journal

No. XXIII

XXIII.the extreme poverty of Moerewaa poverty that not povertycontrasts with a smellnot te ika the eel tuna not thatneither a full range of offalsand associated productsincluding foetal blood not the smell ofthe freezing worksthe fronted up houses the shops boardednor the café boarded where stones on every tablefresh smoked eel we said taking pride of placetaking pride in place the whenuawhenuaa poverty at the roots of the hillshaunting porcelain animalson windowsillsin the lightning treesat the tips of each darknessnodding recognitionmy grandfather built my grandmothernanaa similar houserich for being stuccoin another works’ townKonini Konini Street from folded blueprintshe proudly keptrich for having a porchdeep enough sunlightnever penetrated nonot that smell of rosewater oil of Ulanthat overtakes me now of ripening fruitin the laundry loo and pile of magsI’d sometimes find a porn oneoverripe in the pale green tongue and groovethe meatworks where hecall him boompa not popparode to every morning on the fixed gear black bikefor sixty yearsand sweet smell fruit rotting in the grassthe Bay so fertile call it the fruitbowl of a nationso fertile it rottedwhat nationhe dreamed of travelling to the Rhine one dayand on the aeroplane sedated and confused the drugs for Parkinson’s Loreleihe left his seat in his socksand shoes behind padding down the aisleto the door and with intent and pride intacthe turned the handle opening the hatchto walk outsideno what smell but health and hygienea compression of hedgesKerikeriwith no outside.

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