The Refuse of Modernity

we are the refuse of modernity

who leave you waiting at the door
while washing piles on the floor,
who bend to pick up ten cents
and know how to wait in a line

we are the refuse of modernity

whose houses rot around us
and kids run riot around you,
who know how to share a space
and the meaning of loyalty

we are the refuse of modernity

for whom art is another planet
and reading comes in weekly's,
who never have a dollar spare
but always have an open beer

we are the refuse of modernity

whose rent will be paid next week
after the tick is sorted,
who know how to play the angles
and tell the right lies.

We live in airless spaces
and the in-between places
you fear to tread.

We do not live in computers
but we are numbers just the same.

we are the refuse of modernity

whose food grows stale
in between old dishes
piled in the kitchen sink.

we don't know where the future is
because the past still clings,

inter-generational and cultural,
socio-economic and historic,
our grievances are many

we are the refuse of modernity

of no particular race or creed,
whose belief systems
centre around nothing
but the immediacy of survival.

We do not play golf or bowls,
drink chardonnay or bubbly,
our empties are ornamental collections,
we celebrate quantity, not quality.

we are the refuse of modernity

who've been left behind.

we don't have a face for books
or know a twit or blog.
we use cash, not plastic,
play guitars, not keyboards.

We are the people you label
to fit outside your world better.

we are the dispossessed,
disenfranchised, urban fringe,
who fill the burbs with old hulks.

we collect what you have thrown away,
buy food past use-by-dates.

We are the refuse of modernity

who cry from the gutter
but laugh from the gut.

We do not want your pity
and your empathy is misplaced.

We look after our own.

Senses...

the smell of warm asphalt steaming
after the rains done leaving

the crunch of cold powder snow
the clouds have thrown

the feel of milk
on the upper lip

the sound of rain on currugated iron
the way the baby laughs again

the scent of a new-born wick in flame
the look when you forget my name

a waft of bitter coffee
past a favourite cafe

an acoustic guitar finely tuned
voicing the heart's open wound

a man feeling fear leave
letting old tears breathe

the moment before you walk the board
to breathe new life in the bard

a smile that spreads
through other's heads

a sense that nothing can spoil
what is right in this world.

firsts...

I wrote my first poem when I was seven:

Guess what I had for tea
Fish and chips with one pea
I ate too much
I've never had such
and I died with a belly-ache in me.

I wrote my first book around eight. It was called "Bad Jelly the Witch by Spike Milligan". It was a paperback. It was my favourite book. I copied the whole thing out in pencil in an exercise book. I thought that's what writing was: the act of writing. Of course my little naive self was correct, in a way.

I saved my first dollar in ones and twos. I danced and jumped through the hall in a fit of euphoric glee. I was rich.

My first bike was a 'conqueror'. Noone else had a 'conqueror'. I loved that bike. It was blue. My friends had bmx's. They were yellow. One bot had an hmx. It was green. I loved my bike. I never wanted a bmx. Everyone wanted to ride my bike.

My first kiss was behind the toilets at Cooks Gardens in Wanganui. It was organised the day before. It was a 'pash...with tongue'. It lasted eleven seconds. I know because we timed it.

My first copulation was with the same girl, three years later.

My first 'drink' was a big brown 'lion brown'. I stole it from the crate in the garage while mum and dad were hosting a party in the vale.

My first drug was a spot of oil. My sister showed me what to do. I was eighteen. I've always been a 'late bloomer'.

My first 'taste' was opium. I'd just been dumped over the phone. I left little piles of vomit in my room and walked into the lounge in our Dunedin flat. My flatmates were shooting up. I'd always said no to that shit. I said yes, and with the loss of an old love, found a new one.

My first drug withdrawal was three months later. It didn't take. My first drug treatment was three years later. It didn't take.

My first fight was with my best friend. I didn't know how to fight. I threw sand in his face. The kids cheered.

The first time I saw my dad cry, he told me his dad died.

My first performance was in "The Nobodies From Nowhere", at the 'Four Seasons Theatre'. I was not supposed to be in it. I was five. My mum took me as a treat. I had to be up there. I jumped onto the stage and would not leave. I remember the laughter.

My second treatment was at Odyssey, 2008-2010. It took a while, but it finally took.

This is my first blog.