Poem 520
I’ve got a particular classically noble-browed and imposing Wellington mental health consumer in mind here but have transposed the scene to Auckland as they had a facility right in the city …
Escaped Deity
God is a man at his best at fifty hair galloped to grey because it suits him whose eyes are blue lances of power whose nose hooks and plunges at the world like a stallion alone on a corner the frame of the day bends inwards under his weight I go by in a bus the driver fights the wheel to stay away from him traffic rubbing and squealing like a blackboard under a fingernail all the ice cream signs are tearing off the shops lawns rippling in six inch waves birds hauled into a black funnel above the rising storm his hair snapping in the magnetic wind no one listens to the siren at Carrington still ringing