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.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Penis in Therapy
Counsellor- You can talk about anything. Anything at all. What did you have for breakfast?
Penis-I don't eat breakfast, I'm a penis. I discharge breakfast. But I think we had orange juice. And a vitamin b tablet. The urine was very yellow.
Counsellor- Right, and are you having any problems in that area?
Penis- What area?
Counsellor- The piddling.
Penis- No. I can honestly say I'm a very good pisser.
Counsellor- That's good. And it's healthy that you recognise that strength.
Penis- I'm not a very good 'fucker' though.
Counsellor- Would you like to talk about that?
Penis- Well...I love fucking. Absolutely love it. But I'm way too often with the whoops.
Counsellor- The whoops.
Penis- Yeah, it's doing my head in.
Counsellor- What are the whoops?
Penis- When I come too quick.
Counsellor- And what is it that makes you whoops?
Penis- Definitely it's the fucking.
Penis-I don't eat breakfast, I'm a penis. I discharge breakfast. But I think we had orange juice. And a vitamin b tablet. The urine was very yellow.
Counsellor- Right, and are you having any problems in that area?
Penis- What area?
Counsellor- The piddling.
Penis- No. I can honestly say I'm a very good pisser.
Counsellor- That's good. And it's healthy that you recognise that strength.
Penis- I'm not a very good 'fucker' though.
Counsellor- Would you like to talk about that?
Penis- Well...I love fucking. Absolutely love it. But I'm way too often with the whoops.
Counsellor- The whoops.
Penis- Yeah, it's doing my head in.
Counsellor- What are the whoops?
Penis- When I come too quick.
Counsellor- And what is it that makes you whoops?
Penis- Definitely it's the fucking.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Left Wondering
So, I'm sitting on the train right? I see her a few seats away. She's so damn cute. She looks up and our eyes meet. I look away, but not too quick. I try to re-focus on the Arcade Fire in my ears. I look up again. Eyes meet again. I look away, but not too quick. Again. I try to re-focus on the Arcade Fire in my ears. I stare at my shoes.
She's putting some make-up on now. She's so damn cute. She ties her curly black hair back. I'm trying to be inconspicuous. It's not working. I wonder if I should try a smile at her. I stare at my shoes, wondering how to go about smiling. My shoes could do with a clean.
I look up again. She's not there. My god, she's walking toward me. She sits down beside me. She's so damn cute. She says Hi. I say Hi with what must be the goofiest smile ever smiled. I feel my cheeks reddening. I can't believe she's sat there. And now we're talking. Except I can't hear very well because Arcade Fire are burning in my ears. I take out the plugs.
Okay, where were we? Where are we? What are we doing? These aren't the questions we're asking each other, but these are the questions I'm asking myself in my busy little head. We smile and nod and she laughs and I think, 'she's laughing'. I fall in love. Just like that. I think I fell in love with her the moment she sat down. But now I know I'm really in love, because she's laughing and I've stopped blushing and the talk is easy and my heart is Keith Moon's drumkit. But it's my stop next stop and I have to make a decision. I don't even know her name. So I ask what her name is as the train pulls in to Morningside. I shake her hand when she tells me, and I tell her mine. It could seem formal but it doesn't because I do it in such a way that makes a joke out of the formality of it. She tells me where I can find her at tech. The student union is where she hangs. She's a student rep. Gosh I'm learning so much about my new love, it's wonderful. I leave her there and exit the train.
I can't take the smile off my face. She's so damn cute. I can't take her face from out my brain. I don't want to. If I could, I would sit and replay that moment forever; the moment that so-damn-cute girl sat next to me on the train and laughed at my words. I wonder, as I walk with that stupid smile all over me, what our kids are going to look like? When I get home I write a song about her on my guitar. It's called Morningside. It's really good, if I don't mind saying so.
The next day I track her down. It takes a lot of repeating cycles through the student union, but I finally spot her sitting in the sun, smoking a cigarette. That's something she'll have to rethink when she gets pregnant with our first. I make my way toward her, nonchalant and indifferent, as if I'm just passing by.
We pick up where yesterday's conversation left off. I've made the decision I'm going to ask her out. Just a coffee. Something easy. I've never asked a girl out before. That's pretty sad for a thirty-eight year old man, there it is. Besides, it's not quantity, but quality that counts. She's so damn cute.
I lay it on her, as cool as I can....
It's the pause that lets me know I've made a mistake. It's the moment she takes before her eyes meet mine. I can almost hear the words inside her head before she says them. And then she says them. "I'm sorry but I'm actually seeing someone. Thank you so much though, I'm really flattered."
I try to make a cool, unconcerned departure, but I don't succeed. How could I have been so wrong? Why did she sit next to me? Why did she laugh? Why did she tell me where I could find her? And how can I be so emotionally involved? I almost had the kid's middle names sussed out. She was so damn cute. I've really got to stop falling in love like this.
She's putting some make-up on now. She's so damn cute. She ties her curly black hair back. I'm trying to be inconspicuous. It's not working. I wonder if I should try a smile at her. I stare at my shoes, wondering how to go about smiling. My shoes could do with a clean.
I look up again. She's not there. My god, she's walking toward me. She sits down beside me. She's so damn cute. She says Hi. I say Hi with what must be the goofiest smile ever smiled. I feel my cheeks reddening. I can't believe she's sat there. And now we're talking. Except I can't hear very well because Arcade Fire are burning in my ears. I take out the plugs.
Okay, where were we? Where are we? What are we doing? These aren't the questions we're asking each other, but these are the questions I'm asking myself in my busy little head. We smile and nod and she laughs and I think, 'she's laughing'. I fall in love. Just like that. I think I fell in love with her the moment she sat down. But now I know I'm really in love, because she's laughing and I've stopped blushing and the talk is easy and my heart is Keith Moon's drumkit. But it's my stop next stop and I have to make a decision. I don't even know her name. So I ask what her name is as the train pulls in to Morningside. I shake her hand when she tells me, and I tell her mine. It could seem formal but it doesn't because I do it in such a way that makes a joke out of the formality of it. She tells me where I can find her at tech. The student union is where she hangs. She's a student rep. Gosh I'm learning so much about my new love, it's wonderful. I leave her there and exit the train.
I can't take the smile off my face. She's so damn cute. I can't take her face from out my brain. I don't want to. If I could, I would sit and replay that moment forever; the moment that so-damn-cute girl sat next to me on the train and laughed at my words. I wonder, as I walk with that stupid smile all over me, what our kids are going to look like? When I get home I write a song about her on my guitar. It's called Morningside. It's really good, if I don't mind saying so.
The next day I track her down. It takes a lot of repeating cycles through the student union, but I finally spot her sitting in the sun, smoking a cigarette. That's something she'll have to rethink when she gets pregnant with our first. I make my way toward her, nonchalant and indifferent, as if I'm just passing by.
We pick up where yesterday's conversation left off. I've made the decision I'm going to ask her out. Just a coffee. Something easy. I've never asked a girl out before. That's pretty sad for a thirty-eight year old man, there it is. Besides, it's not quantity, but quality that counts. She's so damn cute.
I lay it on her, as cool as I can....
It's the pause that lets me know I've made a mistake. It's the moment she takes before her eyes meet mine. I can almost hear the words inside her head before she says them. And then she says them. "I'm sorry but I'm actually seeing someone. Thank you so much though, I'm really flattered."
I try to make a cool, unconcerned departure, but I don't succeed. How could I have been so wrong? Why did she sit next to me? Why did she laugh? Why did she tell me where I could find her? And how can I be so emotionally involved? I almost had the kid's middle names sussed out. She was so damn cute. I've really got to stop falling in love like this.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
More Emotion
Sorry ladies, for reigning in on your parade, but can you stop reigning in on my parade please.
I may not be able to pay for the meal (which aint easy to cop to), but I still want to pull the chair out for you. I want to open the door for you and do the driving too. I think it should be my mouth that gets us to the movies, or puts us on the dance floor together; I just have to remember where my balls are first.
You ladies criticised the power we held over you and fair enough too, but in finding your voice you forgot what it was you were speaking up for, and you've put a whole bunch of the negative shit on your own curriculum vitae. Is that what you really wanted?
Just cos you can, doesn't mean you should. What's the male equivalent of a cougar? I can't identify a label but the descriptor's sound like 'sick' and 'shallow'. It's a shame because you jeapordise the best part of what makes you. Your objectivity. Your lack of bias. Your empathy. You've always been the better person. That's why you win all the arguments. Don't let the power besmirch your legacy.
Of course this is all so much generalisation, but I'm a man. And that's how we roll.
I may not be able to pay for the meal (which aint easy to cop to), but I still want to pull the chair out for you. I want to open the door for you and do the driving too. I think it should be my mouth that gets us to the movies, or puts us on the dance floor together; I just have to remember where my balls are first.
You ladies criticised the power we held over you and fair enough too, but in finding your voice you forgot what it was you were speaking up for, and you've put a whole bunch of the negative shit on your own curriculum vitae. Is that what you really wanted?
Just cos you can, doesn't mean you should. What's the male equivalent of a cougar? I can't identify a label but the descriptor's sound like 'sick' and 'shallow'. It's a shame because you jeapordise the best part of what makes you. Your objectivity. Your lack of bias. Your empathy. You've always been the better person. That's why you win all the arguments. Don't let the power besmirch your legacy.
Of course this is all so much generalisation, but I'm a man. And that's how we roll.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Man Cry ...
I came off the methadone over a year ago now. I can smell things. I can taste things. I have clarity. And I feel. Boy, I feel. I'm a thirty-eight year old man and my life is just beginning.
I've done a lot of talking in the past year so I don't carry the guilt and shame any longer. I'm making good clean, pro-social friends. I'm learning to be a counsellor now. And auditioning. I got me an agent. I was down to the final two for a family violence commercial but I didn't get it. I had a day on 'Shortland Street': "Dr Gary Watkins". Be nice if that would open up, but I won't hold my breath. It'll happen eventually; I'll get some work. And with two passions in my life, I'll stay clean too.
I've done a lot of talking in the past year so I don't carry the guilt and shame any longer. I'm making good clean, pro-social friends. I'm learning to be a counsellor now. And auditioning. I got me an agent. I was down to the final two for a family violence commercial but I didn't get it. I had a day on 'Shortland Street': "Dr Gary Watkins". Be nice if that would open up, but I won't hold my breath. It'll happen eventually; I'll get some work. And with two passions in my life, I'll stay clean too.
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