Febre Amarela(portuguese)

Floresta densa parece que não tem saida.
Cansei me de caçar a onça bonita.
Minha fome e sede estão como
estrondos de trovão.
Tenho que arrastar minhas ideias pesadas,
para a beira do pantano aonde vou beber a aguá suja,
aonde vou pescar escassez.
La humidade e pernilongos me louvar.
Beijando meus ombros tornano me uma statua de ouro,
sem cura!
Sou tonto agora, aflito com tanto lisonjeio e picadas.

Chasing fantasies

Chasing fantasies down dark streets.
Persuing them past familiar faces.
Before wild jungles where ghosts
and maniacs dwell underneath
the chattering canopy.

Behind two hot walls that signify
each side of my want.
The hills of the crazy jungle beg me to enter, oh I.
I the son who was lost on the family picnic.
Who lived off fern root and grubs until I could hunt.
I kidnapped by the distant ghost that non could see but I.
Machines and bricks have their appeal,
though the jungles heart beats it all.

So into town to claim a few spoils my mind as
warm as my stomach chasing fantasies.
Smooth I choose my prey like the one eyed wotan
on his way.
Nothing but my crazed desires and a long sharp blade.

He will walk again.

Sitting up in his room.
Smoking his stash and trying to forget he´s a cripple.
He spends ample time in the gloom.
Thinking of his dak plants and the neighbours nipples.

His mum comes down to see him off it´s like he´s four again!
Dealing out the orders and medication.
Like a miracle he´ll rise from the wheelchair one day.
And enjoy more than thc and masterb@tion.

He will walk again his face will no longer be a window.
His legs and back will take his weight.
Deep down he too really knows.
It´s just a matter of letting go of hate. 

Before the shops close.

Midnight arrives in a brown inviting wagon.
Moneyless pockets on me as I go up the steps.
The only welcome I recieve is from a disgruntled
Japanese fellow telling me to go back home.
The sushi kitchen wakes the tongue and nose.
Penniless all I can do is watch them cook
and wait for that inevitable dawn hunger.

Weight in self improvement(sonnetwise)

Not a gram of me to share.
Teaching has drained me
I lie the dried apricot.
To say I didn´t give my vital organs would be unfair.
Not a gram of me left, have I got.
 
The body bends and aches, the mind hot
from overcare.
Not a drop more can I give.
It´s gone every ounce that I could spare.
Is this exhaustion a method to live.
 
Surely not another piece of me.
Not another word.
No movement.
Living is never really free,
No lunch unpaid i´m sure you´ve heard.
Just the empty road to self improvement.

The shape of New zealand

The north island is a lost southern sting ray,
atleast the book of maui said so.
Swimming south it´s sting aims to the north.
It´s wings out- Coromandel and new plymouth.
It´s super eye Wellington.
The slippery kapiti coast my home
on the other side of the dry Wairapa.
And between them both a spine composed of
mountains and foothills.
The south island a thousand mouths speaking to Wellington
from the marlborough sounds.
Warm bays from picton to nelson collecting sun
as estuaries fill and empty.
The bushy west falls to antarctica fresh and freezing.
The plains of the east curve in and out from
plesiosaur kaikoura to our scottish sister city-Dunedin!
Round the base with oyster colonies to the cool southern
town of Invercargill.

Between me and heaven

Creation the gull, shrieked like it was on fire.
The bird´s cry was birth and death.
Somewhere between me and heaven,
my fantasies breathed.
 
How would heaven give me every desire
when every desire be so short and banal,
so devoid of longevity the most notable factor
in an eternal paradise.
 
The gull shrieked and birth and germination rang out.
Inspiration grew yet death was not prevented from
filling it´s greedy hand.