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from Hail Gazers #2


Come the cold, darkening
afternoon, the Earth tilting
the drinker toward his retirement,
the folding travel armchair
in the sunny yellow corner
by the elongated arms of knitted winter
shadow, taken backward
and put into the box,
the lid screwed back on
the little Malt left.


You’re old enough
to remember when licensed
premises opened
at eleven, and Punters, for reasons:
terrain, inclemency, to louden
the hush of Infinity, waited
the opening of doors
to quieten the heart in its hoody,
pacing the roped, square ring,
in the appalling, impossible trinity:
Love, Fear, and Mystery;

waited like fighters no one
will take on: the younger among
us remember the animal, Tyson,
exploding from his career.
A story about his pigeons; a panting
blackness of tyger.


Bars at eleven was Ali,
nothing clay about him,
TV off at the PM,
goodnight, basket cases,
Kiwi, Cat, the ladder of Fact,
far call left in the bottle.


Sleep now loads
in a petrie dish,
G, Hz, & .i, as a pod
our Kind communicate
in the mechanical matter of gravity
and the pull in two directions
is what is keeping you stable,
still, hungover, you’d queue
at the doors in the morning,
Newton’s hinged ordering
relevant to this memoranda,
when I spent the day at the centre,
the raised-lip, circular
tables with crushed packets,
spills, the jars of ashy water,
someone telling, again, about the
ex— how much she got, how
little she did; the upped
Retirement age— the left,
you saw it coming, took it,
boxed on, elbows tucked in.
The bell rings, the round ends
with the Blood man icing the cut,
gelling the eyebrow shut,
caught in the symmetry, stuck,
the trainer pushing you back
as the waxed girl sashays off,
your round above her head,
Debt, Credit, and Tab;
the boxing: it never stops—
each year someone drops
their pint, shits, their pants
cut off, a suit put on, replaced
the off-switch, turned in sleep,
the lid nailed shut, the coffin
planted, the baby tooth
of a headstone, slanted
in nappies, to nappies, and home.

And again the birds alight
in the never tiring arms,
you’re sat in the pub confused
like a Rehab’d minibus convoy
of child-stars collected for a studio
documentary: those half-hours ago;
the mash of happier days,
done, like pigeons exposed
to an EM pulse, or the Bees
with their pollen to honey
process lost in the static
of misdirection,
in the glaze of important texting
in the non-ionising take-down
in the dark in the fear of no light
through busted calcium gates,
the squeaking rusted hinges
on the barriers: bees, and the blood,
degrees of productivity, the cost
of protection, cranium
with no privacy,
or secrecy— ever
the gingery climb, the walk
through creaky pines,
the coppery clime beneath these,
the time-blue signage of deep seas,
this wet repetitive collapse
into Human— how do you like the word:
‘hu’man? Being
put into words next, like velcro,
like lacing gloves on a boxer
to fight on with others, for munny,
ventilation; the heart is a sponge
for Cheering, Elation waiting Punishment
Concluded: I say we are born unchaperoned,
in caverns of deep mind, to disable
lactic creatures symbolic disorder
in ancient fetish centralised Thanking-priests
from under cabalhoods devised,
some tantric milk collection
long after the eminence memory
existence becomes the echo as a reference
for the source, a cover story, a sign:
do not disturb; intrillionable cycles
Sleeping; work your feet, & jab
coming up, the uppercut relies, not
on anger, like a starred cloak a wizard
does not make; nor hatred, the Hurt
—cannot fight past defeat, the
ear-bitten ungracious sadness;
the uppercut coming at take off
is from two feet firmly on the earth

I am sorry



I am sorry
I don’t want to stand still
I want to begin to crawl
And walk, run and jump
But the sinking sand stops me
Me and all of my stars high in the heavens.
I am sorry
My heart is weak and I am weak without a heart
My lungs fill with toxic air
Air I must escape from. A distant dream lost in my imagination
I am sorry
I’ve lost the days and months and years to be what I’ve should have been
I am young and hidden
Hidden behind a cloak, my true belonging invisible.
I am sorry
A shy, enclosed caterpillar wanting to change
A mature young adult desperate to catch
Catch a shooting star going places beyond the skies
I am sorry
Future self
Please forgive
My ignorance
Your regret
My mistakes
Your memories
Our missing chance
I am sorry

A poem by Origin8

beard in-fancy #2


the shock
of the
is my new auto
the poetic interest
is anthropological.
the personal need
is a difficult night
to overcome.

we are the ripples
on the surface
of Sleep, giving
very little
of why the water rose

40 some seasons
of rent paid
without a price increase
at a third of what Realtors
charge, and now,
in a new
dwelling, I pay the
Market prices,
upped with the earthquake,
and the crisis
in housing.


everything works
for something else:
the person whose
manifest covers several
thousand employee
works for Customer: and Trees,
designed solely
for the sound they make,
cast cool shadows.
we are feel-capsules
in search of compadres
to express the infinite

this poem
is about the difficulty
of finding where it is
we emanate from,
and the task
of these words
is like air
like rungs
I trust
hold my wait,
paused between this
age, and habitat
as I climb from
a night
of sleep closed
like a fist within
my mind, white knuckled
in its grip
around a living star.
a source restricted
shine. the move,
performed alone,
with a trailer and a van,
went so damn smooth
it had to be right.


the dust
restrained had turned
to dirt behind the oldest
abstract paintings, while
the wall, its power
socket I hadn’t seen
for eight years, revealed
the dinosaur stickers
beside where our
pillowed heads
in the comfort
of kindness
kept lawful
by shared parameters
and Mingus first asked about gOd,
all wonder and freedom,
sat between my legs
in bedtime reading
before the closed-eye
mystery of Sleep.


it is I now
who wonder
who I am, in the memories
made in our children,
their phrases and progressions
carried in their finger paintings
& craftwork lionising us
on Father’s day, all moved, the
important toys
found as I evacuated
the old studio, peeling back
the layers of paintings
like archaeologists
revealing solar activity
the deeper the drill digs,
I’m finding work
I’d forgotten I’d painted, works
I don’t remember
painting—the slashed articulate
cravings leading into Rehab,
a fifth of what
tenth of
none of it required,
all trivial, but for every
mark on the life growth
chart, half in child’s writing,
as we dated his ascension
directly on the wall
panel, this, with the landlord’s
blessing, was removed;
the single prize possession
a potent memory board
moved to a new dwelling, shifting
more than I tell.


Wordsworth’s scholar-gypsy, turning
his back on, the wind in his face, on
the gracious blue of the lakes, returning
and knowing that everything goes;
Basho, in two robes, leaving his snow
-fall indentations
in the white beginnings
of another Winter; after all
the purple-orange leafage
twirlings, the dust left to settle
on the curtains
I was going to hitch to Auckland,
busk the ferry
ticket, return all Savings
to a locked, Interest-bearing account,
and live off the hat—
this was the plan, thought fully
through, originally,
when the bulldozers were ready
I was to going
to reduce and smooth back
into the van: instead —2
hundred & 80%
more rent.

beard In-Fancy

beard in-fancy,


from behind, in photographs, there is a balding
moment when I do not recognise myself;
I’m driving, under the speed limit, a work vehicle,
towing a green trailer slowly being loaded with refuse.
it has two compartments for the Recycling,
and a coffin-size lidded box of chemicals
and equipment for toilet cleaning.

I talk, into the left hand holding the device,
notes, for this poem, about reimagining
my avatar, the weighing of Obligation
with Necessity, getting out to myself
the message of what to stop, so OldAge,
unable to support the irresponsible
adornments a flesh-groomed Ego thinks
it needs, wont collapse in the beautiful
crisis of vanity disappointed.


the shore-misted blue of the mountains
has changed as the Day ages,
as the sun burnt off the clouds.
clouds behind the ridge line
silhouette the podocarp
and the gauzy valley mists of moving rain
accentuate the depth, the sense
of awe for scale and place and time.
I have stooped to scoop a dripping
mess of maggots, rice and meat, in the cold
odour of milky take-away coffee
as a bag falls out of the bin, onto my feet.
it is both a cloak of honour and a badge
of some defeat, awarded in front
of a high heeled woman, in view
of the travelling bohemian
europeans in their station wagon
and a teenage netball
team on an away trip.


picture the day otherwise: in homeless
fingerless gloves, sat, on a folded cloth,
on the smooth mars black supermarket
entrance, fingertips touching eucalypt,
eyes counting coins, heart expecting
sympathetic invitations to mourn
the Tomahawk and Hindenburg
smuggled in the lethal privacy of societal
security and freedom.

In her heart a maiden

what does it matter come the day
it’s only chatter what they say
she’s had her life, she’s old and grey
mad as a hatter anyway

she turns her head with with muted cry
to hear these words as they pass by
she knows how fast the years can fly
how all lifes plans can go awry

her winter feet now feel the chill
all steps become an act of will
but she can bear life’s bitter pill
while in her heart a maiden

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.

from: Pocahontas, Alcoholism, The Compass, & The Word.

The shadow 
stays dry as the waves 

For almost a full decade I
have not used the strong
drugs of illumination
yet the hunches gather into
something formidable, the
doorways in space are open still,
but I nod & I indicate again
that I decline, feeling
I could tear along the dotted
line of beach, rip the ocean
from the land, twist myself
right off calendar time.
Poets, after all…

Walking past the Bars, seeing the
padded circular stools,
lit, from the doorway
in pools of communicable light,
does tempt my song-quest enter
in with Dylan, Berryman, Hank
Chinaski closing an eye on
one of the licentious lady poets
out, after lunch, in search of material,
the younger people vaping nicotine,
the one-toke spot, the single malt
spiral burn turning in the wide
free area of the night, a safety net
of days off.
Isolation is sheer, sharpest

together, it is reaching into
the soapy hot water of the sink
with the knives no one told you
were in there, fly-wing thin edge
on the broken pint knocked off
the stammering table, so deadly
almost invisible; together alone
the singer moans, the unsharable
singularity of two sheets of glass
come together sliding heavily,
easy, impenetrable actual solitude
of being and I haven’t real longing
for that racing of each other up

the smoke, along the white lines, besides,
time & culture have left me behind,
this new team goes off at needle-point,
their confabulated embroideries,
amazing skin being replaced
with idle thoughts, the inklings
scholars classify as primitive
acceptance rites.

On Observing The Pensioner

Push Her Heart Rate
Into The Transcendental State

I picked her quickly
as a regular
in the wall-to-ceiling mirrors:
sixty something front-on,
28 years old from behind.

The nineteen eighties
aerobics and coke, cane furniture
her mother complained
about, the clothesline
of small sighs, lycra
on the muscle properly.

Her page is never updated
they notice, she has never
added a comment,
a few likes, moved by caffeine
or loneliness, and she does
accept befriending, so
they know she looks
through the obsequious

But they’re asking
each other what
is she running from?
Does she think Death
won’t find her at the gym?
Two full marathons annually
does their dumpling heads in.

And that is where I see you,
wearing your diploma of proof,
junk tertiary bond of our birth
certificates, that your lived life
uncommented, satisfies,
and ignoring it is happening,
Death, without forgetting,
it is likely there are more years
lived than years left myself
but I am putting extra hours in the
pool, the half k more, the hill
instead of once around
the shoe-indented
shock-absorbent racecourse,
the push-ups on the cool down,
something in the headphones,
maintaining a slow heart
oh, the insubstantial of it all!—
sit-ups the crunches
the lawn regulation, world
made matter by our words,
Mind made world by our words,
made sane by our manicured
& manic pruning of thoughts,
sympathetic to the need to expand,
express being different,
cut closely enough the same
true, cut false, into the hedge—
by which, hawthorn or gorse,
I mean the habits approved, life, is our
funeral, the body is where
we come
to die.




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