I will heave into the hands of hope,
spitting from blood-thick mouthfuls
– brimming with the ecstasy
of once again having bitten off
much more than I can chew.
I will dislocate into each appetite,
thriving headlong towards the outrageous fuchsia
of some explicit garden,
doomed to grow like a snake eating an antelope.
I will wake up beside the astonishment of dawn,
wild enough to taste its crisp dew
beading along the quiet rectitude
of my internal Attenborough commentary.
… there is no cure for all this cogitation.
There is no peak to a Waitākere sunset.
There is no one, just the cat atop a throne.
o, there is is gospel in my stocking’s ladder to havoc.
There is a song of Gods shuddering into electric nerves of nature.
There is every chance of rain, and I am dancing for the deluge.
Gravid with prospect, the industrial smudge of sky
will collapse in on itself and begin to fall.
Corrupt with purpose, the neighbours
will growl by on their ouroboros-bites of tyre,
hunched in leather-clad motorcycle squat
like fat iguanas.
You will walk into me through rolling credits of heritage,
and I will turn everything to poetry.