No Room

TRUMPETS WILL BLAST, ANNOUNCING CHRISTMAS AT LAST,
NOT THE ANCIENT MASS OF CHRIST,
COVETNESS, BRIBERY, RESOUNDS THE NEW TRUMPET,
REPEATING THEIR EVERLASTING SOUND.
USHERING IN PROMISES OF HOPE, FELICITATIONS,
THE ORIGINAL PROCLAMATION.
NOW WRAPPED IN TINSEL, THE GOODNEWS,
GLITTERS, SHIMMERS, GLOWS, FLICKERS,
DISGUISES THE MESSAGE AS ANGELIC LIGHT.
BELLS RING FROM THE BELFRY TIDINGS OF GOODWILL TO ALL MEN,
NAGGING, TEMPTING, ENTICING, DRILL,
SHEEP WHO FOLLOW GONE ASTRAY WITHOUT FREE MINDS,
SHAME THE MASSES INTO DEBT,
GREED, STATUS, ALL FOR THE SAKE OF BELONGING.
NOW THEY PAY HOMAGE TO THE GOLDEN CALF GODS’
SANTA CLAUS, ADVANCEMENT, MATERIALISM, THEMSELVES,
PERCEPTION BY MODERN SEERS OF AN ENLIGHTENED ERA,
HOPEFUL MOTHER THERESA’S EMERGE,
GENEROISITY, SELFLESS ACTS, BROWNIE POINT LADDERS TO HEAVEN,
THE LATEST FAD OR CHARITABLE ACT?
THE STILL VOICE OF TIME, HUMBLE, ENTREATING INVITATIONAL,
WHISPERS UNSEEN, NO ROOM IN THE INN,
NOTHINGS’ CHANGED, MANKIND’S FALLEN NATURE REMAINS,
NO ROOM,
NO ROOM.

…. Alpha and Omega the beginning and the end,
Where did it begin and where will it end?
The voice that spoke, ‘Let there be light’ from
chaos, void, where the spirit brooded,
rang throughout the universe.
An instrument of the divines’ voice,
Tis music to those with ears to hear.
Cockles and bells on your toes, she shall
have’ Music wherever she goes’
What are the sources for the symphony…?
That waits; maybe a chorus will greet
from creations’ creatures,
A song from the tribe of birds,
The trill of laughter from a child,
Clatter, banging of cups and plates,
Radio blasting with a song,
Sounds of mornings’ orchestra have come.
The weeping as you’re touched in your inner core
whilst you listen to the magic source.
It moves, breathes, soaks, encompasses,
blankets invades, resounds, surrounds,
permeates, births,
Everywhere we go, in all we do, are…
comes music, song, melody, tune, harmony,
Symphonies, orchestras, beat, rhythm,
Our bodies, minds, relationships, creation,
Instruments in the Creators’ hand,
Where long ago music began with choirs
Of angelic hosts who sang,
Good will and peace to all men.

Flickers of Light


To roam those miles in your eyes,
Through the lands of your devouring orchids,
Covered by lavender and purple orchids,
Your garden hides your daughters,

A bloodline of high priestess sovereignty,
You choose the path you take,
Your rights to status marks your best choices,

The flickers of light behind each eyelid,
My heart thumps each drum beat,
Those are my eyes how could they know,
Because they know what I’m hiding,
This paranoia is becoming intoxicating,

I fill my days with 8 thousand variations,
Clip art impersonations and cups of tea to wash away the toxins,
Boolean logic fated by a roll of a dice,
No path certain,
No fate met.

Just an Old Fashioned love Song

george-faith-and-lydia-and-i-2014I’m just an old-fashioned love song,

There’s nothing extraordinary about me,

I believe in Jesus,

Marriage,

Children,

My neighbour.
In today’s world,

Where faith is jeered,

Marriage is scorned,

Children are considered annoyances,

I walk out of step,

The song I sing is quiet

Yet strong,

To thy own self-be true,

It’s hard to live true to myself,

I disappear

When I’m left with the stranger living inside me.
An old-fashioned love song,

That’s me,

Feeling odd,

Feeling strange

In a world going another way.

 

Tick tock …Tick tock

artTick tock,

Tick tock,

Tick tock,

Time resounds in my ears,

I stand on foreign soil,

A barren plain looms before me,
The splendour of my body dims,

I question my womanliness,

I spend many hours

Analyzing the worth,

The value,

Of my life.
Tick tock,

Tick tock,

Tick tock,

Time,

Vicious robber,

It lessens my agility,

Threatens the things I enjoy,

The things I love,

Though not clothed in black,

I mourn,

I grieve

The loss of youth.
Tick tock,

Tick tock,

Tick tock,

Time,

Society honours and adores

Youth,

Aging is scorned,

Pitied,

Ignored,

Forgotten.
I silently scream,

Youth you have nothing to offer,

Although you rule supreme.
Tick tock,

Tick tock,

Tick tock,

The sound goes on.
I stare into eternity,

Grieving,

Like a woman at the graveside,

I struggle with doubt,

One part desires to stay,

The other prepares to meet God,

Death

Calls to all,

Yet it brings fear.
The enormity of my humanity

Bursts forth as the dawn,

Reminding me this world is not my home,

I will,

I must,

Complete the task,

So I can face a loving God

And live with Him eternally.
Tick tock,

Tick tock,

Tick tock,

Time’s up.

Why do deny me?

Why do deny me?
When i give you so much pleasure’
you know I satisfy you
at your leisure
I am just a whore
I am just an angel
waiting to be fed
at your humble table
You tease me
with your fruit
You feed me
with your words
You mock me mercilessly
with your cutting sword
I am in pieces
carved up on a plate
Like Peking Duck
so succulent and sweet
Just add the condiments
Then pour the wine
Softly softly
Music to my ears
in the background
Lana Del Ray…….
My pussy tastes
like pepsi cola…..
I’m gonna be a fucken
high roller…
And so the guitar keeps playing..
Feeding my soul…

Inkedover

The homeless, we will term them,
jackal vultures, circle the nest
of notes and coins.

Their dissuading odour
and unmatched taste
off-put potential tippers.

If I chuck at them a few
coins they bug me even more.

One time, when I complained
I said to myself they’ve only begging
or burglary or buskers.

These junkies, poppers,
Summer’s limit sprung,
there’ll be nothing in autumn
having not planted a thing.

They come onto
my open self reliance
but do not close in
and I am expected to share

this bounty, fruit, grief—
the poem is becoming
an Aesop tale, I can pay
them for the inspiration.

They sneak in disguised
as mortal need.
Contact is better steered
to qualified rehabilitation

personal, though. See,
they are comical, I added,
flicking each a gold coin,

see how they walk, they roll, uneven
un-still, a mess in confusion;

and see how visible they live:
Perfection has not missed,

partnered accurately to the contribution
and, they do not hide from us

their hurt, chaotic patterns.
Yeah, are you desperate,

greedy pluckers, who wasted
all that moolah on tattoos,

I thought to myself.

 

 

Cuba Mall, Wellington

from Übermanis Geniac #2

7

Well, Jim, you’re dead, you know you are
the only one who’s left behind a myth
past the valour of his verse. A plinth
has been erected, above a sewer,
because poets translate muck back into water.

The myth holds you versified in youth;
I hated writing, couldn’t match my thought,
speech likewise, stutters, speedbumps, at speed,
and leaps surprising me, of brevity and depth,
a signal, I took, of concepts kept
on higher courts of consciousness—Strewth,

mate!, my Aussie drinking neighbours
would remark; keep it light
and breezy! I didn’t know I knew
until I spoke, that’s what got me started,
why I wrote drunk, to begin with, the easy
way I had with words

translated awfully on to paper,
spontaneity with abandonment, the
careful study of this in sobriety
plus extra time alone confirmed the poem
as epistle to the rightness of the creed.

 

 

 

from Übermanis Geniac

3

Two nights earlier, at home
in admiration of my gymness,
I had begun to labour on the colours
I was going to travel in;
blue-grey, acrylic-practical,
at first, but, finally, settled on turquoise
in heavy cotton hood, a silver zipper,
for the feeling of it: light and strong
beneath my eyes. The ring was a surprise,
through it now, so always is there
faint eroticism.
Kundalini idling. Or
driving with expired moral license,

key probable return to falling times.
Bring it on, I said, it’s entirely

unsustainable Enough I’m not committed
to my station; this is middle
age? It’s nothing! It’s a fable.
Am keeping the hair long, beard dyed
a few shades darker than my locks,
a faint sense of my own absurdity
growing in the ring…But never mind

that, it’s a journey, which now finds
me walking Miramar, a long pohutukawa
stretch in flower, bellbirds boggling the ears
with the beautiful cadences Electronica
has not been able to replicate
without a microphone. Returning down
the street where Nowhere met its end,
the fragrant spice of warm food in a bowl
expelled from me the comment to its savoury incantation,
to which the young woman lifted her lid
offering to my unknown fingers her contents
in the seconds we had before a car pulled up
and took her with the dish. The taste has stayed
far longer than the tiny morsel, a moment
of strangers in spontaneous human unity.

I could return home now, satisfied
that things are as they should be.

 

 

 

Hello Friend

 

Playing my old guitar ,
Old days like dead stars, falling apart
Memories hold me back, they’re trying to Steal my dreams away
I’ve never seen such a lonely heart, making my six string Rot and stale.

A broken guitar
Broken from inside and outside
I can hear the screams of pain that has stayed Of late.

Hello Friend,

you’re back again asking me what I have to say
Well Can you hear my six strings fade away
There was a time, it had a name, now it’s just broken it’s not the same.

Please don’t forget our time she said,
the time when we played and laughed away
the time when you kissed my soul, my name
for all to see who loved us just the same.

A broken guitar
Broken from inside and outside
I can hear the screams of pain that has stayed Of late.

Hello Friend,

you’re back again asking me what I have to say
Well Can you hear my six strings fade away,
There was a time, it had a name, now it’s just broken it’s not the same.

Oh I see,
you played with me played with my name
My soul feels tired, it wants to rest now
my heart is broken it needs to be fixed now
Just go away get the fuck away,
The time has come for you to go home now.
Just leave me in pain, let me be how I know I need to
I cannot be broken I am not my old six string.
Though I’ve lost my name, but soon I’ll find it.

A broken guitar
Broken from inside and outside
I can hear the screams of pain that has stayed Of late.

Hello Friend,

you’re back again asking me what I have to say
Well Can you hear my six strings fade away
There was a time, it had a name, now it’s just broken, has lost its name

Hominid The Revenue Device

1

There are no shadows, my land faces deep close abundance,
the commercial vessels have gone out to ocean; their sounds
initialed pre-dawn as I lay on a bone of myself so I decided
to get up and go toward the sound of the hollow clunk of bins,
loaded smoke and the diesel stagger of the cold short engines
of the tractors shifting the boats. The netters’ seawet empty
trailers, the weed hung around the rear guide poles and the
parked sun waiting behind the peninsular

were all exact tremendous things. I wanted to sharpen this
‘bone’ whittle it down to a ‘chip’, locate the reason for
the chunk I’d lay uncomfortably on but the new feeling of
light undressed that, and I wanted only to look
at the landscape and builded structures of dwelling and
commerce change with the altering f.stop.