When depression looms, some of we puling land carcasses walk their way to a lighter state of being. Myself, I write poetry. Possibly of the Vogon variety, however it affords me a sense of satisfaction to be of the knowledge that I am an undiscovered poetry genius who is being thwarted only by the hegemony of the baby-boomers. One day I shall be an adult among adults and my works will be disseminated in libraries worldwide. I am quite happy to post others’ worthy works; email me and I will view and possibly post. In honour of my imminent departure from these shores:
Steve sat at his ‘well-hung’ newsreaders desk.
He reflected idly on the subject matter, extended his arm and flicked the head from an impertinent Tall Poppy.
The chatter fades as the blonde flower head lands on the carpet and rolls.
He lowers his voice and continues. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â
‘CULTURAL CRINGE’.
No matter where you go
You’re never far from a South Islander.
No matter where you go
You’re never far from a brassy JAFA.
No matter where you go
You’re never far from an iron-man competition or the provinces A&P.
No matter where you go
You’re never far from the works of Billy T
No matter where you go
You’re never far from Shortland St repeats on TV.
No matter where you go
You’re never far from ubiquitous misogyny.
No matter where you go
You’re never very far from the sea.
No matter where you go
You’re never far from someone who knows an MP.
No matter where you go
You’re never far from family.
No matter where you go
You’re never far from a native tree.
No matter where you go
You’re never far from an umu or a hangi.
No matter where you go it always rains on Christmas day.
As the tears from Ranginui and Papatuanuku
mingle and drift
from the sky down
to the sea.
