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Salient. Victoria University of Wellington Students' Newspaper. Volume 32, No. 18. July 30, 1969

Inside Core

Inside Core

'. . . are birds free from the chains of the skyway . . .'

(Dylan)

Lie in bed all day old object
and wait till the sunrays melt the blinds
scratch now and again to turn on time;
and wait till the sunrays melt the blinds—
sheets hair and corks at the muddy feet
show that age is a sagging cot
and the wine has long since departed
like empty pockets full of dead matches—
laughter across the street one catches in snatches

The wind freezes the tar-puddles
in 3 a.m. night;
object on ten feet skates a hundred miles
holding at breast a stone-bald head;
decapitated by black dog hallucination, while heart
went into madness—

(water turned to red)
hairy black eyes meet seaweed eyes, both glued
to the flour, paranoid in the light exposing them—
object moves, clutching his weight: a boil
in the belly acting as a compass directing the head
to naked shed; weeping and praying are covered in bed
and the dream is said to be only the beginning—
but the thought is—who's winning?

Looking out of the window at the hazy flame
racing across skies of bewilderment;
paper room behind full of beads and zen bones—
bones of study and contemplation ....
whether or not to climb far off mountain
and plant crepe-wire flowers in the moon boiling snow
or cap acute condition?
but in silence wait till trail shell caves in;
hands locked round pen
with sweating words demanding thunder-bolt to yield
before the riding fire sky splits
and all that remains is an open serpent pit—
the outside street-lamps being lit
turn moon mountain into spit—
in high-brow houses death is singing.

The prison contains a chained reaction
bread for the prey of the eagle keys
moving rattling thru swollen bricks
haunting weakness, dealing out sadistic tricks
... not a sound as food is tin dished—
out of cocoa comes the dreaded drip of numbers
crossed one by one;
noted by pin-point sun beaming dustily thru slumbers—
sleep. or contemplation being the only resolution
for momentary living inside core—
hard covers only bring the spy-hole closer
photographing human private sensual seclusion—
sentence forgotten, boots rotten, leaving confusion

Drag queens built for rockets' ear-splitting speed
prang head-on with first-war-reject drunks
picking up butts to offer friends a taste on the side,
while the queens strip the shops, deny the right to
heaven and bribe the knowing cops—
Purple Onion club, bends the breasted penis
everyone trying so hard to become a disciple of Venus—
the drunk sick of crying ice
moves off with his mouth full of rice

Water babes honk and slither from their slinking
bellies-nest—disappear into grass flapping foam;
object sits capturing in charcoal, scratchings
of rock and raindrops smouldering on the paper
he holds down to stop the wind from blowing away—
winged beasts threaten his motivation
brambles and sand force him sliding back
water babes reappear—he stumbles and crushes eggs
everything screams at him—get out!
lover untangles salt-wet sheets, the neck is
bare, and she is hungry, takes nothing, never says no
to a month's watching under the bed; cares not
to discover whether love and hate are exact opposites
or not—
rustic guttering rumbles with the night storm water
—is eden really like this?

Sleep well old muted subject—
couples next door know not of your strife
nor the corks and mud that destitute your life
—the falling hair, the dead mare
you once rode in your prime—dead in terrible agony
loneliness, like empty in sides full of grease
and war songs: passing the buck for the right to belong
the bullet melting, the memories slowly gone—
only words left to turn on time.
nobody left to buy the wine

And the people gather to their bloody hymn singing.
and death be the preacher's prayer!

Are men able to walk inside core unshackled?