Reflections of a Nomad
Foreclosure is the only outcome
to this mortgage which has indebted me
an existence of normality
-solitary confinement I suppose.
Expectations are a dangerous thing,
a plaster on a small wound
that tourniquets an unnecessary swelling tighter.
Believe me, when I strayed before
there was captive pain to behold!
Auckland’s suited moguls are not ready
for a wanderer in their ranks
as long as the commute drones on.
Last week I left the settlement
-by bus migration-
to show them that ‘you cannot bound the boundless’
-a call I hope they heard.
I stood where I did as a child
on the waterfront gutter of Queen St
looking up the ascension and
waiting for the muck to come downstream.
We used to walk supervised
beneath the awnings in winter,
only getting hammered by rain
to avoid the library drunkards.
Now I have made my way
the way to the overexposure
the way to Grafton
My memories of this place
Are buried deep down in the hill
so I can hear the prophets voice
speaking to the tar starved
who came here because dependence never stops.
Under the bottle neck bridge,
I still saw bearded gurus
meditate in a cloud of tobacco
and fuming filth-
their shrine to nomadship.
The known struggle was dispersed among
the sidewalk casualties, who kissed the earth bare lipped-
hungry as Baxter’s Jerusalem.
A salute I suppose
to the ‘free men’, who stumble
their course along the cemetery’s edge
with the ache of aldehyde
and remain away/
Though evidently
living liberation has a disgusting padlock-
we are all well aware of these inner city workings;
free from one shackle and sent to the next.
However I have a strong feeling
that I lack the resonated consistency
of the wanderers before me
in this concrete palisade. Please throw concern away;
subsistence is a choice on my part-
dependence is not.
Yes I do agree, the boundless cannot be bound,
Now
Found.
to this mortgage which has indebted me
an existence of normality
-solitary confinement I suppose.
Expectations are a dangerous thing,
a plaster on a small wound
that tourniquets an unnecessary swelling tighter.
Believe me, when I strayed before
there was captive pain to behold!
Auckland’s suited moguls are not ready
for a wanderer in their ranks
as long as the commute drones on.
Last week I left the settlement
-by bus migration-
to show them that ‘you cannot bound the boundless’
-a call I hope they heard.
I stood where I did as a child
on the waterfront gutter of Queen St
looking up the ascension and
waiting for the muck to come downstream.
We used to walk supervised
beneath the awnings in winter,
only getting hammered by rain
to avoid the library drunkards.
Now I have made my way
the way to the overexposure
the way to Grafton
My memories of this place
Are buried deep down in the hill
so I can hear the prophets voice
speaking to the tar starved
who came here because dependence never stops.
Under the bottle neck bridge,
I still saw bearded gurus
meditate in a cloud of tobacco
and fuming filth-
their shrine to nomadship.
The known struggle was dispersed among
the sidewalk casualties, who kissed the earth bare lipped-
hungry as Baxter’s Jerusalem.
A salute I suppose
to the ‘free men’, who stumble
their course along the cemetery’s edge
with the ache of aldehyde
and remain away/
Though evidently
living liberation has a disgusting padlock-
we are all well aware of these inner city workings;
free from one shackle and sent to the next.
However I have a strong feeling
that I lack the resonated consistency
of the wanderers before me
in this concrete palisade. Please throw concern away;
subsistence is a choice on my part-
dependence is not.
Yes I do agree, the boundless cannot be bound,
Now
Found.
Gender:
Points: 1072
Reviews: 23