Three Years of Phonologic Confusion and Terror

‘Partava Nashul’
Party vote National.
‘Rababul cup’
Rugby World Cup.
‘Cawdun stisdix this guvmind iza strawdree wun’
According to statistics this government is an extraordinary one.

I don’t understand half of what you say.
I can’t comprehend the policies you rush through in the middle of the night.
Even if you told me directly I would not understand your slurs.
Your colloquialisms offered to quash fears in the minds of the people, becomes further distorted by your drunken sounding version of a kiwi accent.

Was this stupidity?
Perhaps mild brain damage?
Was it truly a brilliant strategy?
Confusing people into submission with your post stroke words seems to have worked.

I fear your roundabout way of talking will leave this country emaciated.
It gives me the shits thinking about it.
I grow thinner with each coming day.

I fear your jokes when asked serious questions about asset sales will result in a country of sad mimes
Trapped in a box that is shaped like New Zealand that we no longer own
Completely caged and utterly voiceless, inside our own home
Like whales in an aquarium waiting to die
Owned and kept prisoner by the interest of foreigners who want to make money out of us.

I am truly nervous
When they believe when you say
‘Resashaw thus cundrees un sayf vans.’

I am not so sure it is in safe hands.
I will not sleep easy for the next three years at best.
At worse, I shudder to think.

How far? Too far.

Give up now
Turn around
Run in the other direction for a good Thirty years
It is still not enough

We have ruined too much
Come too far
Learnt too much
And forgotten much more

We have erected
Buildings
Towers
Aerials
Monuments
And our own egos to the top of the food chain
We have fucked everything that stands beneath it all

Thanks to our superiority
Not even impotence can save the planet

We stand with great smiles on our faces
Pissing into the wind with flaccid genitals in hand
Safe in the knowledge that science will breed for us

We don’t seem to realise
Or care
That the effluent we expel from ourselves, is rapidly filling our lungs and bodies to capacity, with a cumulative toxicity of thousands of years

This ignorance is perhaps our only saviour
And it scares me that I have had this thought at all
If I have had it
Who else has?

What if they find a way to avert this disaster?
What if they find a way to squeeze the last of the blood from this dry globe stone?
What if we don’t die?
What if we take flight to some other place?

I have one message, if you are listening

Dear Universe,
Please invest in a chastity belt,
We come not it peace,
We are here to fuck you beyond comprehension and indeed recognition.

Champagne astrology on a wine budget

Dear me
That wine was swift
The stars spin in the night sky like they usually do
But faster

By my eye they don’t seem to be concerned with gravitational pulls, or orbits
Alarming?

No, not at all
They dance to the rhythm of my booze thinned blood
The same poisoned liquid that flows through my giddy grey matter
It entertains me and the stars alike.

It’s consumed them like madness
They wobble uncontrollably, swaying in front of my very eyes
Like moth vision, erratically trying to fly into numerous light bulb moons.

I will lie down for just a moment
Surely such astrological marvels come around only once in a weekend
I guess I am spoilt, or perhaps have a drinking problem.

The tar seal is still warm from the day’s radiance
I nod off for a moment
I am rudely awakened by an inconsiderate driver trying to use my bed as a road
What a prick.

It’s cold now
And the birds are welcoming the morning in the darkness
I must get home before the sun rises.
Until next time madness
See you next week.

In a nutshell

Like watching paint dry you’ll eventually go insane.
Walk past it with periphery appreciation.
Feel glad you no longer live in a time where off white is the over saturated colour of choice.
Take solace in the notion that your palate of life is vibrantly coloured.
Worry not that it may not be refined enough to fully appreciate.
Know that you like or dislike and let that be enough.
For the paint will eventually dry and then crack, then they’ll sand it all back and start over again.
As the dust specks of old paint blow away and take flight
It will be as if you were never here.

The only Krisening I require

My brother Kris
I loved you
I still do

Your toothy straight grin is clear as day in my mind’s eye
Like your grin I remember it cleaner than you probably were

A beautiful perceiver of human nature
Soft and warm like the morning sun
I want to be angry but the radiant splendour won’t allow such thought

I miss your eyes
We never hugged
I hope you knew I loved you
And still do

I have little concern for your homophobia these days
I even kissed your cold forehead in that pine box
I hope you weren't offended

I respected your person in terms I can’t explain
I hate thinking about your own self disbelief
It slices my stoic fabric with a cutting and haunting queasiness

I never got to tell you
Or make you believe you were your own version of a genius
You couldn’t write or do math
It didn’t matter
I count you amongst one of the most eloquently skilled, one liner, simplistic shit talkers I will ever meet.

I miss your stories
But I can’t remember your voice.

You were immaculate
Simple and perfectly alien in your environment
Much like that bare pine box that we carried out in
Your presence is still felt but your definition splinters away from memory

I have one picture
It isn’t enough

You’re still around
Don’t leave again
I love you

Your brother.

The day Gadaffi got what it meant to be human

Isn’t nature beautiful?
Is it?
It is.
Oh is it?
Yes it is.

What about Gadaffi?
And his iron fist
The fist that crushed to death many of his own people
A fist that displayed one of our most natural of traits

Poor Gadaffi came to understand this all too well
Sadly a little too late
Reduced to nothing more than a frail old man
That viewed the killing cycle coming full circle
The very murderous wheels he put in motion
Swallowing him up and continuing on its unceasing way.

Beaten and shot to death by his own kind.

Natural yes
But ugly
So very ugly
Distorted to such proportions that it seems normal
Acceptable
Deserved.

I hated all he did
I wish nobody had died
But adding sons, daughters, uncles, aunties, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, grandparents, and friends bones to the growing pile only makes the number larger.

I am not defending that monster in anyway
But at his end I watched on a screen
An old man
Gripped in fear
Begging for his life
Like so many he killed
All scared
All people
All perfectly natural
And so disgustingly sad.

Isn’t nature beautiful?
It is.

Is it?

Room for change

Naked and unashamed
Minus these shoes
No shirt
Managing without pants, shorts, or underwear
Negative of fashion
More concerned with self than a fad

Clothed and completely self-conscious
Positively disgusted at the old cow skin on my feet
Correctly fitted with a fitted shirt
Preoccupied by my own shape in trousers, togs and briefs
Concerned with trend
Perplexed by keeping up with this season and my poor choices

Shit, where did it all go wrong?

Under the influence of outside

I live alone cerebrally
Quite happily
Or so it seemed

I took a walk the other day
I saw a mother yelling at her child
The whole time a dog pissed on a tree without concern of decency
The park existed and swayed in the wind in magnificent beauty
Completely removed and un-annoyed by the noise and urination

I in turn sighed with relief as I came across the light bulb notion of an idea
Exodus
Escapism
External influence
Stark and obvious in this moment
But seemingly evasive until right now.

All I need to exit my mind is to open the door and step outside
Well fancy that.

Garden under a microcosm microscope

I admire obsessively the normalcy of nature
The things akin to regular, spectacular everydayness
Physical attractiveness seen only by the interested parties
The sparkling glints that sit at the fore front of lovers eyes in the exact same way as they always have

We are a repetitive, regenerated generation of seed self-managers
Like ingrained insurance policies ensuring the propagation of our species
We buzz around like flowers with legs
No need for the bee middle man
We cross-pollinate wildly

There is no need, or room for colour blind xenophobes in this garden
The whites, browns, blacks, yellows and hues in between will eventually merge into various versions of the same colour.

Dear John

Dear John
Small minded solutions
Shields the future pollution

Deflecting all voices that may contain reason
Defying all logic of National treason.

You are warm and safe
And oh so secure
Spoon feeding yourself with foul mind manure.

Unpalatable produce fuels your brain contortion
Tis a shame your beliefs won’t allow self-abortion.

But that is you choice
I can’t revoke your voice.

The idiot box
Has your mind under locks
Old John has the keys
But you do not want these
I hope that one day you’ll descend from the trees.

Should have gone to law school, but I couldn’t afford the intuition

Illusions
Confusions
False thoughts of self-grandeur
Handshakes and pancakes
And breakfast, false candour
A whole social structure that won’t understand your
Need for a kind eye to read the next stanza.

I erase jotted scratching’s with my rubber sander
The words breed in your mind like a limp dick old Panda.

Shooting literary blanks between publisher thighs
You watch on with amusement and curious eyes
Wondering ‘is this it?’
Yes you’ve seen the demise
Of a man chose words
Over suits and silk ties.

Do you have a spare dollar?

Please don’t lie in our simple exchange
Or I will not part with my jingling pie change.

I know you don’t need it to catch the bus home.

Your hard crusted feet give away ill crafted lies
I can see the deep sadness encased in your eyes
I don’t mind giving money to hold at bay your demise
Buy your glue and your booze, maybe some fries.

I’d do the same
If I were in your game.

Beaten down at some stage by the human condition
I sure as hell do not envy your shitty position
But I do not believe it was a conscious decision
I despise hurtful eyes and their cynic incision
Clouded by their ill judgement and societal vision.

Ask for it directly
My name is Trevor you can be frank
“I just need some cash to fill my booze tank”
I’ll part with my coins in my back wallet bank
It hurts even more when you give me your thanks.

It means lots to you to me it’s a pie
Just give me a nod and a simple goodbye.

Come down from your bigot tree

You reminisce of far gone simpler times
A time of wide divided lines
When black was black
And white was white
When this viewpoint was still alright.

You remember when gay was having fun
Instead of hotdogs in men’s buns
When men were men
And spades were spades
Before their kind invented aids.

That was then
This is now
Engage your mind
Put your views to bed
It’s time to mend your frail head.

Let people be
Who they will be
Come down from your bigot tree.

My friend in a rut

Two pairs of eyes
And mine makes three
These tiny things
They do perceive
The very same things that do deceive

One pair wants him
The other me
I like them both
And that makes three.

My Kingdom for a smoke

Give me a cigarette as tall as a minaret.
But I don’t want one.
“Yes you do.”

I can see the nicotine, it does its best to intervene.
“Whatever do you dopamine?”
I don’t like it.
“Yes you do.”

“You don’t like it?”
Yes I do.

Here comes the smoking train
I open wide and don't complain
The dopamine has hit my brain

But I don't,
Fuck it.
Yes I do.

Hold on, timing is key

Men’s public toilets require impeccable timing
Get it right
At all costs
Make no error in judgement.

Get it right
And you will enjoy the pure bliss that comes from the emptiness of yourself
Marvel at the pearly white porcelain
It is fit for a king
Don’t feel bad for messing it up
You have earned it.

But get it wrong
Oh dear God
I try not to entertain the notion
You poor sad fellow.

Get it wrong
You will be consumed by the rancid depths
A residual ether from a stranger’s poor diet
It fills your nostrils to capacity
You can almost smell the bowel cancer hanging heavy in the air.

Or worse yet
Here comes a muscle clad
Homophobic
Sport fan
Staring at your dick for competition.

I think I can hold on.