A carpark in Raumati

 Indoors warm outside crisp and cold
The stream that passes through aint clean
The flax whispers and mocks as it's leaves whack and slip
A dead fish lies down there on the beach

Sewage pipe runs parallel
The building on my left wafts chlorine off it
The grass is short and durable
Fatter blades like those of the tropics

Bryan Ferry's song moves through the dreary dream of the place
Here is somewhere familiar
Lo somewhere completely foreign
maybe there's hope for you yet grandfather's portrait echoes

The waves with their lips all foamy jumping out from the brushstrokes
Like saliva from his mouth when he cant get the words out
All the way back between the channel toward Kapiti island
I observe the wooden supports to the polluted stream

I marvel at how well it's all put together
yet the stench of the unprocessed waste water
Matching it to the public pool's incredible chlorine stink
The senses awoke and it became a strange dimension

The eastern steps at lunchtime

 The overpowering sun shone ont those eastern facing steps
It's there i'd take my small lunchbox out of my bag
Open it and compare the contents with the other little ones
Often disappointed until the first mouthfull

Then I was mostly just grateful
And little did I know the life ahead was all about hunger
Hunger for more, hunger for different
The sun in my eyes

Finish my apple some bland biscuits
My allergies kick in
Not because of the food
But the pollen

The first sneeze shakes me
I move away from the others 
Blow my nose and wait for the irritation to leave me
The bigger kids move on through always doing something important

And out little insignificant sandpit remains empty
Even in the sunniest days of the year

Orb weaver's deal

 An orb weaver’s deal in the frame.

A picture frame jutted out of the tangled mass of hoses, mechanical parts, pieces of a leather sofa.
Within its chiseled wooden square an orbweaver dropped down toward the middle of the frame and thus started to weave its web. Dancing between the uprights hooking its next line.
Some hours later when the design took form and there was that enigmatic pattern, the mist fell.
Clouds broke.
The morning sunlight beam lit it all up.
No one saw the spider curse as autumn flies spotted the lines and avoided them.
The beautiful symmetry was obvious in the light.
It stood out like an omen, like a vertical crop circle.
And flying things avoided it, yet come dusk and with it the accumulated warmth of an early autumn day, the air around the landfill would be humming with the wings of desperate insects commuting between the unfamiliar expanse of refuse and the nearby coastal marshes.

And so it was and thus the first mosquito darted directly into the web as soon as the afternoon light dwindled. The orb weaver so sensitive with its tactile feedback and skilled with its pounce and the inevitable follow through of its horrid bite.
Before it could tie the hapless blood sucker to the overhanging bridge of the frame a flying termite came in clumsily.
The spider liked neither the after taste nor the careless flight of the creature and ate it more out of spite than enjoyment.
At least the thing was easily wrapped up and would keep longer than some insects.

A pair of mosquitos came through in their mating flight, getting wrapped up inside the strands. They didn’t seem to notice the monster bearing down on them. And before they were through they were sewn up with the other two hapless ones.

After that it was mostly moths and a few beatles, but their thick wings allowed them to make tactical escapes. The moths were the orbs least favorite. Dusty crabby wings, and a tiny body with barely any sustenance on it whatsoever.
Their flapping also bothered the Orb. He left more than one of the moths in the web, for which he swore to rebuild after the bulldozers came.
Leaving his very own trash behind, a web with the unwanted victims of the night before, still attempting to flap out of their spider web cocoons.
Yes that indeed entertained the Orb.
After he had digested the mosquitos and the silly termite, he kneel on all eight and pray the the frame stay in it’s position.
Jutting out from the debris, allowing him to spin his home, his sigil, his sacred trap and dining table once again.

Mechanical man

 Electric antenna HR's deity at play
Rocking arms and wheels company segway
Inspiration hyped and professional frustrate
Chain and web and logistic wednesdays

Kpis and aims and goals quarter fitting
demands and constraints and deadline metal
expedient charisma wildly formal yet sassy
Dreams are born then severed into sashimi

The gears and pistons and Pneumatic tubes
Keep the C levels in lux and the noobs in lube

The red ghost of me

How I trickle
fumble and tickle
the hair turning red
The man of me mad

 Embark onto the pavement
Broken city all okay
My masculinity snake like
slithering up the cracks in the pavement

Know me by another name
lost and hopeless
Found and godlike

Peeling back the clouds
Just to find their lightning
Extract the strom
From their inevitable storm

Embark on the wayside
Hairy and sasquatch like
Hostile and warlock like

Eyes as these
See what you hide
Eyes like these, now lo
get to know you inside

Endless thread of disquiet

 I couldn't guess what they were trying to do
It's a life, a machine
get a grip
fidgeting with some small object

anxiety such a gift
tapping in and out of
Hey drone agitation
I can see your new hobby

On a thread on a screen in some pent up implication
That reads under the title
I can see the shape of the attempt
Life is a rush you want to disprove something

Sit with yourself restless and unable to just to be
Influenced by the live wires and pre tweeking teens
coming up and splashing their half truths and dreads
All across the little reality they hope you'll check

Golden stork

 The feathers have grown
The bird is magnificient
The baby cries through the wall
The beak extends over years

The plummage is majestic
The grace of the bird
The pain in the infant
Soon flight will be expected

Night is dry morning humid
Eyes imitate
The bird spreads it's wings
Falling off the rail

Taking the upwind into the sky
Golden feathers
Gone into the sunrise
Gone from our observation