I am the brown man in the grey boiler suit ...
with my lives lined up like a cat's.
awkward and noisy, hungry, with snouts
I am the colour of mud and it shows.
I stand in the cemented forests
amongst the crowds.
where thieves once left heads
I look to Hikurangi
built of straw and sticks and mud.
have tattooed their bodies into its wood
and glued in blue shells
laugh and splutter from fence posts. They
An angel lives here
and polishes the bony relics of my mother
on the family box, warms the jewels
I am the brown man from Hikurangi
pot-bound like a plant, guarding jealously
the hanging bells from the acid air
Around me, apartments are strung together
flapping in the sunlight.
lead to the doors of my shop.
I work the streets, the paths, sucking in
I let down my long hair for children to climb.
and look beyond the suburbs
to people who stoke up fires
in self sufficiency.
drink hard, squeeze hallucinations from leaves.
for the hung pictures of my parents.
The carved bodies of my children
|© Copyright 2008 Iain Britton & Trout.|
|This issue of Trout is sponsored in part by UNESCO.|