Salient. Victoria University of Wellington Students' Newspaper. Volume 32, No. 18. July 30, 1969
I waited for you to bring the rose
but you didn't come—
they tell me your wings
had trouble with airpockets
made you drop the rose in mid-ocean;
your pink eyes dropping after it, diving
in gut-strings separate the red from the purple—
white head water your reality, and ours.
Master comes down from the hills;
his lover lives up there
naked from the neck down
he has not seen her face, but it's there—
just like the skin and the milky darkness
just like high pines
just like their voices and vine arms;
mother waits, she does not grumble
serves oatmeal without a grumble
serves fingers without a mumble;
Father asleep inside his evening Time.
I waited for you to bring the house
and you leave the drapes behind;
we are disappointed
the day has not turned out the way
it was written—
nor have the angels made an appearance;
the rose was eaten by sharks I'm told.
too lazy to grow their own
and now the house is useless without them
and now the sun is like a bed of nails
popping the skin to leak a readiness to move
or sink below the white head water.
I chase the cook around his kitchen;
steam pots boiling heads we jump over to catch
or join the fight at Mary's gate;
someone screams—it's all too late—
grab a leg grab a mate
the beds are getting empty
and those nurses want them filled by sunday.
Blues for a boy who lost his toy
and lives in a helpless dream;
blues for a queen whose insides
are never seen—someone's been before you.
Passed was the day last, now a cloud
passed was us before December
when grass was taller than I remember
passed before you knew when or what had happened
as the wheat is ground to flour—
so too, the windows burst—cutting
erection, creating shame;
bang go doors in blackmail's faces
bang went sores in child's balloon
making all that dream go places—
and all that sail before the moon, heathens
And such is the kingdom of the warlords' rocket!
Child wakes in the middle of the night
not knowing whether to cry or fight;
grandfather clock chimes the hour
no time to rim or pray for power—
and prayer means nothing unless it's said
that everybody here is maimed or dead;
close finish for the dancing couple
touching then not touching, very subtle—
away with you, mind come pain
can't you see there is no sane
I waited for education, teachers' wisdom
got in the way of nature's vision—
is there time left to cut-out?
make he grade, take the spade, dig dig dig—
rolling dollar used for ill-deeds (give us a cig),
Away the flagpoles
away the seagulls
away the trains
away the planes;
away with Freud and the naked ape!
stamp on watches
burn the books—
wrench off the bars, set free the holy crooks;
spitting urine, oil, at the walls,
feeling God's elastic love
make strong to smash clay dove;
their days spent quiet on schizophrenic highway.
I waited for you to bring the pot
paranoid in my silent unforgiveable spider bed—
but you didn't turn on—
shame you are gone.
I'm really an outer beast, not like you at all—
I'm really horrible to look at;
something you think not and wish
not to be there—
but here I am
look like you
allow myself to become swayed by the unseen call;
allow the bush to be cut for concrete
allow a young man to stand up in public
reciting his doom poems
drunk as he is,
the don't cure faces of the lookers screwed in horror
discovering that it is true—I am the beast;
try to make understanding love, misunderstood—
(picture torn to pieces)
voilence in place of sperm hits your face
and spend all yesterday mirror staring at it
glueing the ripped letter together—
Venapusia is my real home
do you understand that?
did you find it in the letter?
He hits you—you turn the other cheek—
you wants his poems then?
when all the time he labels you cheap
and dominates your den.
Deaf ears on schizophrenic highway,
young man steps down, eats his words.
We try to understand that nothing is wrong
bury objects in wood;
stare thru crowded glistening hallways
suicide the rising fear—
and no one wants to hear the prophets' call:
'the timbers fall
and you are all disconnected islands
facing a thunderstorm.
I waited for you to bring the wings
but the feathers dropped out—
they tell me your rose
had trouble flying
made you drop in mid-depression sands;
your blue belly dropping after it, skydiving
on separate avant-garde leaflets—
yellow head sand your reality, now nirvana.