Over here friend Just swim over here
There, do you feel better now?
I have been waiting for you
Yes, I want to tell you something Come, listen! take this goddess she means nothing to me, drink my wine you see, the world is awaking, distant frames of energy a montage of power careful your arms, legs and fingers have new meaning now Climb out of the valley, Progress any which way you must, We wish you all the best Oh you have fallen – are you hurt? Just a scratch
Trespassing in Dionysia
1 enter the dream tides of nectar and brine where crumbling seascapes give way to banqueting air imparting sacred pyres for the libation rites once there reach the city of Dionysia time to celebrate drunken prophesies ‘the myths of the ages’ all around poets and playwrights, the
servants of Dionysus
2 here sparse images movements and sounds capture the senses like the subtlest plot and the gods
speak or do they test?
unlock the deadbolt dream
trespass in Dionysia
witness the death rites
this is not an ordinary walk this walk is frosted with purpose you see I’m climbing up a hill and when I reach the top I will be naked and in full view of Aphrodite but I’m not afraid to be seen by her you see I understand
Bullshit & Poetry
I wear the words ‘Fuck you!’ invisibly on my back. I’m a radical loser – an All Blacks Supporters Club Member. I lie. Don’t listen to me. I write bullshit & poetry. I’m a dying son of a gun. Forget me, journey on to the sun-lit kingdom, dilute your senses, and the cure
will be yours.
I like to sit, write and prophesize about my destruction and my demise. I like to laugh at everyone and leave the last laugh not for anyone but me: poet, bullshitter, ranter and raver, screamer, dreamer seeker, thinker, actor, betrayer, liar, deceiver, lover, slacker nihilist, bastard, spirit caller mystic, human and divine; I am all of these
and never can be one.
the many faces the many masks
and, not a word
The Murder Scene
for Ian Mackaye
dialogues and melodramas thoughts and expressions
the accomplices to murder
it’s like that around the windows the halls, and rooms of the holy,
the powerful, the famous and the political
those divine messengers sent for the betterment of themselves,
and looking for the only way out.
Right now I’m lying naked and I can see my solipsism written within
a man wrote a film about a man who would be on his way
what was’t about?
he can’t remember
the man in the story, I mean on his way
Woman of Fire Revisited
I’ve seen you today In my subconscious state Barbed wire kisses slay
The temptation to mate
Forcibly remove the angels of love Repress desires so eager to please On whirlwind romance live the tough
Wile away the weakest ambience with ease
Be friendly to the gospel of virginity This heartfelt expose of life’s rigidity And inherit Ovid’s romantic vicinity
In a Puck’s figure I see stability
Woman of Fire, my heart’s content
To seek the life I can never frequent
Two Lost Bit Parts
1. Mother and Child Reunion
‘It’s pure adolescence,’ says her mother,
meaning no harm but with an eye
on her own position. She’s at mid-life,
snowed in, watching the ice beneath her
slowly crack. ‘Here, take my hand
and we will make it,’ says the daughter,
‘put your faith in me.’ The icy ground
continues to break, the daughter continues
to move, her mother continues to watch,
withholding her hand, withholding her smile, as
the daughter inches on, a voice in her head
telling her, they will make it, she knows they will…
2. A Peak Show, with Old Men
She stands in front of them, wearing a tasty
number; while they, old and bent, can barely see
the shape of her breasts, the length of her legs,
hips, the way her skirt rides all the way up,
exposing her flesh, in fish-nets, face: expressionless.
The scent of her though overpowers them,
as one by one, they feel it, and it’s cold all right,
colder than age; but at this stage
they can only watch, hanging limp,
just staring, staring at her from behind
a screen, and remembering what once was theirs,
that warm climate of flesh.
Destroying Utopia that lived in the past And building the banished paradise we lost Resurrect the innocence of my rage
And make its solution into my cage
(a concert goer)
Muthafucker, Muthafucker, Muthafucker Intimidating tactics I utter Muthafucker, Muthafucker, Muthafucker
My words flow up from the gutter
Telephone wires trapped in the mist of clouds I walk in chasms of deep meaning Women panic on the end of tabloid rapes
Sister, father, mother: incestuous paradoxes
Candles lit fall short of the light Toxic aromas are poisoned flowers Genesis is the antithesis of the apes
In the fields lurk the last of the oxen
Animals wear their fleece in essence Doors jump and start leaning A small child eats the harvest of grapes
Riverbed soils harden in the drought
Poetry seeks to harbour its own presence
Held down on skid row it looks for meaning
eyes / jewellery
things of beauty
expressions of words
keep writing the story
of a life
stored in a house
in a box
like toys in the attic.
we are haunted
by what we can’t keep
© Mark Pirie
Mark Pirie was born in Wellington, New Zealand, in 1974. He is a New Zealand poet, fiction writer, literary critic, publisher, editor and anthologist.
His poems have been published in India, New Zealand, Australia, Croatia, the US, Canada, Singapore, Iraq, China, Thailand, Germany, and the UK. In 1998 Otago University Press published his anthology of ‘Generation X’ New Zealand writing, The NeXt Wave.
In 1999 he wrote an MA thesis on the New Zealand poet and editor Louis Johnson at the University of Otago.
He was managing editor of, and co-edited, JAAM literary journal (New Zealand) from 1995-2005, and is the current managing editor of HeadworX Publishers, and the editor of broadsheet: new new zealand poetry. In 2003, Salt Publishing, Cambridge, England, published his new and selected poems, Gallery: A Selection.
From 2003-2004 he helped co-organise the Wellington International Poetry Festival, with Ron Riddell and Saray Torres. HeadworX published the first two anthologies of the festival. From 2003-2008 he co-organised the popular Winter Readings poetry series in Wellington with Michael O’Leary.
Recently he co-edited (with Tim Jones) the prize-winning anthology of New Zealand Science Fiction poetry, Voyagers (Interactive Publications, Brisbane, 2009), and edited an anthology of railway poems, Rail Poems of New Zealand Aotearoa (Poetry Archive of New Zealand Aotearoa, 2010) and a cricket poetry anthology ‘A Tingling Catch’: A Century of New Zealand Cricket Poems 1864-2009 (HeadworX, 2010), with a foreword by Don Neely.
He helped co-organise the Poetry Archive of New Zealand Aotearoa (PANZA) in 2010