Jet Planes

I love London, the West End, Leicester Square
Covent Garden, luke warm beer
Prostitutes’ postcard’s in telephone boxes
“It’s my blaaaardy right to tewwwworise foxes”
Culture oozing from foot-worn stones
Westminster Abbey packed with famous bones
Page Three buxom bimbo bints
The Thames twinkling with effluent
Strobe lights pumping drum n bass
Diamond geezers, rain for days
The Sun Screams “Prince Willy’s Orgy with Aunty Anne”
The Guardian “Vegan Gay Whales Saved Again!”
The Tate, the National the V&A Trafalgar, Regent’s, Kew, St James
BBC, Top of the Pops, ITV
Posh n Becks, kinky Sex with Tory MP
Millennia Domes of culture ……just waiting there
But you know what, right now, I just don’t care
Coz it’s the first warm nearly summer’s day
And London’s half a world away
From my grassy knoll on Point Chev Beach
Clean(ish) salt water drying off my feet
Sucking on the season’s first Pineapple Fruju
As toddlers in Gumboots toddle in the nude
Ozone's hole plugged by Pohutakawa
Wishing I’d worn my jandals, as I gaze out on the harbour
Munching on milk bottles and jet planes
Smiling in the light breeze
Coz it’s nearly summer again.

Crow's Feet

Whilst navigating my face today
I made an historic find
It appeared the map of my life to date
Had become much more defined.

My laughing highs and my crying lows
Seemed carved into my skin
And what once had been a blank landscape,
Now had wrinkles in.

My first reaction was one of shock,
At my premature decay,
And I made a lunge for the Nivea Visage
And trusty Oil of Olay.

But just as I was signing up
For beginner grade lawn bowls
My hysteria waned, my vision cleared
And I managed to gain control

As I investigated every pore
And put my face on trial
I saw these lines were more pronounced
Whenever I would smile

A grin once cracked it would appear
Never completely heals
But leaves behind a lingering scar
Resistant to chemical peels

First step, first laugh, first love, first joy
These all have crinkled my eyes
First joke, first kiss, first orgasm,
(Though that was more a look of surprise)

My face reflects 33 years
Of laughter and delight
So now I say who gives a damn
Let the crows take flight

Three Dirty Ditties From Pulp Comedy, NZ 2003.

Finger Lickin Good

I’m counting my chickens
My plot has just thickened
My mind is a riot of free range smitten
Thoughts, that I’ve previously fought, didn’t want to get caught
In the No. 8 wire of expectations, fraught, overwrought
Valentine’s bought
For a man I just met
BUT I am counting my chickens
Coz its been slim pickins
And right now I’m having more fun than a pig in the thickest mud
He boils my blood
A relentless stud
Who causes a grey-less cloud free flood
Of smiles
Hours just whiled away in a bed
With new colours in my head
Like yellow and strawberries and crispy French Bread
He’s the tickle of new things
Aeroplane wings, the eye-full tower in my bed springs
A fantastically dirty boy sexy fresh fling
Who hangs round my neck like a beautiful bling
With his chest doused in hair
And my underwear
And sometimes I just forget to come up for air
SO I’m counting my chickens
Coz this girl’s been bitten
Not bitter or quitter but just go and get him
I know it’s the glow of “In the Beginning”
But his herbs and spices are just finger licking