Immaculate Accuracy

Reversing out the drive, and looking back
upon the grass spreading along the spouting,
and the rust running in the pale yellow paint
like coffee in the cream, the raw spouting,
flashing; and feng shui awry around the yard:
another 12 months, and again I have put off
the jobs of house repair. I find it ‘sympatric’
the incompletion perceived about my goals
and I must hold up the genuine articles
about myself, and say: I am a good man––there,
there, is time to make a start, the weather
is on my side… But forward into Drive,
and off I go. With poems on the mend,
concepts to versify, sunlight on the dashboard,
breasts in good supply…Am not the captain
of my soul, entirely, like this. I approach,
from behind, an ‘unfinished’ daughter, with her
father. I’ve watched them grow, a part, together
as a whole, sharing something similar, and old.
I know, immediately, who they are, it’s in the walk
before I see them, front on, it is pleat-recursive,
has identical curvatures which dominate the Line;
dimple, dental, eye brows, jaw, a long skeleton,
defined so that Being is not Gender, specifically,
and the Mystery, somehow, chooses from the palette
what is needed for its urges. The salient, silent,
and seamless surgery of this! The knowing! The
immaculate accuracies of Now, tandem
a tomorrow brokered otherwise! And the men
I knew as boys, and have parented their features
through girls, exclusively, so odd to me their Feminine
is Male, yet to others only female in expression.
The awe of this, and I ponder, rather make a poem
start to know it than return the Hebe’s into lines
the fence won’t sweat it supporting alone, silicon
the spouting, a new down-pipe. Easy things,
handyman…But up the hill which overlooks the bay,
on the 40 minutes walk, past the chair bound
Rest Home occupants inside scaffolds decayed
and calcified, who cannot lift their arm to wave
back,—we’ve all watched Construction raise
the new facility; and further off, a large
thermometer painting, with red mercury
showing the fundraising chase of the target,
has the new inches added.

not telling

not telling

when i returned
the land came closer
the trees  gusted
near me the moon
as though
nothing more than
a small summer cloud
through broad daylight
watched me
the land
was ready to tell
me the great secret
since i had come
then it all turned
away in shadow
from me

nothing
said.

26 july 2012

Bloody Weather

An old man in a flat cap in a paddock.

We have been here before.

He told me then about the weather,

how it stole the life from crops

and he knelt into the soil.

This time, it is still dry.

A stunted dull crop leans

into the ground from whence it came.

It’s a right bugger, he said,

and he pulled the cap’s peak.

Never bloody rains when you want.

He can’t kneel now; the knees have gone.

I ache, he said.

It’s the bloody weather

how soft

how soft

how soft
the dawn
on drifts
of birdsong
rising
how soft
the light put
to the sky
to the tiniest
darkness
around
you
how soft
you fall
again into
sleep
how soft
the whipped
greys in that
sky on a
breeze
that tell
of storm
beyond
the ridge
storm
at sea
how soft.

dawn 24 september 2013

You’ve done that again?

Think if you can a picture
Of you and I embraced in a kiss
Feel how I tremble inside
Sorry if there was something I missed
Outside tonight
We can take on the cloak of the dark
Before the dawn of another day
He said this is what it sounds like
When purple doves cry
You are the feathers of doves
But you requested I stay away
What was I meant to do
A lonely world so cold
But you’re young and bored
I mistook you for something else
I was voted most likely to not succeed
With you beside me was simply a dream
Yes they talk of me up in the skies
I would have shown them
But the news says never till I die
You are just another thing I needed
I’ll find another like before
Before I fall off another ledge land head first upon the floor.

Creatures of The Sea

The terns and gulls are circling

gulping the river-mouth air.

They come in, drunk with hunger

to settle among the silver river waves,

pilfering the tiny life, water pearls

flicked to sun and sea.

 

 

The huts here are faded yellow

and candy-cane green.

They are anchored in the sand,

salted windows to the east;

holiday homes with simple shelves

and memories locked in cupboards

 

 

They rise early or at noon;

men in gumboots and shorts.

They taste the light and the air,

look east and west.

They will do something or nothing.

It is that sort of day

murchison afternoon

 murchison afternoon

for sure
it wouldn’t have
gone ahead much
since its heyday
already broken*
in your days here
a man of the mountains
come down to the town
for flour, a beer,
a look through the
general store
never bargaining
on prices, at most
just shaking your
head with hat
in hand.

in the pub
getting a coffee
i saw a photo of
a local hero with a
name like a sailor’s poem,
‘George Fairweather
Moonlight’, a man
you might have
heard talk of
in your days here
shadow piled up
those pine slopes
into late sun
on branch
flanks eastward
now stood
down in dark
looked up that
road the sign
‘matakitaki valley’
points at in the
sluice of sun
remembering bits
and pieces of what
you might have
told us a gold
nugget fixed on
a tiepin all you
kept over you
told us yet
your words
the same over
years went
much further
than you’d ever
have thought
have brought me
to this country
intersection of a
late afternoon
made of sky
and river stone
an afternoon
you might have
ridden straight
on through,
dad.

december 24, 2011
murchison – westport

*Murchison was almost completely devastated in the earthquake of 1929 that struck the South Island. My father searched for gold up the Matakitaki valley during the Great Depression.

it raineth

it raineth

anyone could
see the rain’s
set in
‘the rain it
raineth everyday’*
in for the long
haul down ridge
and range on
paddock and muddy
track the low clouds
kapok coming undone
the rain falling on
bowsprit and cockpit
jacketed slick under
canvas moored boats
unresting spreading oil
and lamp-lit shine
on asphalt mist in
the eye and ear
unhearing things
‘the rain it raineth
everyday’ falling
to the end on
glass in split
and twisted
shapes of
sky as if
there were
nowhere else
to fall to fly
to in such
haste or
glide than
here.

September 2013
*the closing song from Shakespeare’s ‘Twelfth Night’.

 

a single line that creeps in.

A SINGLE LINE THAT CREEPS IN. -Written by Taylor John.

I. How Is Your Sentence?
– I, have: no – Widow?
– (Then) How, is: your – sentence?
– Naught – by, The Sun; nor – The Icicle!
– Now – leave, those Little Gloves – and, The Pre-Loved Clothing! (Don’t – try, to undo – her, Tie..!)
– I, have – no, pretty Dressings; (nor – even, a House-Mice..?)
– Nothing – is, DIMMER! Nothing – is, as: Ugly..?
– Oh – how, I still dream, of her: Little Tempered Belly!
– But – her, ‘shaving’ – is, of, her: Daily Pursuit; worst – under, Headlights..!
– I’ve, never – known: such – Brightness; too, close – to, a dull – Spark!
– You’re, better – off! (Whoever – you, Are.)

II. Did She Pass Away?
– Did, she: Pass away?
– No, NEVER! (Whose – thought: is, THIS – anyway!)
– Then – where, is: the, helpful – Caption..?
– We, know! (We – SAY..!)
– Though – regardless, of: The Erosion : you – still, stow – away..!
– Then – whose: THE VERMIN..?

A SINGLE LINE THAT CREEPS IN.
©Taylor John, 2017.

from Workers of the Hours # 2

1

I pulled out, blind
on my left, condensation
on windows on the passenger
side, cobwebs
and night dew on the rearview
mirror— pulled into traffic

and didn’t care:
if it is algorithms
we base decisions on
I hadn’t factored out
as far as Pluto
contracted with one of the moons
of Saturn relative Sirius

but I pulled out blind
on my left confident
there would be no oncoming
traffic

and when I got to the junction
of the Graveyards
and Rubbish Station
visibility was poorer
again
with dawn sun glare
over the peninsula
in the salt-whitened glass.

And I paused
then, not really checking,
as I would normally, coming
to a stand-still, at an intersection
of age, parental expectations,
low-paid worker of the hours;
all too knowing of the feeling
of Art at the nozzle, always,
waiting completion, commencement,
waiting that I abandon
travel through these forty
waged sections
of 60 minutes, and I coasted, in 2nd,
across the
oncoming
flow, stupid, as
the patterns are wholly
different
and unpredicible with repair
and rebuild
of the quake damaged
roads, buildings, and

that seen, in many areas,
do not appear much different
but as you focus in,
like DNA spirals crumbling
taking years
to be reported
on the surface
like broken bits rattling
inside an old alarm clock
—the big springs work,
but eventually the little, stiff
invisible cracks, and unrepairable
microtears will fcuk its timing up.

I cari
-ried that moment
in which I pulled onto the
main highway
without stopping
to wind down the passenger
window, all day, for days,
into this poem.

2

thinning hair, thickening there,
candle burning dimmer.
And more bright.
Less alert, more alive.
Ambition loosened off.
But tightened
where it works.
Minimum owe, maximum awe,
near complete release,
Time evolved,
like growing beards
you put up with
that worst part,
avoid the mirror, early years
yet, Evolution,
you coliseum
of Societal perfections.

THE MUSE.

THE MUSE.-Written by Taylor John.

– The muse locks me to itself
as if it’s one cuffed
naked to a bed.
(Don’t worry, I’m not
naked!)
– Baaahaaaaa alwayd
the muse.
-ha, yep!
I am, trying to kill them all in my manuscripts! With, a
blade!
In, trying to kill, my
sheets!
Or, at least expose it to
myself!
One ball!

©Taylor John, 2017.

DIRTY LAUNDRY DRAPES HER PATHETIC HEAD.

DIRTY LAUNDRY DRAPES HER PATHETIC HEAD.-Written by Taylor John.

I Close My Eyes (Song).
V.1
I close my eyes – for, the pretty girl – I see;
Her hands – so, young – young, like me.
I’ve got – the wild cat – as, a charm;
Likes – her, lonely wounds licked: she – does alarm!

Chorus
I close my eyes – for, the pretty girl – I see;
Her hands – so, young – young, like me.

V.2
Hey – little birds, in the trees – are, heard;
The cool winds’ breeze – her, words..
..They fall – with, the fallen angels plea;
And, birth – with, the good Lord’s deed.

Chorus
I close my eyes – for, the pretty girl – I see;
Her hands – so, young – young, like me.

V.3
Yeah – I am, fed – but, I am wed;
Is all – calm? Have – the devils, made it – to, bed?
I must – apologize – for, we – are, undone;
With Thee – as, we – lay, in the sun!

Chorus
I close my eyes – for, the pretty girl – I see;
Her hands – so, young – young, like me.

V.4
The charm – is, in – her, arm;
The cat – is, on – her, back;
She’s working – on, that – graveyard shift:
Shit – there, aren’t – no, coming back!

Where – all, is torn – and, seems – so,
Seemingly:
Oh – me-o-my – my,
Honeybee.

Chorus
I close my eyes – for, the pretty girl – I see;
Her hands – so, young – young, like me.

Junk.
(I) Listen to, Junkies – with, a veil – of, wine – I hold; hands – on, the mirrored glass – of, cold sayings (I have, hold); Memories – of, her smoky room : take me – as, dew – on, the vine? (Witches – I aren’t dressed, for; all – the honey’s – that, you scold in, time!) of – bliss – brokenhearted: whether – you, so bold?

Gonna’ Say It Aren’t So.
Gonna’ say, it aren’t so;
Gonna’ sing, from thy soul:
Ache, love, hate, hear-l.

Gonna’ say, it aren’t so;
Gonna’ sing, from thy school:
Ache, love, hate, heal.

I Would Loathe To See You Dead.
I would loathe to see u dead : u aren’t no sparrow – u r (yet loved) – but, the show..?

Respect – is the knowing, and the unknowing.

Mayhem – the urge, to walk in the darkness.

Don’t ever – throw away, your notations: your bliss, your dew; ugliness – is thy feet – of which, is due.

When – push – comes, to die ; there’s, so many problems – there’s, so many lies..

Love – aches, but seeps through; is due – without, complaint?

Down To The Fig-Tree Parlour.
Hangin’ on tha’ rig, of her hips – are, arbour;
Now – down, to the fig-tree parlour..

Hunch.
Breakfast, morning tea, lunch, and her recipes’ crunch – I drink alone, for Socrates’ hunch…munch…munch…munch!

Denial Is Tha’ Bitter One Blue.
Today – I, really believe
Wisdom – has, its’ tolerance
Levels to consider?
Does – that, make
Us, humble – or, more
Distant?
Either, or – neither,
Perhaps: life –
Meant, to be complicated.

A Woman’s Hold.
Bread (alternation)…Bread (alternation)…Bread (alternation)…Bread (alternation – cushion?)

Don’t flatter yourself – flatter yourself, in one’s ear? Though, seems like you are, the winner – and he, the murdered deer…

Yeah – the dear, wife’s there: we, are gonna make some children? Oh, so loud and clear – the, dirty hands of war – do, grin?

In – gardening: mindful – of, insects : are, my words – enough, my love? Are – my words, old English grub? Wake thee, in the moment – my dove; wake thee – in, our mourning; drink thee – in, our wasted Flood..

Hysteria’s Last Goodbye.
Goodbye – lie-eyes: where’s, the woman – in, me’ eyes?

(But, if he be – a, married man: would, she marry – he; if – he, were a single man – if, he could only dream?)

A cover – a, coloured wound : she – aches, for only herself (or, does she?) Wake – me, in the morning – with, rose-petals on my bed; wake, sweet angel – give, this man his last breath; speak – sweet angel – and, draw – patterns, on my sheets: freak – dear angel – sweet, pathways – to, love..

Dirty Laundry Drapes Her Pathetic Head.
Dirty laundry – drapes, her pathetic head: on –
My souls’, shabby bed : (where –
Are, those – lovers, gone?)

(Oh, what – a monster, I
Have become!
Oh, what – Heart: she –
Most, graciously – owns;
And, sang!

Ka-Plunky.
I, awoke – at, a quarter to six: where –
Awaiting, was a most brilliant talent:
The mighty wind – so, gallant; (from,
Each benevolent cousin?)

(Where, art – Waldo?
Where, art – what, do:
Ka-plunky?)

Slick Bitches’ Glimmer.
Addiction – drags,
This mans’ fake curfew: (why –
He, is old – and,
Untouchable?)

Darker – than, ever:
He – shines, a light;
(Were – all,
The bitchin’ – free..?)

When You Undress.
When – you, undress: her – the woman : with,
Eyes – teasing, O Lust;
Her, perfect sorted nest – bust:
Thy – perfect, complaint?

(Leave, him – to, his words: ‘coz –
He’s, drunk – and, got
A beard!)

I’ve, left town; and –
It’s, a fine mystique lot:
I, had to?
(Well – I’m, on,
The spot;
Well – I’m,
A spider,
In – a, pot?)

Oh, her laugh – it,
That is, a pleasure to hear;
The smile – it,
That is broken of fear:
(O Sight – her, fight – is,
Safe!)

Thus – it, is of Lust – I,
Cloak: of, a long – rightful,
Quest – of, belonging – spoke:
Hear me – o my princess – for,
My heart, is awaiting – in,
A songbirds’ chest!

The dear, songbirds’ laughing – at,
Me – and, the junkie: word –
O word – guest,
To funky;
Maestros’ tongue – like,
A monkey?

Word – O Word – is it,
Notelet?
(O poor – O poor – diddims’
Dumpy?)

A tea – for, a garment;
O clay – of, who’s mess;
Diet – for, each body;
Ruler – for, who’s test?

She – is, thinking: the symmetry – of,
Line: are you –
Being – addressed?
Taste, it – test:

At, heists’ layman rest;
At, birds’ humble nest;
At, Loves’ bigger breast?

(Oh, there, there – I will,
Guard – the fort:
The dinner – gladly,
Sport!)

(Hang on – my, spoiled Limb:
O Heart : when – you,
Undress – her,
The woman..)

©Taylor John, 2017.