Freeway:

Peter Olds. Caveman Press. Bound, $3.95. Paper. $1.80. Review ed by Brian King.

Yes it is; Ponsonby, Grafton, Parnell, Grey Lynn, Boyle Crescent — the dirty side of Auckland, but also of every city; the life that begins at 3am and ends only when the vein gives out. Or in a black-and-red wreck, as in 'A v-8 Poem for Chris Howard'.

In 'Freeway' and other poems. Olds doesn't so much give us the poet's vision as the eye's sight, whether frenzied or simple, the lines are vividly descriptive. Language in 'Freeway' is fresh and often strikingly new. The uncompromising use of 'cock', 'prick' and 'cunt' make the landscape more familiar, while the drug spiel and jargon gives access to a world that is for most of us both repelling and enchanting. 'Freeway' itself:

3am the dead hour begins,
the bells banged by the black angel
of Nembutal. Murder Mile! Murder Mile!

Finally for Olds, 'Freeway' is 'a technological mistake': society's ("the 99 point 9 who don't understand") final solution to the few — Midnight Queen, Lady Moss, Eagle Angel, Nutmeg and Marie — who pop phensedyl, coedine and mandrake without prescription or care. The underworld-of-the-few that is described for us as vital and true in this mostly-excellent collection of poems. For Olds there is a sense of loss:

......I cried 'where have
all the mothers gone
who swept blood, piss, laughter, gin,
vomit, tears, broken noses, joy
from gutter to new freeway & clay?'

Galadriel