June Poem Dump

Wednesday is about books and writing. (And reading). Once a month or so I share the latest poems I’ve written. Here’s June’s…

Once a month or so I give you a wrap of all the poetry I’ve created and shared across a month — here was the last:

And now, here’s June’s creations:

CHRISTOPHER LUXON CLEARS HIS THROAT:

Chris Luxon cleared his throat, dropped a
load right on the table. He ate most of it
back up — circular economy.

He didn’t actually say very much when
pressed at the conference, but what he
could say was that the opposition

were still at fault for everything he was
doing and anything he would go on to to.
It was all Labour’s fault as far as he

could tell. And while it wasn’t wise for
some MPs to say things the way they
said them, it was always smart of

Chris Luxon to use words like ‘dominant’
and “as I’ve said” which he said just as
he said things. He cleared his throat

often. And ate most of it right back up
each time. His pie was hardly humble,
and that’s why he thought it tasted better.

---

COS PLAY:

I wore the suit jacket and a guy asked me
the occasion. And I said Wednesday. And

he wondered if the collar was up as a little
move of defiance. I fixed the jacket but let

him keep his line. He nailed it at the time
so why lop that from the record. I couldn’t

wait to get home and take off the jacket.
Nothing to do with what he said, no move

of defiance. You take the costume off
and you’re not longer stuck in the role.

---

COLLECTOR:

There’s no way I’ll make it through
every book I own, nor all the movies

and records, and music across dead
formats. But clean lines are so cold.

Clutter provides a strange warmth.
And warmth, however strange, is a

nourishment; sustenance for the soul.

---

WORKING ON IT:

My voice will
never be sweet,

my lines will
never be smooth.

But I’m sure if
I think hard,

I can find
some faults too.

---

BLOOM WHERE YOU ARE PLANTED:

No use holding out for Utopia.
It’s a world of me-topics when
you watch the news, or gather
views via poll or scroll or I don’t

know…so you need to just be
here now — because that’s
where you are, and when the
moment is. Do your best, and

no one is ever doing that. And
that goes double for the people
who say they are. A lot more time
spent with The Beach Boys’

Lonely Sea. A lot less time with
anything else. That’s what I’d
prescribe. Obviously I’m not a
doctor. Nor much of a gardener

---

THE BEST SINGERS ARE THE ONES MOST PEOPLE HAVE NEVER HEARD OF:

She sounds a bit like Kristin Hersh, up
there on the stage with not enough
people watching. But if pins dropped,

we’d hear them sharp; loud as scattered
nails. So that’s some form of victory, a
result. No one should do any art for any

reason beyond the need to do it —
beyond the actual reason. If pins
dropped and it was like a hail storm

then that would be the proof of an
incredible bonus. Not a cheque to
cash — but that can’t be the reason.

---

WEATHER REPORT:

It’s a cold world somewhere. Just like
it’s 5 o’clock somewhere. But it’s
too cold for beer — and it’s too cold

for thin walls and single glazing; colder
still if the stars are your roof and the wind
is your wall. But hey, elsewhere there’s

talk of beer-money, pocket-change from
side-hustle gigs, or the little bit of tax-relief
for “Hard-working Kiwis”. Safely home,

the heat-pump on to watch the news, to
have the food, to hug the ones they love, it
doesn’t stop it from being a cold, cold world.

---

ALL BEARING DOWN ON ME:

I was the right age. You never know that
until it’s no longer the case. I listened to
Radiohead on loops, in my head, on the
car stereo, and via the earnest but average
cover versions in the band that I majored in
at university. I saw them on the tour behind
Ok Computer; and they were okay — but it’s
been so long now that I tell everyone they
were great. I’m almost ready to believe myself.

And then I broke up with Radiohead for a while,
decided their fans were insufferable. And even
if I was right, it would only have been by fluke —
I really just needed a reason for a breather. And
calling out fandom is a convenient loophole; it’s
always easy to say someone else took it too
seriously. It covers your own burnout. It makes
you look like you think you’re smart, and somehow
principled — but it’s neither. No chance. Not close.

I checked in on the new albums — even loved
In Rainbows right away, and before that Kid A.
And I never didn’t like a single thing they did (even
when the damned fans were acting up). But I just
had to have my time away. And time away is good.
From anything. From anyone. I started listening to
Radiohead again just recently. Some of it feels more
perfect now than it ever did. It’s all just bearing down
on me. Almost elegantly. It fades in…again…

---

THE PARABLE OF THE MAN IN THE “WHO FARTED?” T-SHIRT:

The man in the “Who Farted?”
T-shirt just farted. Which is

either meta, or it isn’t. But there’s
no question. It fucking stinks

---

SMALL TALK:

If it’s Monday, that’s easy: You say
“How was your weekend?”
And on Friday try: “So, any plans
for the weekend?”

But the rest of the week offers
no prompts. It’s so easy to get
lost. A fucking nightmare really,
So you just keep your head down

and, ugh, do work…But be sure to hit
Mondays and Fridays like they owe
you money. They’re the big paydays
In the topsy-turvy world of small talk.

---

ENERGY, HOLDING TIGHT:

I hold my energy tight. It might not be
right. But it keeps it with me. And I need
my energy. It helps me along in its way.
It allows me to say what I need to, and
far too many things that I shouldn’t. I
can’t hold anything against it for that.
I’m already holding my energy tight.

---

NO ONE IS EXACTLY WHO THEY SAY THEY ARE:

The next time you have
any self doubt — or
someone calls you out,

remind them (and yoursleves)
that Barry Manilow did not write
the song called I Write The Songs

---

RY COODER MAKING MUSIC IN HIS OWN WORLD:

I was probably 9 or 10, which is wild really, but I just loved Ry Cooder.
Hard to know how I found out about him, or what I knew, but I seem

to recall it being that beaut instrumental, I Think It’s Going To Work
Out Fine. It seemed to always be on the radio. My mum and dad didn’t

play his music, but they liked it when they heard it. A few years on and
the movie Crossroads is my world, so I buy the soundtrack to just keep

the film alive in my mind. And it’s a Ry Cooder score. So that opens a
whole can of worms, and I buy more of his soundtracks, and start finding

the albums he made in the 70s. He’s always near the top of the list of
greatest guitarists. (And he should probably always be higher on the lists).

I keep listening to him, all through high school, uni too. I get to see him
in concert, and sure, it’s pretty good. But a bigger thrill is speaking

to him on the phone. It’s a formal interview situation, and I’m just
super nervous. But it goes well. Really fucking well. It’s as good as it gets

with that sort of thing. I listen to his music now and then these days,
I guess I carry a lot of it in my head and in my heart. So a quick reminder

is all that’s needed. But when I play the albums I’m nine and ten all over
again. How did it find that authenticity every single time? It’s a magic trick.

A studied, perfect magic trick. Not quite smoke and mirrors though, it’s
so very close to the actual thing. Which is always what makes the best magic.

---

THE BILLY JOEL MADRIGALS:

The plan, when I left school, was to grab a degree
quickly, head out and get a job. I was going to work
in journalism, I fancied the ‘entertainment’ beat, but
knew I’d be writing a story or three about cats in a
tree, and the 102 year old blowing out most of the
candles, and the inclement weather, and the best
deals on BBQs for the fictional golden summer…

But I didn’t get into the Communications course,
and just as well. So I moved to Wellington instead
of Auckland — and enrolled in a Bachelor of Arts.
I breezed the first year, which made me think
I could do that again. And then promptly did not.
So I bummed around, found fun in all the wrong
places — went slowly mad, but it happened rather
quickly. I was at my worst for a while there. And I
didn’t seem to care. I just raged on against the dying
of any given night. Up late with my pen and paper,
some ciggies and the stereo. Hitting down hard on
typewriter keys. Dodging the degrees, and skipping
on rent. I found Bukowski at precisely the
very worst time.

Got way too good at drinking, and really didn’t aim
for much else. Thank god, though, I never made it
into a band that recorded an album. Thank god as
well that I never released that first book of poems.
Those were the saving graces. Not much really, when
I think about it now. But it pulled me back from the
ledge of insufferability. And slowly, with time, I built
a better version of myself. But that work is ongoing.

I found no money in all the right places. I found myself
through working hard in dead-end jobs, and misleading
opportunities, and thankless tasks — and stupid-big asks.
I did the time, because I owed it, and didn’t know much
else besides. Became a big fan of the spiritual cleanse.
Sold all of my Bukowski books, traded most of my CDs;
these millstones were not for my future necklace. I had
carried them along for far too long, thinking that they
were supporting me. It was time for a change. (Seems I
needed more sleep). Fat boy dancing Gershwin’s blues.

I don’t think about those days very much anymore, but
they’re meant to plague me still. That’s the debt I owe,
the one I must carry. The folly I’ll forever know. I came
to the wrong city, made all the wrong moves. Eventually
found the love of my life, and the straight edge of life, and
traded the music for memories. Which is fine because I
was only ever using the music to access memories in the
first place. And then it all just got out of hand so quickly.

I’m glad I pulled it back. I’m glad I’m able to tell the story,
prosaic though it may be. I went in search of anything else
instead of the job I was meant to be doing. And then I finally
found myself. There was no map for the longest time. And
I didn’t want to end this with a single Billy Joel reference.

But he may be right!

---

NEWTOWN MADRIGAL:

There’s the hospital, where my son was born.

And directly across the road, a tiny flat where

I saved a man’s life, one night. There had been

a cry for help, and I dropped things and went

there — just to be there — because that’s what

you (should) do if it’s someone you know, or

if there’s some way you can. Before either of

those fairly monumental events, I arguably

saved my own life, via realisation, in between

those two spots. I worked community service

at the Salvation Army, a result of my arrest

for receiving stolen goods. As far as crimes

go, it’s not very sexy, nor at all rock’n’roll

and no malice from me, I didn’t know I was

doing it — I didn’t know much back then.

Funny what walking past places does, late

at night and many years on. I say I have no

connection to Newtown. It’s the place that has

given me life, and family, and purpose.

And all in the space of just a few footsteps.

Three different versions of me.

Three very different times indeed.

Three good outcomes. In the end.

---

BUCOLIC:

Sometimes the darkness hits hard, like dirt.
Like teeth. Like the road. A calmness
evaporates, as the salt of the blood kicks in.
And then a new dizziness; the splitting
headache, that becomes literal, is not your

problem — well, would depend how you look
at it. But from what you can tell, it’s the
walls that will carry the stories. Their
improvised new paint job done in a rush —
byproduct rather than pre-planned.

There is a new rural madness, but the cows
will make the same sounds to fill lonely
fields tomorrow and the rooster will set it all
off once again. Though it’ll take longer for
the animals to get their feed tomorrow.

More darkness hitting hard.
Then fresh teeth marks for the road.
And the magpie better not say what it saw.

---

“THAT’S INCREDIBLE!”

man, I wanted one of those silver
jackets! A girl came all the way
from America to be at our dumb
school for three months, and she
had a silver jacket with “That’s
Incredible!” right across the back.

But I never got to talk to her about
that. Because we thought it would
be funny to mock the Pledge of
Allegiance while we sang the New
Zealand national anthem, and the
Headmaster threatened to strap

us, for embarrassing him, and the
school, in front of a girl named
Brooke, who had travelled a long
way from her home to visit us on
our tiny island. So I went nowhere,
and stayed home empty-handed.

---

CHET BAKER SINCE ‘88:

No more Sundays for Chet Baker, not
since ‘88; I play Chet Baker records on
any day of the week but often on a

Sunday — Chet in Milan, Baker with
50 Italian Strings, Picture of Heath, It
Could Happen To You — there is a joy

to every breath, and heartbreak just
under each line. Nothing could save
him, least of all himself. I love listening

to Chet Baker on Sundays, gloomy,
misty, and wise. Devastating, and
beautiful. The dream somehow still

alive; the world a better place with
his quiet, thoughtful noise seeping
through. Chet Baker on a Sunday

since 1988.

---

THE UNIVERSE IS EXPANDING INTO NOTHING, AND WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? I COULD TELL YOU, BUT IT WOULD TAKE ALL DAY!

Not nothing
is something.

Radical ‘otherness’
is part of the scale

of optimism. I’m not
sure we have time

for much else. But
then, we never have.

---

Phew! There we go. Big month June. See anything you like? Or hated the lot? Up to you, but my work is done! For June at least. Now I need to get to creating some July poems…

Seriously though, love to know if any of these resonate or baffle, or both. And I turned The Billy Joel Madrigals into my first Video Poem for Substack. And I might do a few more of those in the coming months…