Can’t see it, if it’s meant to be
aaaame that’s there, what you see:

brown eyes, lines sprinkling
aaaafrom each, is done, not none,

one of billions, here now,
aaaasunk into nothing, to come:

black eyebrows, arched or frowned
aaaanotes on a page, undone.

Published in Takahe 79, Winter 2013.

I get paid well for this job
of looking after art objects

that don’t breathe, don’t complain,
don’t have wet eyes, or the fear of eternity;

that don’t need to be consoled,
and don’t need to be told an answer
as to why no one has visited them today.

The paintings don’t want to run away.
The sculptures don’t need to be washed
every other day.

You don’t have to assure the photograph
of the woman that she looks good.
You don’t have to brush her hair,
clip her toenails, or stroke her hand.

And when art leaves the building
there’s no sadness,
there’s no need to explain
to anyone what happened.

There are no terrible conversations
with people who want a reason,
who want to know why.

You don’t have to know much
looking after art,
just about any answer will do.

I get paid well
for making sure art
is seen in the best light.

It’s important
 that we know art
is being cared for,
that it’s appreciated.

And is there
anything wrong with that?

the bush
wasn’t filled with dragons,
knights, princesses
or giants.

matter-of-factly empty
& nothing else.

a creek
with big dark eels,
but no taniwha I remember
(or ones I could write about
now).

just gorse
moving up the hill,
puriri trees, rotting leaves,
a graveyard, at least
far enough away

so that to get there
was an adventure.

Published in Takahe, Winter 2011.

Parisian backstreets are not here,
not behind the service station orange lights
or down the street which ends
with the blue cashflow machine.

Young people drinking,
laughing at nothing, simply being.
Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir
in the corner holding hands.

Sidney Bechet rests his clarinet
on the bar, watches the big screen.
Langston Hughes in the kitchen
doing dishes, sipping champagne.

I walk three times past the hotdog stand
looking for Parisian backstreets,
for glamorous dancers and artist’s wives,
for Edith Piaf.

The Parisian backstreets are not here
and it’s not enough to answer the question
from the man in the jacket
who looks like Camus.

Published in Poetry NZ 42, March 2011.

I’m off
down the alleyway
between the fortress
and the museum

the kids
asleep in the car,
windows open a crack
—it’s alright
I’ve left them the keys

I’ve got things to do:

1. visit an angry poet
aawho sells vitamins

2. see a psychiatrist who can teach me
aarhyme and meter

3. sit in a café
aaand wait for her

4. catch a train to an outer suburb
aain revolt

5. walk the streets with a harmonica
aain my pocket

no time—stuff the rest
of my lines in my mouth,
run back to the kids

an ice-block for each of them,
a loaf of bread, milk
and a cheap bottle
of merlot.

Published in Poetry NZ 42, March 2011.

they burst from the paper bag
running like salt from a shaker
scattering flecks of taste

they gush like soft-drink
push the button, they gurgle and froth
with youthful bubbles over the rim

they burn and sear like burger patties
on the grill, hot anger spits
from their mouths as they yell

they ooze like ice-cream
filling every corner, every gap
compact with cold determination

they have sizzled in the fat
crisp as you like, now they’re
blocking arteries in the street.

Used in the Level 2 NCEA English Exam, 2010.