Music:
Something on Sunday night
I assimilated;
And it fails to stray.
Protecting it with my ardour,
The ever burgeoning
Anima of my ego bursts forth;
Frolicsome,
Blithe,
Unassailable,
Gratuitous.
Sunday night;
The anima swells,
Its has had 3 human hours to distend
Unlocking inhibition
It flitters, upsurging into
Unbridled, unhampered laughing.
In volunteered seclusion,
This anima became my
Kindred spirit
Once again.
Step one checked.
I smile.
Monday morning.
Floating listlessly in an empty 1880's house,
Annexed with an Autumnal garden
Abandoned by its 1 and half caretakers.
(I'm the half).
I'm not listless.
With carpe diem surging onwards
I embark on step 2.
Physical health.
The tusks need a tuskin'.
The Venus call needs castigation.
The legs; lengthening.
The sun shone down on the Theosophical, palatial eyesore of Aro St.
If anything reminds me of de-colonialism every morning
It is this building.
Set into a hill
Its Classical,
Its churlish.
Ungracefully dominates
The smoky figures of Aro Valley.
It is the only solid thought in this whole area;
It penetrates smokiness
Into un-organic-ness.
Mess.
That is its physical self.
Beyond its Classical dominance
A haven of 100 years of innovation speaks.
If anything, if I can go so far, this building might have been the embedder
Of new thought in Aro Valley?
Its almost like Boo Ridley's home in 'To Kill a Mockingbird';
Scapegoated, because it is unknown territory.
But who would know,
When they must sacrifice themselves to the stairs that lead upwards...?
Mid-Monday:
Surveying Wellington's domain,
A wan French fairy with dominating eye contact,
Sails in on my periphery.
She is cautious,
Not sure where things are at,
After I said one sided things;
Pure deflection I thought;
I was wrong.
She heard
Amidst the shagman's frothy soy chocolate,
Wellington's finest weather,
And the waterfront lapping hungrily at the shore;
Never content in reclamation.
Mid-afternoon-Monday
I indulged
In the sentiment eating within,
The acid streaking the bowel
Filling towards what I understand to be a pit,
And yet satisfaction reigned
In a post-modernist way
A way that has questions as answers.
The nouveau riche interior that
Disseminates history with a dash of
Postmodernism mishmash.
The food was alkaline to my acid;
Pacifism to my post structuralism.
Anima released all its goodness;
I got off the island and sailed onward
Into cultural happiness hand in hand with
Espiritus afines.
Olivia, the pacifist intentionally;
The flare in matters of the heart.
We walk the same road in this lexicon
The same questions ensue us onwards.
In another dominion she would be mine.
But for now I am still taken;
Or I think so?
Monday eve.
Anima, my friend, returned
From long saunters in the offering.
Anima channeled the cachinnates
From the shallow reservoir.
Perhaps I was relieved
That my reservoir soon was soon replenished with salt water?
The extremity of swinging gauged an unsuspecting me, however.
Words were extinguished.
One could only quell such vexation
With silence, and an embrace.
It is there that the consoling wisdom rises.
To feel the shaking
Perturbed me.
To know that one family could lose just so much.
But something accelerates;
It gets the better of all of us;
It facilitates survival.
Resilience.
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