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Marshal Gebbie Feb 2011
Orange hazards blink in gloom
Autumn mist in early light,
Traffic cones direct the flow
Attenuators keep it tight.
Through the mist construction looms
A mighty swath comes into sight
A structure massive, incomplete
Sweeps past the Birdcage portal light.

Burrowed deep within the Park
Surmounted by its stark white beams,
The tunnel curves towards the Bridge
To emerge near the Victory screens.
Symmetry in huge largess
Biblical in size and form,
Built by puny hands of flesh
Man inspired, conceived and born.

Columns in the concrete mass
Loom as sentries, side by side,
Level in majestic sweep
Through the tunnel’s corner glide.
Massive beams locked overhead
Cap the roof’s gigantic clasp,
Reinforced by gridlocked steel
Bound within the concrete’s grasp.

Mounds of blue, congealed wet clay
Layered in an old sea bed,
Hauled away from ancient crib
By Fletcher excavators red.
Roaring diesel truck and tray
Loaded overburden high,
Water blasted ***** and span
Keeping highways clean and dry.

Monstrous cranes with hanging rig
Lower weights of ponderous steel,
Gently to the tunnel base
Led by Dogman’s coaxing feel.
Urgency in every move
Hard hats drill with diamond core,
Fixing massive panel slabs
To the looming concrete’s bore.

Well below incoming tide
Pounded by the drenching rain,
Four inch pumps snake to the sump
Ensuring flood control’s maintained.
Foremen bark and keep control
Hard hats share a secret smile,
Safety first for every man
Think before you lift that pile.

Gate girls smile at passers bye
Politely chiding those who stray,
Holding up a halting hand
With trucks inbound in hazards way.
Smoko at the Bowling Club
Murmur of a hundred souls,
Grubby in their hi vis vests
Munching on the caterers rolls.

Morale amongst the working men
Is high because they feel the cause,
A project that is so worthwhile
They KNOW that it  deserves applause.
Traffic roars above it all
Passing in a steady stream,
Brake lights on the viaduct
Cop cars flash and sirens scream.

This project has a consciousness
A Heart, a mind, a soul.
And an inspirational spirit
Which guides us to the goal.
To eliminate the bottleneck
In Auckland's traffic day
And to streamline the system
Of our vehicular motorway.

Politicians snarl right now
Champing at the huge expense,
But by next year’s finish date
Congratulations will commence.
The jewel in the crown they say
Is found within our park of green,
The Victoria Park Tunnel, friend,
Is a true magnificence, to be seen.


Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
5 February 2011
The fridges in a line, their backs against the wall, test tags in date... probably.
They shudder in sync, making their contents jiggle just a bit.

Microwaves with coffee stains, you don't cook tuna in the crib room.

Baby packets of coffee and sugar, paddle pop sticks for a stirrer.

Food and sweat, cooked and fresh. The packs shuffle in, looking for phone charging points.

The scaffies play music, louder than they should, but the music is usually good... except when it's not.

Truckies boisterous, forked tongue, consume vendo pies, dead horse and a Coke on the side.

The pretty sentries, with eyelashes bolted on, stop to take selfies and add to their online stories.

Bosses stroll in, obligatory shoulder pats and one liners, confident and all knowing.

Cranies slow, but they know where to go, pre-packed, brown bag smoko.

Cheeky games of poker, money sorted later, boredom and sleepers, old school and keepers, green hats and newbies, fuckwits and legends... all gather, to the crib room, as if on queue.

For a feed, a graze, a nibble, a chew...

Cos a 12 hour shift is a fukn hard slog.

We grind the day, we achieve and fail,
Every day the same ****, but it's not,
Mornin old mate, lets go **** **** up
We'll catch up again during smoko.
Smoko = lunch break.
Working in the mining industry, in Australia, we call the lunch room a "crib room". You get all sorts of characters durin crib (smoko)... best part of the day
‘I used to work for the council here,’
Said ‘Ripper’ Jones at the bar,
Fortified with a Beam or two
And a pint of the best, Three Star,
Trelawney winked at the barman and
The barman, he winked back,
‘We’re in for another ripper yarn,’
Said the bearded Cousin Jack.

‘They always gave me the ***** jobs,
It was always just my luck,
They’d point to me, say, ‘Ripper’s free,
Break out the tipper truck!
You know, that beast with seven gears
But only three of them worked,
The brakes were non-existent, and
The Foreman, he was a ****!’

‘We used to call him Father Time
He was always on the prowl,
Calling time to the Smoko breaks
With an ever present scowl.’
He said, ‘Pick up that giant rock
In the Commer Tipper Truck,
The ocean’s sprung a giant leak
And we have to seal it up!’

‘It took us a crane to lift this rock
It was seven feet across,
‘This mother has to be fifteen tons,’
Said my mate, crane driver Ross.
‘What did he say you need it for?’
He yelled, in a sort of screech,
‘I have to drive it down to the shore,
There’s a great big hole in the beach!’

‘The Commer sank right down on its springs,
This rock, a hell of a load,
I had to drive it in second gear
With the tyres flat on the road,
I finally made it down to the shore
And thought, ‘I must be a mug!’
The sea was circling round the hole
Like a bath when you pull out the plug.

I had to wait for an hour or two
‘Til it emptied out the bay,
All you could see was a dry seabed
For a mile or so, each way,
Then I drove the truck right up to the hole,
Thinking to tip it in,
When a giant geyser of steam shot up,
The sea was turning to steam.’

‘You know what the brakes on that truck were like,
They hadn’t been fixed for years,
I thought I’d better get out of there
Or it all would end in tears.
But the truck rolled forward, over the hole
And began to sink right in,
While I climbed out of the window there
Determined to save my skin.’

‘The truck sank down, under the rock
And it plugged that head of steam,
You could barely see the tip of the tray
When the tide came rolling in,
And that’s the rock you go fishing off,
You can say it was down to me,
While you were throwing your schooners back
I was out there, saving the sea!’

David Lewis Paget
kromwellfarkus Feb 2022
It is 5am
My alarm, as always chimes
The theme from Lion King
I reach over and down and swipe.

Reach over and kiss your brow
You are always awake
You advise that I have a good day
And from that moment, I do.

You tell me you love me
As I close the door ajar
Pack smoko and knock off sweetener
Be careful with the creaky screen door.

I go to work
I do my thing
I text and snap you
And you do the same.

Work does not matter
But, the money does
It helps fuel our future
So we can focus on us.

These family ties
These oddities and trials
Are a drop in the ocean
Of this beautiful life.

These pressures and perceived aches
Are beneath you
You're better than this
You just have to believe it.

My work day ends
But work is still to be done
Sort dinner, improvise
Give kisses and gaze into your sweet pixie eyes.

You get home later
I am a few beers deep
As per usual
You're used to it.

All the ****
But it's all good
Goodnight my love
I'll see you in the morn.

— The End —