Streams of swimmable consciousness



I sat and ate my Best Dad chocolate guitar

A gift from my boy this time last year

It was moudly round the edges and tasted sort of off

But it’s been a tough day

Nothing a beer and a smoke can’t fix

Driving up and down Roscommon Road

Dropping shit from a great height

Like the 787’s flying overhead

The closest the rich fuckers would ever get to here

is if their luxury jet liner crashed into a block of shops

And demolished half a street

But then who would notice

except the victims with their burns and dishevelled clothing would look better groomed

this place is all rotten signs and busy shops

with names like Lucky Bakery

Holiday Bakery

it doesn’t feel lucky to me

or a holiday

holiday in hell

I got me a hot gravy milkshake with chunky bits of I don’t know what

I pondered did the minister of fucking up everyone’s lives

ever walk down these mean streets

or talk to the girl with her savage looking could be a lab or a pitbull

she motioned as I went to leave

that the side door was open

And as I closed it I threw her a past use by drink

like the one I’d been supping

She could have saved my bacon

or a motorcyclists life if the trolley had of flew out the side door

with it’s sharp edges and steel

I was too fucked to notice

I’d had it up here with wide new streets and road works

the back passage to the airport

anal tract

Pokey little shops and back alleys

Happy shop keepers

frowning white people thinking

something like

who took my country and where the fuck did it go?

Roscommon road with it’s tank farm and Kubota

new truck imports

containers stacked to the sky

giant warehouses

all performance appraisals and drug testing regimes

I shudder when I see the arse hanging from a pair of warehouse jeans

growing on a kid who is too short for his girth

his mate the brains of the operation

with his dry window washing brush

offering freebees

for the taking

I refuse I’m watching my stock

least someone should lift something

whilst I’m cajoling the dairy owner to pay his three month overdue bill

Maybe we’ll pay it tomorrow”

There’ll be no maybes

there’ll be no stock

I’m grumpy as fuck and I don’t care

if you don’t have meow moew to sell or energy drinks to burn

burn up the last reserves

of some poor souls spleen

I’m helping to spread sugar diabetes

obesity and disease

If I don’t do it someone will

for minimum wage or less

looking for streets that don’t exist

that I know have always been here

no numbers on letter boxes if any survive

fuck how did I live in this?

It’s a wonder I’m alive

this was once my home

but someone had a party

and no one’s done the dishes

or fixed the holes in the walls

the grass if it grows

is in patches between the cars

I take a shortcut through a corner gas station

cos that asshole cut me off

I’ll show him


Suck my fumes I’m in front of you how’d ya like it?

Turn up your stereo see if I care

saw some people either moving house or living in their car

maybe it was washing day

I couldn’t tell but their shit was all over the carpark

at the sports fields where the public toilets are all chained up

I piss into the sewer pipe that’s surrounded in rubbish

sort of short circuit the plumbing if you like

I thought there was an inorganic collection

but it was just furniture piled up on a traffic island

chaos reins rockstar economy

seems the star must have turned to crack

desolation rules

swan song will be something like

well fuck me maybe he came here and thought

fucken hell Bronagh

this is beyond a joke

whatever it is

it’s as scarey as shit

at 3am

in your self service lock up gas station

all by yourself

while the crims are smahing the windows

to get the smokes and cash

Vouyer that’s me

I’m not waving a glow stick

or recording this for a bootleg

but one day this will go bang

it won’t be a wide bodied jet falling from the sky

but when the kids are sick of eating the juice from palonies for soup

and the two minute noodles don’t cut the mustard anymore

and another miserable Christmas has been and gone and buried

like a crime in the garden

in the heat of this waste land

far from paradise

the quarter acre

half gallon kind

there’ll be burning

and the glow in the sky won’t be a sunset over the Manukau

but people taking what they think is theirs

theirs to take

there for the taking

and the happy smiling people

with the gravy milkshake bars

will be in the firing line

on the way to packed and stuffed prisons

lets do a little number then at least we’ll get a feed

and a patch if we’re lucky

this was my patch well sort of

and I wonder what went wrong

There is no rhymne

there is no reason

pretty much like this song

that’s not a song or a tune or anything

but the grumbling musing miscontent of a spectator

who thinks he could have done it better

it’d be so fucking easy

what’s the problem with paying people what they’re worth

or giving people jobs

building fucking toilets

or houses for that matter

this is home I don’t believe it

the caravan park that sits beside the motorway

three foot through a fence

behind a piece of plastic painted red and white plastic pole

that goes up and down

like a proper security gate

I have no answers

and not many questions

but a fuck load of feelings

I gaze in wonder at it sometimes

how it’s spread like measles

a contractable disease

across the once arible land

factories and warehouses

roads wider and wider

roundabouts that aren’t much fun

Weymouth Road was once the wop wops

where the old man would drive us

to go netting at Orrs Beach

It’s lost to me all sealed off behind high fences and gates

flash new homes looking for a glimpse of water and mudflats

stinking like hell in summer

mangroves piss off the neighbours

but at least there’s the Later Day Saints

and Destiny Church

to suck the flesh off the bones of whats left

and offer hope

where there was none

just another nest of politicians

buzzing with

designs to enslave

the poor the stupid uneducated

the halls of holy reasoning from whence I came

and learnt nothing much

except 12 times this and 5 times that

I do the math in my head

while the dairy owner struggles to find his calculator


I am blessed that I’m not trapped here

in a bedsit with roaches for company

now serving Kentucky

or a pie and a drink for two dollars and fifty

time and circumstance

and if brains was gunpowder

I’d blow this place to hell and start over

bulldoze the malls and the factories that employ no one

well no one from round here anyways

They pass through here like

lock the doors fucker we’re about to get robbed

at a hundred miles an hour

if they could in their expensive four wheel drives

to the bullbar emporium

I could never understand

East side, South Side, West

it all looks the same in these streets

somewhere there’s a car crash

and a cop writing tickets

the marks where the car got stuck last winter are still furrows in the lawn


the shop front’s like a pillbox

state houses barred off for all to witness

the burning on adventure street

while the mountain sits and watches

the remains of a cone in the middle of nothing

remains is all

remains of people

remains of mountains


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