ode to 16 minutes before showtime at the first public showing

you are the heady space between nausea and applause
the dark seconds ticking by
with apprehensive good luck wishes
thoughts of every other moment we wished ourselves free of

humiliation and cluttered mind to find three chords
here on a fretboard, distortion pedal, ivory and bass drum
rest, 3, 4 and tuning. walk, pace, turn, fidgetting in
perfect time with a scratched nailpolished forefinger twisting

through hair and pacing yourself, too much punctuation and too
few word phrase lyrical melodies in the head oh peace in closing
black dustbound staged perfectly cramped sweaty bliss of
16 minutes before the clock countdown to relief and in all this

breathing is sometimes more complicated that you expected.

ode to elongated sentences, adjectives and syntax that wraps around the corners of the world

you solely possess the unerring ability to
make me smile, laugh, cry and sink
deep below waves of torrent emotion and
otherwise reknown experience and all

in a series of movement known as teeth and tongue
sharp intakes and breath and exhaling whoosh
words sound so different in the head when swimming round the
brain cavity rather than the resonators

but still on paper wrapped around corners
so precise and specific in their unveiling of perfect
adjectives and cobwebby words that were once loved and
left behind in the gobblegook chasing down on sunlight

leaving nothing but abrupt shadows of fleeting ideas
barely grasped but in bright dazzling light
you sit on the page so elegantly, so full and complete with
rounded bellies and strong thighs, architectural wonders

words that have learned to caress one another.

ode to the view from my window at 5.48pm on a Wednesday



newcall you're always

so hustle and bustle

with your crisp overfabricated

solid brick lines of 1983



you speak in short blunt sentences

of illustrious views you have

from corner offices

you whisper your smug delight to



church steeple

always so envious of her sleek lines

and how she soaks up the evening light

like a vacuum built just for golden rays

of early evening



both of you submissive to the

reservoir that holds all hope

within it's grey exterior

i wonder if hope gets warm

as sunlight hits the sides

of your great reserving force



how beautiful it is

to know the secret intimacies of the west

while facing east

seeing nothing of the fact

but knowing the full naked effect

of the sun setting at our backs



the four of us sitting so

resolutely on a quarter block

above Odeon.

ode to the Galbraiths chef sitting at the backdoor.

pink flustered mottle cheeks
ripe like peaches or pork belly

you stand like a beacon to
long hours and
damp hot sweaty
oil slick
conditions

the set of your chin is
vacant and motionless
as if born that way

busy
hassled
frought

this order and that
with one swing of a teatowel
over a jovially round shoulder
you pivot

back into orders of
fries and pies
pub grub

you wonder about
fine cuisine
and peter gordon
throwing pearls before
swine
and thank God for yeast.

ode to the cigarettesmoking man in ngaruawahia

lungbuster
in stubbed shorts with
a winter tan protuding
on strong legs

hiding in shadow
of a beer belly
pie belly
donuts and pastry
construction worker
truck driver
all the jobs you
might have had

causing you to wear
very nonFashion Week
fluoro yellow

on the side of the road smoking
in ngaruawahia

at least your lungs must be
warm and that congested feeling
must be comforting
at 7.30am

a waikato september