one and two
cent pieces
evaded my
wistful searching.

oh! i am seven again!
i am serendipity

reclaimed.

'Breathless: Prelude'


Skin folds over mine, milk on mocha.
         I remember far too much
                    over random gifts like this.
                                  Too long
                          under the sun
                I've woven sweat
                         and dust
                     in marriage,
         thoughtful of sublime nights
                waiting for me here

beckoning—
a stranger whistles of Indian summers
folding into my hands.


          Lately,
              I've been draping
                            fiery skies—
                                down, down into
                    the bone pendant
                         I wear
                 constantly:
        phoenix       and taniwha,
              rebirth        and water
             and mercurial things.
This is my boat. This is my voyage
which speaks of lonesome fog
                 some mornings,
              a touch away
                    from breathless spirit
                          wandering.

'mostly'


mostly, it's just me here, waiting
for clouds to trace circles
on my face. and i think back
to my room, books stacked high:
some read, some left there
for a special day.

i am a compulsive entity, waiting,
waiting to shuffle cards, to split them,
to scatter four kings to each corner
for some unknown ritual inside my head,
thinking: what is the significance
i attach to this act?

my brows tighten. veins decompress.
lungs widen. lips crackle under duress.  
to create: this is poetry i've learnt to forget.
a jazz opera, a pop-funk mess.
and mostly, it's always been me here,
waiting for a touch, a rough caress.

'insert jaded artfuck response here'


progressive beauty. i have no idea what that means.
perhaps it's too post-modern for my liking.
too

i
am
art
and
love
and
denial
and conflict
savouring
moments
of wretchedness.

how quaint.
nervous.
a kick to the kidneys.
a busker with ten cent pieces
flicked solemnly
by samaritan cityfolk
with a touch of reserved
bohemianness.

is that a word?
is that

oh
who
gives
a
flying
...

faint.
squiggles.
words
pretending
to be
a poem. 

'Breathing: Song'


Flash sharkbone teeth
and dive under—

This is home, a blue touch, a silver penny
of sparrows and tuis and mynahs
circling, circling.

Breathe: it's song and shadow, conch
and heaving shore. 

'Veritas'


I knocked on her door, left orangeblossoms
on the varnished floor. I could see my reflection,
all flustered-eyed and mussed-up bed hair.

But that's irrelevant, a petri-dish of unreturned calls:
somnambulance. So, wish for ocean and spirals in your sleep;
that's where I've always been. It's my stream of condolences
given form: winged bravado, machismo flatly run over.

Why do birds sing when I'm continuously quiet? To blast them
out of my sight: I'm sorely tempted some days. Some days.
Of maroon and burgundy, of plastic wheels on a Tonka truck,
squeaky-rusted from the sandpit it's always resided in.

This youthful lozenge I spat out years ago.
This toast I buttered and threw
on that same floor.

I wish for hollandaise and bechamel sauce. No mint. A touch
of tarragon and music from Vienna, pure and forlorn. Somehow,
these wishes become three kisses I've yearned for.
Eternally.

Windswept caves with anemones at its gates. Flax
and Pohutukawa lining the edges. That was Christmas
all those months ago.

There, I spoke of roots and waves returning, of sunsets
rainbow-runed and benevolently stained. Here, it's rain
and endless rain, polished stones in a crystal bowl, shivering.
Today is a muted aria cut short, left reeling.

What fish in this world could overcome my temptation to join
sea and sky together, to obliterate the lines of earth between?
What world of lips is worth all of this?