Wellington 1955

Fucking—in print—hasn't been invented
and the clitoris is a rumour vague
as Atlantis ... no one knows where it is.
In Seatoun zoo the last orangutan
freezes to death in an open cage
with a sack pulled over its head.
Entrails from a Hutt Valley abattoir
foul summer beaches. The sea is red
with wounded Moby Dicks. Death's
rich: both priests and backstreet abortionists
lay down the ground rules for a life without sin.
Up on The Terrace escaped Nazis teach Nietzsche
while down in the harbour refugee ships
bring more walking wounded from exhausted Europe
to till fresh fields and play their violins.
(What's local has got a fist like an All Black
and downs ten )jars between five and six.)
But the scent of something more than meanness
is blowing in with the Cook Strait wind:
poets are beginning to burn their soap-box
while girls with pony-tails kick their heels
to rhythms that are more than meek. In
fugged-up coffee bars 'the young and restless'
light black candles and plan their escape.