Tuesday poem

Last year there was a competition for a Wellington sonnet. I sat down earnstly and wrote a bit of romantic twaddle about taniwhas and so forth, whilst my daughter, amused, dashed off this one in an ad break. I think it has just the right amount of cynical wit for a 22 year old... (the illustration though is mine!)

Untitled (Everybody in Wellington hates Wellington, but like hell they’ll ever leave.)

Sometimes you smell like the sea at night

But you’d expect that living in a harbour.

Go! The Cuba Street drinking posse –

Ain’t nothing like seeing the masses pants-down

In the afternoon.

Let the bus drivers go on strike again

I don’t care about standing in the rain.

The friendly cries of Boy Racer’s burnouts doesn’t keep me awake at night

I live on the other side of the hill.

Yesterday I said ‘let’s go sit on the beach’

But the sand is hard and the wind slices me like death.

I get hungry in Newtown when the bread factory is in action

Until the burned toast smell becomes a little bit suffocating.

Oh Wellington, you sly dog, you.

Haley Jean

For other Tuesday Poems go to the facilitator at O Audacious Book, claire beynon   harvey molloy  tim jones  helen rickerby   ilikesweating  paradoxical cat   kay mckenzie cooke penelope todd  cilla mcqueen - nz poet laureate - who posts monday, wednesday, friday
and these overseas poets: Premium T  Vespersparrow