1. |
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Well, the last time that I saw you I was crying and beautiful,
head half-mast like a flag after a shooting.
But come sit by me on the couch inside my draughty villa,
the weatherboards are the skin to it's soul.
I've lived within these wet walls for years
cos you can't pay the rent with Pākehā tears.
I'm just as tragic as the landlord's laugh.
But can you hear the dog whistle?
It's so quiet on our street you can hear the dog whistle at night.
On the streetlamp's dust it glows,
upon my neighbour's berm it grows.
We drink communion in our kitchens
cos there's no church or bars to go to ...
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2. |
Exterior
05:50
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We laughed along the way ...
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3. |
Starless Auckland Sky
10:51
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Push down on the pen,
lines form at the theme park.
I ride words in carriages of letters.
I’m not trying to mumble,
just pretending to be humble while winging singing to my social betters.
But where there is no room, where my thoughts are not needed
let me stain the stage with my tears.
Can I occupy space,
will you report my face
if I deign to comment, my dears?
Before you're listened to your client’s ear must be courted and whispered into on a ferris wheel,
and though I may be too depressed to
pucker up and undress you,
let language, the lover, tell you his spiel ...
You’re so pretty tonight under the starless Auckland sky
we can go skinny-dipping in the litter-strewn sea.
Watch what bad ideas float
in our dream-dredged moat
cos our town’s ugly but we needn’t be.
You and I will end up as foul-weather friends
We'll be the very envy of every other side’s greener grass.
In our little house on the hill,
beyond the shadow of capital
through my larynx, air shall then pass.
Though it’s not always gonna be what you want to hear
At least it’s got cotton candy, rides and souvenirs.
--------------------------------------------------------------
A dim and bloodless sun looms low along the horizon.
Two under-slept teens are attempting to decode what it's symbolising.
We're so lucky.
Aren't we so lucky? We're so ...
To live comfortably and love the govt,
We're so lucky.
Isn't it great to be told what you are,
to have someone else define you.
I'm so grateful for the experience of having every move I make be read into.
We're so lucky, we're so lucky.
Aren't we lucky Labour youth hand out gummy bears laced with acid,
and then we hold hands and sing 'God of Nations' on A.N.Z.A.C. day?
Reality is gaslighting me at the grey rainbow party.
We're drinking media poison at hell's lavatory.
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4. |
An Amateur Arsonist
04:42
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From a friend's beat up Corolla
see the pylons of state highways.
I could put all my things in one
and inside the pylon I'd stay.
The distant roar of traffic
like the swellings of the sea,
would make wakefulness and dreams
align momentarily*.
I lit fires as a child.
Lynx Africa was my flame-thrower.
An amateur arsonist,
but I'm still burning down the bridge they built from me to you
to stay warm and alone.
When I pass into the next plane
don't put a stone beside a grave
- burn my body by the lagoon
of the North-Western motorway.
You can watch from Newton bridge
as my bones begin to switch
from something into nothing,
some kid'll say, "was she a witch?"
And remember me inaccurately,
edit out the bits I played the devil's advocate.
An amateur arsonist,
Hitler's jizz doesn't melt steel beams but our words do
to stay warm and alone.
We shook off our coils to build a chain-link fence together
and wrapped our battered world in barbed wire forever.
A place under the sun for me and you
where our territories have better stories than Earth's teenage tattoos.
* "align momentarily" stolen from David Berman's 'Nights That Won't Happen'
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