"New Plymouth"
I
I, as a young woman, stand still
Like a ghost column in a Mausoleum
Adjacent to the New Plymouth spit.
I breathe in the invisible sugars of salt
And the stubborn incoherences
Of the sea washing green over layette white.
The rocks are blunt teeth,
Fat and round like an old Frisco seal,
A Cerberus jaw barring me off
From fatal self-destruction.
What a laugh!
These flippants, these peacekeepers
Have no idea, nor do
The gargantuan ships,
Walking on water like Jesus' feet.
The sky is so pure and clean
it's sectile, no clouds
nor disturbances to be inhaled.
II
I hang like a death wish on the hotel's lintel;
Outside copse's foliage joggle
And I think cold.
The air is sullen and austere,
It knows what it's doing to me.
The air that kills, kills, kills.
The radio stubbornly blubbers
More sheepish than a baby,
Confabulating the local rugby.
I collapse like a sack of black potatoes.
I feel weirder than Pluto.
I am an alien, an alien to the bulbous women
And silver lined suited men.
The grand annunciation
"I hope you enjoy your stay"
Makes my organs twist and puffer.
It hurts, it hurts, it hurts!
This place cries for my demise.
III
It's a rural community.
Mothers in ghastly flannel and baby spew
swallow gossip like Communion tablets.
The precious circulate the carousel,
Scoffing hot dogs like prepubescent piglets,
Sausages sliding like fat worms
And burning like hearts in an oven.
The sizzling steam disintegrates
Like clouds of Statismospores
Spreading positively into ether.
The sun beats like a muscle
Burning, burning, burning
My laundry-washed white.
I’m vulnerable.
I was once pure and sweet like an Aryan,
Now I am dying, dying, dying
From fat smiles curled like a snail
With grey fatty hooks under my eyes.
IV
Tiny bluestocking girls like me
All congregate in the Library .
At last I am by myself.
I still don’t feel at peace.
My thoughts are frightening
When I am at my writing.
They are even worse,
In fact deathly,
If I do not write.
This climate of strange spacemen,
This culture of monstrous noses
Has driven many women mad,
Not excluding a woman like me.
I’m bored to death, literally.
Now, now, I say,
Carrying my golden bags of poetry,
“I love what will destroy me,
And hate what will heal me”.
October 5th 2013
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 6:49 PM UTC
"New Plymouth"
I
I, as a young woman, stand still
Like a ghost column in a Mausoleum
Adjacent to the New Plymouth spit.
I breathe in the invisible sugars of salt
And the stubborn incoherences
Of the sea washing green over layette white.
The rocks are blunt teeth,
Fat and round like an old Frisco seal,
A Cerberus jaw barring me off
From fatal self-destruction.
What a laugh!
These flippants, these peacekeepers
Have no idea, nor do
The gargantuan ships,
Walking on water like Jesus' feet.
The sky is so pure and clean
it's sectile, no clouds
nor disturbances to be inhaled.
II
I hang like a death wish on the hotel's lintel;
Outside copse's foliage joggle
And I think cold.
The air is sullen and austere,
It knows what it's doing to me.
The air that kills, kills, kills.
The radio stubbornly blubbers
More sheepish than a baby,
Confabulating the local rugby.
I collapse like a sack of black potatoes.
I feel weirder than Pluto.
I am an alien, an alien to the bulbous women
And silver lined suited men.
The grand annunciation
"I hope you enjoy your stay"
Makes my organs twist and puffer.
It hurts, it hurts, it hurts!
This place cries for my demise.
III
It's a rural community.
Mothers in ghastly flannel and baby spew
swallow gossip like Communion tablets.
The precious circulate the carousel,
Scoffing hot dogs like prepubescent piglets,
Sausages sliding like fat worms
And burning like hearts in an oven.
The sizzling steam disintegrates
Like clouds of Statismospores
Spreading positively into ether.
The sun beats like a muscle
Burning, burning, burning
My laundry-washed white.
I’m vulnerable.
I was once pure and sweet like an Aryan,
Now I am dying, dying, dying
From fat smiles curled like a snail
With grey fatty hooks under my eyes.
IV
Tiny bluestocking girls like me
All congregate in the Library .
At last I am by myself.
I still don’t feel at peace.
My thoughts are frightening
When I am at my writing.
They are even worse,
In fact deathly,
If I do not write.
This climate of strange spacemen,
This culture of monstrous noses
Has driven many women mad,
Not excluding a woman like me.
I’m bored to death, literally.
Now, now, I say,
Carrying my golden bags of poetry,
“I love what will destroy me,
And hate what will heal me”.
October 5th 2013