Ode to Auckland

Auckland
Even when I’m well stoned
on a tab of LSD or Indian grass,
you still look to me like an elephant’s arsehole
surrounded by blue-black haemorrhoids,
The sound of the
opening and shutting of
bankbooks,
The thudding of refrigerator doors,
The ripsaw voices of Glen Eden
mothers yelling at their children,
The chugging noise of masturbation
from the bedrooms of the bourgeoise,
The voices of dead teachers droning
in dead classrooms,
The TV voice of Mr. Muldoon,
The farting noise of the trucks that
grind their way down Queen Street
Has drowned forever the song of
Tangaroa on a thousand beaches,
The sound of the wind among the
green volcanoes
And the whisper of the human heart.
Boredom is the essence of your
death.

–James K. Baxter