1984 - 1998
catachronological clearing-house
cry all you want (c. 1998)
cry all you want
when the stars plough like cars into the Pacific
cry all you like
for the long machines hanging like canals and candle-
flames and pale arms
search in the long searing lines of traffic
and the sunset
look for the rain
in the tubing street with cones of light
put the seeds in your eyes
put the faces coming back in husks of glass and warps
of steel
place the seeds in your throat and search the teeth
and tongue and root in the cavity
the body is a needle like the other needles
I need this last line
of worms and coloured lights and horizons hanging like weeds
put the seeds in your eyes
and search in the long streaming files of traffic
the heater wires and the fires of the sun
cry all you want for the skin falling like leaves
another needle another sheet of lightning and rain
drilling tunnels a tongue-lick away
the loose machines shrouding the trees and tubes of cloud
hanging like canals and candle-flames
pale arms in the heat
I need this line, this wasted line, this last run
down the blue corridor
worms and coloured lights and horizons that weave like a
vine
search for your enemies in the light drunken rain
with steel faces with drips on the steel tube, on their lips
ice and glass over holographic lives
I need this flight and the beautiful doors, the swallows
this beautiful form
on the rip between two seas
rain on the manuka, teeth in the grass, your throat
won’t find me again
machines like long arms weaving in the sunset
curse the plan and forget and cry all you like
the land of burial and the buried land.
cry all you want
when the stars plough like cars into the Pacific
cry all you like,
find the rain
put the seeds in your eyes.
Against the Kingdom (c. 1995)
At the wind drop,
tidal mangrove by the motorway,
the masts and pylons,
these are the spires of the West in a smoke-blue sky
and I was going to speak again
against the kingdom, a stifling obloquy
and commiserate the status quo,
Henderson in the valley, the road ghost and abattoir
in the mind,
but I’m not interested in its preservation, after my friends,
people whose faces are swollen beyond recognition,
with the speed of trauma, make a living
off the film industry,
after their denunciation.
In the glass apparent cars
end to end like shopping-trolleys, silhouettes
that last forever, sunsets,
the moon transparent as a lens dropped on a blue pall,
cracks white and sharp the cloud’s edge, a spot-knife
where the light sits blunt and bright,
row upon row of screens in traffic, fluorescent tubes
joined end to end down an endless immigration corridor,
highway, runway,
and the shadows of drivers and passengers shall not
deepen, nor lighten; formerly
I gave my thought fractured and poignant
to the concrete apparition of the outer world,
I experienced something like a loss,
somehow a shellfish, an oyster, hulled and discarded,
the repression of a detail, of every fingernail,
and its formation,
after the denunciation, the repression,
after the repression of names
that are inserted to lay bare not themselves
but their disguises,
the formed pink grey meat, the pearl frame
and then pull out: things that need to be said
in an open letter
as if enjoying relationship with friends and lovers
without consent, their calm distrust
of everything I sent against the kingdom or said
to them, old friends, ex-lovers, and made denials,
because they wouldn’t say what needed to be said
and conferred distant reassuring gazes
that were blank stares
on subtle messages of dissent
beyond the range of human voices, I don’t believe
I am making this up, the birds
left the trees in their eyes,
their shadows by the bedside, at the end
of the motorway, the red beacon; and in addressing
the legitimacy of a desire for prosperity and
happiness I have again betrayed myself
to their fingers digging in the bush
for real-estate. On the shoot, the magic hour,
mist round the stalks of lamps,
the hill strides, bows under a standing wave
and loose cloud that is let down
at the wind drop, in strands;
a frame perfect woman, blond hair with
dark streaks in a dry-as-a-bone on a rowan mare
led into the ford to let a car pass
on the bridge before Bethells.
And I, he said, I,
but I don’t want to talk in the I anymore,
I’m left here caught
in the world of interesting ironies,
the paucity of images
sufficient to overturning the verdict
of anonymity, a boy
in a man’s body, nervous as a blowfly,
small subversive practices won’t work
anymore and looking out is fraught
with ambiguity, to make a fuss
about the facade’s not only dangerous now
but pointless to me, I, I, still stuck.
Before the difference, the repetition before the end,
before the end of a singular solution
to the problems in the inner life of any person,
when I’m not hulled at Te Henga, instinct
with the pathos of an oyster, before
the denunciation of my friends, the sweet
repression, a return to understanding
every hollow instance of the real, then
I would’ve wanted to reserve my rights
on this movie, soundtrack, I would then
have wanted my rights to hacking the land
in its comic whale-like proportion,
to attacking the commonplace absurdity
of this country
were preferred to the kingdom.
O What’s happening now?
Can’t you hear its bones?
The girder, the steel and concrete,
these are the deep blues and purples
in the building’s skeleton
of spaces
before the political skin is put on;
open markets, they promise, unstoppable,
will soon lead to open pockets,
a red-tipped cigarette, they promise,
in the bleak religious architecture,
will soon lead to open politics;
he has to wriggle a little to stay on top
on top of his concessions,
the coloured lights, the music and the energy
in the marketplaces, he has to dance
to the tinny latin section playing on a tranny
attached to the popcorn stand,
a samba or sing a tango
and I was going to speak out again
against the kingdom but I’m going to speak
about myself in the black religious architecture,
for that
I am denounced.
formulated song (c. 1994)
Rising above me,
spread your wings, spread them
out where I can see them,
spread them.
Rising over history and the violence
that we ran from on on a tongue,
on a long passionate tongue,
along the wall
and in each other,
from a need for silent falling,
parting from a third woman;
she is nude and bathing
underneath you:
spread your wings, spread them,
out where I can see them.
…
I have a sum
of violent divisions
and the necessary force
and a reasonable voice,
that is reasoning,
up against the water-wall,
the wall of water,
spread your wings,
out where I can see them.
I’ve lost sight of returning,
pins and a fulmination,
pins held between my lips
and in my teeth;
aren’t you squirming underneath
the necessity of a silent thumb,
where you spread your wings,
spread them?
…
Any other man
and the feather of his heart,
his wet heart,
any other can
silently pull you in,
hoist you on a fly-line
up into the tower, so you will
seem to be appearing.
I am looking, I am staring.
Spread your wings.
Out where I can see them,
spread them.
…
We are walking slowly.
We anticipate the police.
They will take us up against the water,
between the teeth of the western wall,
and the lips of the east.
They have a sun
staring at us all.
And a violent christ-figure.
And a circus of nails and
steel furnaces. And a bullseye
painted on a blackboard stand.
Spread your wings, spread them
out where I can see them.
Spread them.
…
Your contractual obligations,
spread your wings,
out where I can see them.
I’ve lost sight of returning,
returning to the scene,
once in, once out of the water,
shooting after the shooting,
spread your wings, spread them
out where I can see them,
running, taking recourse,
the necessary silence,
out where I can see,
spread your wings, spread them
falling slowly,
spread them.
taking back the land – song* (c. 1992)
moving through the green shade, glistening from the salt wave
on a giant sea snail, a dolphin & a blue whale
leaving behind them a furrow & a blood trail
sunlight sparkles in the windows of the houses on the hillside
high tide & the city shining like an open salt mine
leaving behind the beach front, the road is full of fish gut
wrestling their big bodies up the hill into the quiet street
fishes without gills & creatures without feet
moving with a strange noise & singing in a strange voice
rolling with a strange motion away from the soft ocean
the river’s broken back, carving up the tarmac
overturning cars, away from the beach head
where the small fry bled & died in the turning tide
the long coast running red & black
& green & tan in the sunset
take this shimmering wreck in your hand, hold
this broken waste in your hand
they are taking back the land
green & gold like a dreamscape
keep it close to your face, make it
take it
shake it
break it into crumbs of bone & bits of glass
every home on the sea front reeks of fish gut
soaking up the last rays, crackling in the last rays
last thing & last days
today’s lasting always, woman with a fish head,
man with a fish tail, crabs scuttling sideways
following the slick trail, down the gutter
up to the city smell, the sun like butter
on the back of a sea snail, the paths run with batter
from the flesh rot & the entrail, every male & female
runs for cover & the suburbs shudder & cave in
before the tidal wave of fish meat & fin
& sea weed from the sea where life did begin
a wave of sickness floods in
& the island wakes & shakes
& the land wags its tail on the dinner plate
spreading like a crime wave, dying from a new plague
on a giant meat dish, human & a big fish
making up a last wish & pushing up a last wave
leaving behind them the pearl, weed & pumice of the seaside
moonlight flickers through the smoke fume on the wreckage by the roadside
low tide & the fingers of kelp shine like the wet organs of the sea
the city open & empty like a slipway to the ocean
like open heart surgery, hosing down history
every storefront & porch a place of misery
faces without tongue & people without thought
lunging through the plate glass, cutting up the land mass
fishes caught in the turning time, swimming in the tarseal
skin & hair in the cesspit, sewerpipe & waste trap
creatures gutting buildings on the city map
& street corners burning
in the sea dark night
save this sad mess by your heart, drown
this murderous art in your hand
they are taking back the land
old & brown like the earth’s arm
sell it up for what it’s worth, earn it
burn it
spurn it
turn into lumps of gold & bits of grass
heaving through the grey dawn, moving on the firm soil
sliding on the sea spawn, plankton & a sperm whale
every mouth in the convoy sings with the same voice
in the fish eye of the dead moon, making up a strange tune
the whole earth moans and shakes with the low noise
& the ground groans & spoils & breaks & folds with the weight
as the trail & snake of black & tan blood & silver fish scales uncoils
away from the foam & spume of the ocean
the valley floors run slick & red
& the claws of the dead
dry in the morning & the holes in their heads are yawning
on the planes where the sick moon wanes
& the roiled & waking world is doomed from the dawning
of the days of fishes, the distant roar
birds fall from the sky, the beasts of the forest call, crawl & cry
& the forms of the men & women change as they try & change
& the children sing with a strange voice there
take this glimmering hope by the hair, choke
this poison grace in your hand
they are taking back the land
seen in dreams like a good thing
hang it close to your head, air it
share it
wear it
tear it into slivers of flesh & lumps of bread
drink this sea green wine & blood black & tan
from the palm of your hand, from the past
they are taking back the land
*performed by Dom with Colony, unrecorded
God was very lonely*
God was very lonely. He grew big and beat himself.
Colours were not colours. No chaos. No atomies.
No thought for another not himself
and no other not himself.
Space awesome, unrelieved, of infinite extent
was he / with no space, no organ -
of heart, no organ external,
none internal in his ripe eternity;
till he withdrew, from a hole
and leaving that hole inside of him,
he put in his pipe & wanting,
grew big before he beat himself.
God, lonely, no friend, no money.
Colour of mercury & splashing
on a black hole inside of him;
thought of another for himself:
the best part of him in-jected
intensely withdrawn, AND she
in a little room, he kept her in a
little room, a hole, a well of loneliness;
UNTIL she grew a son and beat himself.
Also lonely, no friend, no money
and no fun. & the son
got on God with a WIFE.
IN THE Ark WAS A bomb and the
flood comes bursting in the planks:
God said, I make a habit of
boarding sinking ships, how many
holes there were before I got here
I don't know; I caulked the dripping
with my arm; no time to smoke. & the bomb goes off
continuously with the light of a million
SUNS, a universe of Absurd proportion
and if one participant got off the floating brothel
of heaven, the whOle creation would un-balance & the sons
and daughters & the wife & mothers copulating without stop.
and this was then god & he was amongst them;
I was among them, one of us:
if one participant, if one among them,
should stop from this ceaseless copulation,
should get off of THE FLOATING BROTHEL OF HEAVEN,
then the whOle creation would un-balance.
NO RELIEF ... whales, porpoises with bodies
& organs of absUrd proportion swimming
slide with the friction & waves of lust & foam & surf ...
that God was before this very lonely,
and, after, there was no relief but the pink /
black / red / yellow / blue relief & skins
without surcease AND no SATISFACTION, BUT
JOY
ALLELUIA
*written for performance with Repeater, avant-dub improvisational collective, Kurtz Lounge, although not mentioned in the link, every Thursday
The Failure of the Old World (c. 1992)
What we witnessed was not the failure of communism but the failure of secularism.
What we are witnessing now, what we are witnessing now is not the failure of capitalism.
What we are witnessing now is not the failure of capitalism, to clothe, feed, house and employ the poor.
What we are witnessing now is not the failure of capitalism but the failure of secularism.
What we are witnessing is not the failure of liberal humanism, we are witnessing the failure of secularised christianity.
What we see now is not the failure of the state but the failure of the church.
What we are seeing now is the failure of the church in the state.
What we saw then was not the disintegration of the communist state.
What we are seeing now is not the disintegration of the capitalist state, but what we are seeing is the disintegration of the church in the state.
What we are seeing is not the disintegration of monetarism, nor is what we are seeing the disintegration of socialism, but what we are seeing is the disintegration of christian humanism: what we are witnessing is the disintegration of the christian humanist state.
What we are seeing is not the failure of government.
What we are seeing is not the failure of government, to clothe, house, feed and employ the poor.
What we are witnessing is not the failure of government but the disintegration of the christian state.
What we are seeing is the disintegration of the humanist state.
What we are witnessing is not the failure of government but the disintegration of law.
What we are seeing is the failure of law, to clothe, house, feed and employ the poor.
What we saw then was not a capitalist revolution.
What we saw then was not a capitalist revolution overthrowing communism.
What we saw then was not a capitalist revolution overthrowing communism but a spiritual revolution overthrowing secularism.
What we saw was a spiritual revolution overthrowing the secular state.
What we were witnessing then was not a second revolution.
What we were seeing was not a second revolution overthrowing secularism but the second revolution of the spirit.
What we were seeing was the triumph of the promise of the spiritual revolution to end secularism.
What we were seeing was the triumph of the promise of the 1960s.
What we are witnessing now, then, is not a second spiritual revolution.
What we are witnessing now is not the triumph of the promise of the 1960s.
What we are seeing is not the triumph of the revolutionary promise of the 1960s or the 1970s.
What we are seeing now is not the triumph of the promise of the 1980s.
What we see now is not the triumph of the state but the disintegration of the law.
What we see now is not the triumph of the state but the failure of the promise of the enlightenment.
What we are witnessing is not the end of the capitalist state but the beginning of the death-throes of the secularised state.
What we see is that we were witnessing not the triumph of monopoly capitalism but the failure of secular communism and what we were witnessing was not the secularising of christianity but the de-secularising of communism.
What we live through now is not the disintegration of christian morality but the failure of secularised christian morality.
What we live in now is a disintegrating christian state.
What we live through now is a state of disintegration.
What we live through now is the disintegration of the law and the failure of justice.
What we are living through now is a de-secularising of the state.
What we are living through now is not the triumphant return of christianity but what we are waiting for now is the fulfilment of the promise.
What we wait for is the fulfilment of the promise, to feed, clothe, house and employ the poor.
What we live in now is not the triumphant success of democracy but the resounding failure of secular justice.
What we witness is not the disintegration of the establishment but the end of foundations.
What we are living through now and what we are witnessing is not the end of democracy but the disintegration of law and the failure of justice.
What we see is not the end of democracy but the destruction of the foundations on which it rests.
What I am fighting for now is not the destruction of the establishment.
What I am fighting for now is not the destruction of the foundations on which it rests but what we were witnessing then: the desecration of both communist and capitalist states.
What I am promising now is a state of disintegration.
What I am promising now is the destruction of foundations.
What I am promising now is not the triumph of the spirit but the end of secular enlightenment.
What we are witnessing now is not the triumph of the new world but the failure of the old world.
What we are witnessing is not the triumph of the new world but the failure of the old world.
What we witness now is the failure of the old world.
New Zealand (c. 1992)
New Zealanders are imagining who they are
New Zealanders are imagining who they are now
New Zealanders are imagining who they are now and the land
New Zealanders are imagining who they are now and the land they are imagining
the land they are imagining, now, the land,
New Zealanders are imagining, now the land they are imagining is not the land
that they come from and
New Zealanders are imagining who they are and
New Zealanders are imagining long ships and ships with white sails and they are
imagining ships with outriggers
New Zealanders are imagining liners and aeroplanes, they are imagining dreaming
they are imagining dreaming of a new land
they are imagining dreaming of arriving at a new land and
they are imagining dreaming of arriving at a new land
New Zealanders are imagining dreaming of arriving at a new land of plenty
New Zealanders are imagining dreaming of arriving at a new land of milk and
honey and they are imagining dreaming of arriving at a new land of hope and plenty
New Zealanders are imagining dreaming of arriving at a new home,
they are imagining a new society and
they are imagining a new civilisation and
they are imagining a new world,
the land, they are imagining now, the land
And New Zealanders are imagining travelling
And they are imagining sailing and flying and they are dreaming of arriving
New Zealanders are dreaming who they are
And they are dreaming of travelling for a long time
And they are travelling
And they are travelling
to the land they are imagining, they are travelling now to the land they are
imagining
And they are travelling to a new society and they are dreaming of arriving at a
society of plenty
And they are dreaming for a long time, they are dreaming for a long long time
How they dream of living, how they
Dream of living
And they dream of living how they dream of living
New Zealanders are dreaming who they are
And they dream of making a new home here and they imagine living here
How they dream of living and the life they dream of now, the life they dream of
living
And they dream of living now
How they dream of living here
New Zealanders dream of living here, now the life they dream of living does not come
from here, now the life they dream of living does not come from here,
a good life, here,
New Zealanders are dreaming, now, the life
And they are living, sleeping and working
And they are sleeping and working, now the life they are living is not the life
that they come from
New Zealanders are not living the life that they come from
And they’re not dreaming the life that they come from
And they’re travelling
And they’re imagining who they are,
They’re not really sleeping, they’re not really working,
They’re dreaming
New Zealanders are dreaming about how they came here from Hawaiki
New Zealanders are dreaming about how they came here from Mother England
New Zealanders are dreaming about how they came here from where they came from
And they’re dreaming about how they came here
And they’re dreaming of arriving.
Hate and the Angel (c. 1985)
Hard buds form on my back
painful to touch and rain falls on the window
bringing forth a new body.
yellow stains the bed-sheet
sleep face down
just a thunderstorm
and in my head see cartoons of Paradise
elephants of the Apocalypse.
And feel like I’m in second puberty.
at the passing of the present troubled system
and there will be no end of dishes
I will drink a cup of coffee
listen to the news
at the last trumpet
as my certain metamorphosis runs its course.
Absence of background
and foreground absent
At the passing of the phantastikon
at the popping of the pleasant swirling bubble
in the anteroom an old man sings a lullaby
or a young man hums,
there will be visions
in the total field
and light diffused as through gauze
showing you snap-shots from the photo-album
drawing the curtains in your cubicle
slapping you, kissing you
holding your hand
crying beside the bed
yet to me
dust in my hand
sunk in oblivion. Forgive.
Tanks converge on city, every Allied force
shattering tarseal
over Berlin
clouds gather, and dark sky
over Beirut, Rome, Constantinople, Nagasaki
cracks in cloudbank, a great wind and tax
attrition
over Washington DC
rain pours from fissures, clap of thunder
a storm blows from Paradise
where Angel of Death strides
and there, under his cloak
the wind catches my wings;
Dry toast cools on its rack
water splatters in a drain and tasteless tea
slips down my throat
watching rain fall
Vietnam vets take school,
for grievances, ransom of soda-fizz
Bush only hot tip
the only candidate left
Douglas gets the bum’s rush
and Republicans pull down their false idol,
Reagan
pull him down
phone rings and rings.
I can’t answer for laughter. She comes in, turns radio off
says, How are you?
from dust and blueprints indestructible
being made over
dressing in the new personality
she wraps my wings in ripped cloth, in white cotton.
Absence of faces
they leave you now, lips pressed on your cheek once
as in dream-sequence or underwater;
and voices absent
they whisper, steps recede down corridor.
I feel so happy.
noises grow faint
cardoor slams
they get in and drive away.
Hey, I’m cold.
and the air tastes like ice-cream
in the waiting-room.
Who’s that?
fold wings for warmth around body
there will be a long wait;
Before the mountain
wreckage heaped on wreckage
shall not avert your eyes
anguish of nations, anguish of kingdoms, finding no way out,
as nothing to God.
hurled at your feet
eyes stare, mouth wide, wings spread, as the mountain rises
and the living smashed to pieces under this rubbish heap
the dead scream
out of the historical process
and a storm blows
caught in your wings off its slopes, irresistibly
pile of debris grows skyward
bringing to ruin those ruining the earth
and the wind
we call progress
blowing you into the future
to which back is turned.
Cars hiss on wet street
outside my house, I fetch the mail
being made perfect
drizzle falls
suffering his glory and perceiving dimly marvelous things
water out of a drain
dragging a tin can along the gutter
and there will be a wonderful future!
Telephone rings
drips run down the sash-window
clearing remains of the last meal
she asks me
as a ventriloquist speaks through dummy
to answer some questions.
river flows high
carrying trash out to sea.
Ten thousand
and how many million
contemplating the mountain.
Tankers on Suez
Jerusalem’s fallen
Khomeini flails in blood and Shamir blind in Gaza,
as Thatcher descends in Brixton
bringing stirrup to Christendom
black men in Spain
and Cape Town
Arms from China
Arms to Contras.
men
women humped up
before the bulldozer.
You shall not turn away.
Things will be set straight, at last, set straight
open-mouthed
wings outstretched
Ten thousand million
more and more
piled
anguish on anguish.
She blows cigarette smoke in my eyes
gazing suspiciously at sex
she is glass or water
making squiggles in sunlight
swimming-pool and moment of passion
time unfinished in the anteroom
and sex shrinks into the skin
she laughs
as light in the mind’s eye
and her love
half-moon over sea’s motion.
Storm rises out of Paradise
seven peals of thunder
seven bolts of lightning
rain lashes skin of those under moon
four seraphim shake the four corners and hail burns as fire
and blood flows from the smoking heap
all things on the earth messed up and dust on the wind
that hurtles you into the future without end.
With her hand she breaks the surface
dives into lake
and stands waist-deep in red cloud
white breasts
loose
hair russet-gold
susurrus of leaves
in warm summer air
light breeze through sycamore
smooth limbs and the lake still
raises her arms and beckons to us
calls out;
Deserted lake
swans glide dipping their necks in the clarity
sun sinks russet-gold
she slips out of her things and dives in
clear light bathes her
sunset, Saturday evening.
And the yellow crescent-moon rises.
the moon and the nettle (c. 1984)
How might the nettle strike at his life
the stained glass pane in the hallway door
the statue and glimpse of the wet wood deck
said the moon on a cork tree twig
set the weed on a pile and the heap on fire
winter twisted my wing and root in the clay
in the pea hay mulch said the nettle
and the thorn of my wing was a dark green leaf
by the spike by the dropped rose petal
I will break the light on my face in a dank place
in my sleep many limbs
they were broken like stems
and their flower heads bruised
and the earth did smell
and the worm was in the dell
said the moon
in the rooms many hours
in a black phase passed
in a silence
vast as a desert
I heard the worm yelling
I saw the form and the dawn placed a hand
on an open mouth
with an open throat
the bird wore a coat in the colour of war
and the long time of peace we hoped for came at last
said the nettle
and the nettle sings
how I might pierce the skin of kings
how small things in a grass blade castle
might stop tanks
the moon in a rank sweat night was a rancid yellow
and the window gave on a slick paved stone
the impression of another ring
another
in a ring of white bone
and the fashion of talking
degree of dress
like burns
put stress on the body of the lamb
and the man goes bleating in the sick field
the moon said cold
said angry
said hold
in the advance of the nettle
advance
retreat
as immaculate
as a tool
as a puppet
as steel
as a biopsy
the nettle glittered in a splinter of a second
all it saw was an island
for a second
eternity
said the moon in a cut in the cloud
in a gin soaked shroud
in a heaven
made of peace lit from the east
the stinking rut is a love
as dense and great as a flood
that brings death to the coast
and the gut of the host tears at the crease
new life is yet alien to the grip
of this beautiful grief
and the nettle said come said come
and embrace me I will break your light
on my face
fall in tatters and streamers
and the letters of lovers at my feet
in a thousand years of spottled waste
fall in a thousand pearls of hardened hate
on my pricks like dew
do not fear the drop or the taste
nor the weight of time
I am underneath you
do not fear the ground of shame
and disgrace and I
I will lift you up again
so
dance in a metal room
and dance in heaven
