the man woof like he a god or sumthing
I am a dog and I’m not proud of it
the problem is that I’m on holiday
and holidays aren’t really Fijian sunbeds or Parisian flaneurings;
holidays are hell like Kiribati because you’re essentially a suburban Auckland dog
with a family of four children and two parents all at work and school
and you must sit through a day without talking or seeing nobody
without going anywhere
without even seeing your reflection for hours of the day
but instead all you see is the big ocean, the blank page, the picket fence,
where something might come
but usually doesn’t
fuck!
if you’re lucky,
a few lines, a few pages of writing
or if you’re really lucky you might settle into a book
that you desperately want to read
and you’ll surf a few waves sing a few songs ride a few girls or eat some grass
or something
but in the end it’s hard to read because you’re a dog and you only see the weather
and it’s Kiribati and there are no ships today, only an airplane this afternoon
and it’s suburban Auckland on a tuesday
and not even that
because you’re waiting
and waiting for someone special
to just walk into your life and announce
‘who’s a good boy?’:
someone better and bigger than you
that makes you feel humanity again or something
genesis (gewgaw)
there is an orange bag in the oldest of old trees
outside, window
wind shaping it into
a balloon, free in open country
I have (heard from unauthorised third parties) the mind’s willingness to be bored
and so and so
to watch this orange balloon
above trinket amidst leaves that ease
upon it and don’t pop it
is it knowing you will die
that makes you think nothing can’t be like this?
nothing, nothing can be
as thinking you’re watching …
let it be
while skiving suits me – I
depend upon it alone
to begin with beginnings
a bigbig boy with a bigbig thought collect(ion)
i think of it like i think of my poetry
collect(ion
and how i must make it bigger
and harder and experienced
and wilder and sexier
like the nipple i’d nibble for play
a little bit at a time
it is me or i or it or me or i is like
what it is to just have all the books in the world
to make me seem real big
when really i’ll just be overcompensating
for my lack in poet trees and my
averagely mortal average brain inheritance
and that sum-thing of me is
like a cortex veined with possibilities but never fruit(ions
with only the potential to rot
one day like an off on(ion
without the poetry to induce tears
once in a while for a short while
having all the while tried to make it big gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
