Winds of Tremor

Sacred Eyes
Known only to one
is a Gift bestowed,

Wondering if this is the right stage
where I should be,
A display for all to see,

Here I am
take me now
A ticket to the show is the deed
So please one of you,
send it to me.

Richard Taylor

the machine music moves mechanically as it must because it is
beautiful and is based on a legal system of repeats but nothing is
yet for sure why should it be after all the law of torts and the
thinking Thinking Thing is there, and we are part of it despite
seclusion like a sheep’s or a boffin’s head, in a vision of perfect
symmetry held in a white drop as if we could know’it all, and there’s
need for change, but who looks on, and who is who who he looks at who
he looks is who — but we need all these people who don’t agree because
of the machine, which, despite its penetential and inevitable
inefficiency, is heard to cry out at deep of night to the Great One
who is probably dead and ensconced in a dream of lubricated, or
lubricious cavortings toward spittle. and flesh, words that send
shudders up my spire wire’s spine loom; one would naturally much
prefer to be the vision inside a technical robot, whose doom scenes
see wire mass everywhere, and, how does the spider know, because he,
too, is a constructor - or is it because the music nags us back down
the drain pipe into a parallel universe of incomprehensible equations,
or a crazed jumble of electronic, electrical, and machine parts
pushed into an elected enclave, whose triumph is its denseness, or the
enormous significance of an endlessly looping musical track which your
great great grandmother could well have enjoyed: some post—
Stochausian, post- Varese etc, not something tame like.the Songs for a
Mad King: but it all passes, even the wind machines, and the ape-
shaped eyes, thoughts of death, leaves, corpse valleys, memories,
inscriptions.. .you turn back to The Romantics, for there is something
about you, something nobody can see: as if you were the one in the
centre of a gigantic sound-shriek, and batting up all hell, and no one
gives a fuck, especially with everything turning into grey
gold. . .something like a cat looking into your face.

'machine music' by Richard Taylor

Heather Haley

Whore In The Eddy

Gazes up at ballooning clouds as if imagining
frogs, giraffes, Corvettes and barns, as if
Neptune's head has heard her pleas, sent me.

She looks like a mannequin. As if by law of nature,
a stripped woman's body looks like a mannequin
after it floats to the surface in a rainforest
denuded by timber sales. All matter from the depths
is netted by log jams.

She stares at me, cannot see
the pebbles embedded in my knees,
or my face, not so sweet.
No bubbles, just the flatness
of still water. No trace DNA
or hard earned cash, only cool airstreams
of aspen leaves. My grasping hand
takes hers, skin gliding onto my fingers
like a glove. A device. We share features
any porno masticating, regular working stiff
joe wants in his garage
between the red pickup and the Crestliner.

We watch the rim of night, a spiral
arm of stars, their slow light two million
years too late. Naked eyes detect
Orion the hunter, Cassiopeia, the bright knots
of the Double Cluster. Mars appears.
I look the other way, to the North Star.

HEATHER HALEY

Bill Nelson

Lack Of Passion

How do you keep your fingernails so clean?
I don't, the dirt simply falls away;
I guess it gets disinterested and disintegrates;

How did you come by such an impressive vechicle?
I only drive it on Sundays, the seats are very uncomfortable;
I have a white van for driving to and from work;

Where else do you go in your van?
To the supermarket, to the dairy, to the fish and chip shop;
Places like that, easily locatable places;

Why so many pockets in your trousers?
That is where I keep my tools, every pocket holds a specific tool;
I can reach them easily in an emergency;

How did you get that scar on you cheek?
A long time ago I thought about something for too long;
That was a mistake;

Why is that timing device analogue?
Digital things require batteries, batteries fail;
My tools can not fail;

On your CV you put your name and phone at the top;
Underneath, only the words 'Lack of Passion';
I am confused?

In this business that is all I need.



Bill Nelson is a guest AucklandPoet who wants to know if the Tuesday night readings at Grand Central are still happening? Perhaps a google search will find out.