Doctors of lit in sensible shoes,
Rural iconoclasts from the back of Waiku.
Daughters of Polynesia tapping on an iPad,
green ink scribblers who’ve got the bug bad.
Sentimental, romantic or existentialist gloom,
in the House of the Word there are many rooms.
The ghost of James K. wanders George Street
and in neon squiggles a homey rhymez to phat beatz.
Earnest young fellows squinting through spex,
just stick to the landscape and don’t mention sex.
Octogenarian memoirists browse the pastures of youth
and others scratch code on a telephone booth.
Insiders, outsiders and those in between
all play their part on the stage of this scene.
Glossolalians, textophiliacs, poetasters together –
metaphorically speaking, we’re all birds of a feather.