Economics

Sky Tower

Photo by V.Billot

There was a commotion outside the window.
A million people arrived overnight and moved swiftly
to assemble petrol stations, delicatessens and strip joints.
Signs point everywhere you cannot go.
I think of the past to hold myself down.
There are more products than you can imagine.
Throttled streets lined with plates of black ice.
I sift endless papers that rustle with a faded sound.
Nicotine eyes watch from doorways
and stare without relief. Houses are pulverized
by hornet-painted demons.
There have been twenty nights of inexplicable terror
and black shapes twirling fire in the avenues,
banging on walls, screaming cats and violent pauses
between days and nights and days.
Everyone wears the same inscrutable mask.
The rain allows escape when we drive onwards
down the tributaries of the Underworld.

From Ambient Terror

Commemoration of the Comet Hyakatuke

 

Image by V. Billot

The front page notes a report of a comet

and how it came darting out of the void,

a small silvery fish in dark waters.

It zooms over southern horizons.

Named for its first witness, a Japanese amateur,

he must have combed the night relentlessly

to net his prize.

It carries its speed against the night.

It will not return for aeons,

its leash loose as it spins outwards.

I forgot to watch for it at dawn.

There were too many little things scrabbling

for my attention, and in this way

I missed its passing.

Congress

DSCF0674

Photo by V. Billot

 

She was shifting form, encircling and seamless,

swirling from moment to moment without apparent sense,

with sudden violence and traitorous appetites,

with knowing persistence, with perpetual conviction.

He was locked within a severe carapace,

contained by ancient heat, never acknowledging her lightness,

nor her storms that could last for nights and nights,

an urgent magnet tearing up within –

and they met and congealed,

constantly, never apart,

withdrawing and falling together,

until it is impossible to tell whether they are one, or two,

or many, submerged and unconscious,

their adversarial stances, their mixture and admixture,

of opaque, flickering jade,

of sullen, crooked shoulder,

of broken earth and quickening currents,

as encirclement stills anarchic hands,

as encirclement dissolves their torn faces

to dancing infinities.

Central Redux

Ranfurly, 2016

Photograph by V.Billot

 

Shadows flicker beneath the greenstone waters

where the past is inundated by a billion litres of unobtainium,

while a ghost road fathoms deep

leads through the drowned mountains of an inland sea.

 

Megafauna of state capitalist uberdevelopment

plug the valley’s neck below waving constellations of tussocks,

dusky anemones on a reef of ironclad ranges

and gravel berms beside ice blue streams.

 

Honest stonefruit and dust stained ewes crowded out

by vigorous hybrid forms of economic gene splicing:

self seeding boutique wineries spring from the grey soil,

bundles of fat grapes liberally irrigated by cashflow liquidity

 

while first world psychodramas play out

in skyscapes of high altitude vertical helitourism

where paragliding knuckle crunchers snap selfies

from mid point vortices in dice rolling death plunges.

 

Once a destination for steam powered diasporas,

Hibernian chancers and Cantonese exiles

are suspended in a hologram of alluvial gold flecks

and Victorian era get rich quick schemes.

 

Spindrift snowflakes scattered in a timeshare wonderland,

where scratchings and etchings on the hills

annotate a century of busywork by scrappy toilers,

their faded palimpsest of efforts now eclipsed.

 

A five mile tall nimbus sits on the horizon,

contemplating the innovation of gourmet stone baked pizzerias.

Zig zag peaks recede behind scenic double glazing,

slo mo freeze frames in the tuck and knead of the tectonic kitchen.

 

A grid subdividing the heart in an eternal revision

of the district plan, where high rolling global financiers

take time out to drop dark currency on rustic stations,

enduring frenzies of native replanting to achieve eco-purification.

 

Fine living features in pull out supplements

feed an arms race of aspirational overcompensation,

blonde enbobbed made it matrons wrestling power steering

in late model eurotrash SUVs the size of oxen.

 

A rubber tube steers away on glacial melt

before jet boat hearties short circuit the bay

shattering the crystal heat of the afternoon

with a rude burst of gurgling clangour.

 

Tag teams of blue arsed blowflies,

opportunists loitering on a sad lamb carcass:

pink blossoms hammered flat

by a cold front’s frigid grapeshot.

 

Fire alert on permanent high, Naseby’s sluiced and raddled clays

are colonised by the lime shimmer of exotic larches,

while an optimistic billboard counsels the weary

Avoid Fatigue – Stop At Ranfurly.

 

The silence of the Maniototo is a blank totality,

an inverse shock wave of nothing.

On the rise from Ida Valley, wild thyme sprinkles the dusty slopes

in a purple haze over rubble and bones.

 

A row of dinged utes cool off in front of rural pubs,

lonely as dead end roads, drinkers whiling the hours

hidden from the infinite heavens and day long tempests,

awaiting the postponed judgement of the long now.

 

Above Wakatipu, plastic bubbles ascend in parallel symmetry

to provide a ten dollar view of million dollar apartments,

lakeside gloom pooling in the lengthening evening,

as Airbuses touch down in a sweet end times aroma of peak oil.

The Prince of Darkness attends a Work and Income interview

resized_FT5S_fire_demon.jpg

Welcome, Mr Lucifer. Come up.

Mind the carpet, if you could.

I’m sorry the security guard had to ask you to step outside:

but no smoking is allowed on premises

and brimstone is prescribed

under Health and Safety legislation.

I see you have not been able to supply

either a clean resume, or evidence of actively seeking work.

A pile of ashes doesn’t make the cut.

I don’t make the rules – and it would make things a lot quicker

if you could prepare your job seeking resources

prior to these meetings. Yes, it is time consuming –

you don’t know the meaning of eternity, believe me.

You may well have led a war in heaven,

but in the current market, employers are looking for people skills.

I note a lack of IT literacy, and the failure

to provide references from a previous employer

is a problem. I understand you were cast into outer darkness,

which may explain the gaps in your employment history.

Slumping in your chair is not advised:

any positions in despair are already taken

by the Noonday Demon.

With the new incentive process,

we had to cut a certain jobseeker’s allowance by 50%.

I can’t name names, to maintain client confidentiality,

but I suspect you know the individual.

Mr Abaddon? (You said it, not me.)

Sloth is no longer acceptable under new directives

from the Minister. It may be a revelation to you, Mr Lucifer:

but times have changed.

I recommend taking up a retraining opportunity.

There are openings for those prepared to upskill,

human resources and marketing

are two growth areas which may appeal.

With your experience in middle management,

and a renewed focus, the future is brighter than you may think.

We look forward to some good news,

and if you could,

please mind the carpet on the way back down.

Port Chalmers

Port Chalmers

Photo by V.Billot

Port, Dogtown, Koputai, names good and ill,
you look outward to oceans, waiting for the world.

Cruise liners and log boats snuggle your wharves.
A thousand trunks of Pinus Radiata are matchsticks

piled before your crow’s nest lookout,
the channel a blue stripe down ruffled green fur.

Ships glide through the throat of the harbour,
models inserted into the glass bottle of summer.

Nudged under the crook of cliffs, a camel hump
scattered with draughty villas and stone churches,

where wharfies in orange overalls pop in
for a flash coffee, or pie from the dairy.

From ships we live, proclaims your bronze plaque:
and now in place of wool and frozen mutton

are megacubits of golden butter,
and the determined tramp of tracksuited pensioners

embarking from the Princess of the Seas.
Steam curls in fluffy ventings from the flanks

of your looming woodchip mountains,
while the permanent hum of industry pervades you,

wasp yellow diggers growling across yards,
lanky straddles speed-looping the terminal with boxes

to stack and stow in perpendicular precision.
When I was twenty, buzzed on magic mushrooms,

we walked around the fence to Back Beach,
watching giant machines in shadowless glare,

feeling the subterranean drumming
of a goods train clambering through your tunnel.

Now a bark and a cough as monster trucks change down
on George Street, where crusty old hands

mix with tryhard metropolitan newbies, and cultural tourists
wandering the retro boutiques and studios

where bohemians assemble in creative endeavour.
The grey page of evening is inscribed

by the querulous drone of free noise guitar improv,
the demented squawk of a feral rooster,

and the clink of beer bottles from the rugby clubrooms.
The channel lights wink the way home

in a cheery salute of green and red.