Life in a Peaceful New World.

A peaceful new world is just an illusion
That's a bear that they're patting, I'll allay the confusion

Is that ducks by the lion?
Should they not quick get flyin?

Sure, it's idyllic and sure it is quaint
But safe from vicious death it most certainly aint

As smiles turn to prayers
Skin riddled with rips and with tears

The lion an atheist, the bear habours rage
Prayers will not save the young and the aged

And so here is the moral
(And it's not plant your garden in sorrel)

If a peaceful new world does ever arrive
And lions and bears do also survive

Bless the shot gun and pray for sharp aim
Christ's love is great, but it won't make them tame.

Bed sock.

Everything you could want in a bed sock.

Gentle

Made by Granny

Foot shaped

No breezy ankles

An outer day-sock

An inner night-sock

Safe from chilly sheets

My night time Hot Toddy

A foot blankie

A dry knitted pacifier

And a friendly odour

All of my own

That's why I wear jeans

And why I adore wool.

Guest Poet

Anna Chinn is the Otago Daily Times most widely read blogger. It is possible that even people as far away as Waitati and Brockville will have heard of her.

In the past Anna and I have collaborated on a poem about a bush tick, see www.odt.co.nz/blog/anna-chinn (and forgive the minor spelling error); and now in glorious google weblog format, Anna's raptastic contribution to marital dispute resolution, and this blog's first guest post:

Don't Have a Domestic - Have a Rap Battle!

Wife: Cook me some eggs, Matt, cook me some eggs! Next time you leave it this late I gon' hide away my legs!

Husband: My name is Matthew Man, I turned 16 in Japan, but now I'm 26 and you're gettin on my tits.

Wife: Did you just call me a bitch?

Husband: No I did not call you a bitch.

Wife: I was not paying attention - reading 'Weddings' '96.

Husband: Hold up, hold up, I'm a finish my rhyme. If you do not let me spit it I will not clean out the grime.

Wife: Word, dawggy-dawg, shit, you know I gotcha back, I'm a letchoo get along here with this dis rap battle attack.

Husband: My name is Matthew Man, I turned 16 in Japan, if you do not do the dishes I will not fry you da pan!

Wife: Rub-a-dub, hub, you have got some misplaced beef! I already did the dishes, you will always be my chief. Rapmanda must sign off now, though I really hate to taper, but the real deal is that we runnin' outta paper.


ODT Blogger, Anna Chinn

Not really a poem

Prelude: I'm a little anxious about getting rabies. It used to be that saying "no" was enough to prevent it, now I think I need to say "no" in more languages than one and combine a range of strategies. This is not really a poem, it's more something I just need to declare to the world (or at least to the two people who read my blog) - it brings me a little calm in the face of a fatal infection of the brain.


Say "no" to rabies
Sige "nej" til rabies

sabihin ng "hindi" sa rabis
zeg "nee" tegen hondsdolheid

dire "no" alla rabbia
Or as we say in Italian, "mai dire "no" a fare l'amore dolce"

Combine hard-core preventative strategies:
NEVER GO ANYWHERE!!!!
THROW OUT YOUR STUFFED TOYS!!!!
SLEEP INSIDE A WATERBED!!!!
INSIDE IT!!!!

Be copius with soap
Do not trust anyone
Ask yourself, 'Have I seen Dave Seville lately?'
No, I don't think you have
Chipmunks have rabies too you know.


This dog possibly has rabies.

Excuse my language.

Fuck* man.
Yeah,
That's right.

I got crazy
spinning thoughts
I got crazy
plastic forks

I got a
two flush toilet
and a tin of boiled pork.

Duck man.
Boy,
He can fight.

He got crazy
kung fu feet
He got tender
breast meat

He got a
scar from Vietnam
and intolerance to wheat.

Lady man.
Oh,
What a sight.

She got crazy
lady bits
She got crazy
man tits

She got a
dental bill from Georgia
and some underwear that fits.

Man man.
Mmmm,
He just might.

He's a man
who don't rhyme
all he ever says is
...
...
... ... cunt*.



The Fantastic Four.

*(Sorry about the foul language mum.)

I.N.D.I.A

I is for Ike Turner, a lover of curries

N is for Nehru Nehru a kind of potato

D is for Diana, how I wish she were alive

I is for Ivana Tinkle, although actually I don't

A is for Apu.

Oh my blog!

Oh my blog
My blog
Oh my...

It was Worzel Gummidge who said
Advance - to the land of swedes!
Could as easily have been manglebeets and turnips.

So how does my garden grow?
Nitrogen deficient and stoney
The birds eating my lettuce.

I'm still a gas guzzler
Still throwing out non recyclable plastics
I wear a green jersey.

An occasional tweet on twatter
Checking my web statistics
Powerpointing.

Titanium with a 3mill gold inlay
And a girl beside me with two rings
Lately Ross is our favourite friend.

And I nearly forgot
Mildly allergic
At least to stings on the head.

Pussies. Pure and Simple.

a herd of rampaging hippopotapussies
in historic times would have been brontosauramapussies
...maybe?
either way
both have trouble with tin openers, wire cutters, hair straightners
and other
UTENSILS.
god is laughing


(There's three of them, so yes the correct plural form would be Pygmy Marmosepussies)

Cafe Culture

Aloof
Click Click

Aloof
Click Click

At cafe
Ask for coffee

Yes I'm cool
Are you talkin to mee?

Ah yes, um well
I'd like sugar

Mm ahh swoosh
Here's my haughty nose boogar

Ok thanks, that looks good
food

You want it huh?
That depends on mood

The setting's great
Coffee ain't bad

But the wait staff clique
I find quite sad

Click E E
Click E E

Cafe hair and cafe cool
Altogether bland to me.

Bits.

Mm Mm U-huh
Mm Mm U-huh
Stop.

I got bits in my teeth
I got bits on the floor

I got bits on the bits
Where no bits were before

Ha-ha-ha
I laugh at myself

But that bit about bits
Yo it's serious bitch.

I can't help but think
This is F-O-T-C

But the thing about that
Is they're them and not me

Who's me? Why's me
Is that bits that I see?

The bits on my arm
Bits on my TV

Now stop.
It's time for new vocabdury

So I break it down like this
Yeah it's way OTP

A-wiggedee wiggidee wee
A-wakka vonTrapp

A-chitty chitty bang
A-bitty bitty slap!!!

Ho-ho-ho no he didn't?!
Yeah it's a fact

He wrote about bits
Yeah he made it a rap!

Toasty Armenians

Toasty Armenian bread...
...that's not even toasted
Pressure cooked loaves...
...that aren't even cooked
They're just pressure loaves.

Roasted parma ham...
...that I call proscweeto
Dried beer grass...
...that was fresh on my wedding day
And is now dangerous like cutty grass.

Paul Newman Mayonnaise...
...that's now without its master
It could be Paul Mayonnaise and I'd still eat it
Still consume it straight from the bottle
Coz that's how Datt rolls.

Michael Jackson

Ode to Michael

Oh Michael
You man-boy you
With your man-boy love
And your man-boy voice

I share your white pain
Only my vitiligo doesn't hurt
And as long as I don't tan
I'm ok

Somebody should have handed you a mirror
You needed to take a look at yourself
It might have told you
Poor boy you're bound to die

But we are all bound to die Michael
Eventually
Neverland never was forever
You simply purchased too much antique shit

When I was a little boy you would have liked me
I made up a finger game
When I pulled my friends little finger
They went 'Ow', just like you

I also wrote a play
It was called, The Rock and Roll Band*
I starred as you and sang Beat It
Huh... I've never been as in to you as I was then

I just had a little puke
But don't take it the wrong way
You're still somebody's hero
Just not mine

At least,
Not anymore
Coz, well...
My heroes are alive

Mel Gibson and Optimus Prime are alive.



* The Rock and Roll Band
By Matthew

The characters in the play are:

Rokenrolli Nicholas
Tom Cruise Tom
Michael Jackson Matthew
Reader Alison
Jason Donovan Glen

Reader: One day Rock and Roll Band were practicing for their next concert that was in two days time.

Jason: That's enough.
Reader: Ring ring ring
Tom: Hey dudes, wow.
Roken: Hi dude. Wow. Guys we're going to Hollywood.
Reader: They went to Dunedin Airport in a limousine.
Tom: This is choice!
Reader: They stopped at the airport and got out.
Michael: Get our luggage.

Reader: They arrived at the airport at Hollywood. They got on stage.
Tom: Here is a song called Beat It

Michael sings Beat It: "Beat it, beat it. Get a car and beat it. It doesn't matter just as long as you're there so beat it, beat it, get a car and beat it yeah"

Reader: When they had finished they signed some autographs. They got in their limousine. They went to the hotel.

The End.

About a painting

Holy Glockenspiel
Crappenberg!

Fartily arty
Heartily absurd

I didn't did I
Doobeedoobeedoo

I gessoed all down the canvas
What did I do!?

Glocken Holyberg
Spiel and crap!

My mind my mind
It ain't coming back

Datt's not my name.

Here is a rap-battle between my former self - 6 year old Matt D and my current alter-ego 26 year old Datt M. Street-cred is on the line and it's up to you to decide who has game and who is lame (and will later be 'drive-byed').

Datt M is up:

Yo Yo
Wigger Wigger
Yo
I'm Datt
Yeah I'm so freakin Phatt (Mofos)

Don't mess with that
Coz you might go splatt!
(Wigger Wigger)

Who's that fool Matt
He's thick
Like his head hit a batt
Ye-yah.

And to this rises Matt D:

Matt is my name,
Scat is my game.

I am a cat,
I sat on a mat.

I eat fish
at the mat.

I play with bats
In the rat cave.

People pat me.


...it's now up to you. Vote or die.

Sorry Mr Anderson

The setting:
It's seventh form (the last year of highschool), English class and we are studying King Lear.

The teacher:
Mr Anderson, mild, hearing impaired and memorable (evidently).

The question:
"Matthew, how do you explain The Fool's final line, 'And I'll to bed at noon'?"

The response:
"Mr Anderson, Bichon Frise. Glazed upon my window." And to this Mr Anderson nodded and said, "Yes that's good, does anyone have anything else to add?" To which Mr Anderson was met by a muffled silence (perhaps not unlike that which he heard when I spoke my response).

The apology:
Mr Anderson, I'm sorry. I mocked your hearing loss that day. Instead of a studious answer, I gave you my thoughts on a small breed of dog similar in appearance to, but larger than, the Maltese. I did so knowing that you would not hear me properly and with intention to cause laughter amongst the classroom at your expense. I apologise for this act of disrespect.

The poem:
Irrespective of my intentions that day, a landmark poem was created and here it is for you one more time (and this time with graphic).


Bichon Frise.
Glazed
Upon my Window.

Weather inspired.

I can throw an orange from my doorstep and have it land in the ocean 20m away (That's right, with a solid orange in hand I can throw all sorts of outlandish distances). Anyways the ocean is next door and when a storm blows in from the south it's great - it's action filled and rust creating. When the storm blows for 7 days and my ears are sore whether I'm inside or outside of the house it's not great - it's pushy and callous. It has inspired two poems, one serious, one beatnik. Here they are:

Number 1.

There is a see-saw ship
Through gritted teeth
And salt filled eyes
I'm nauseous

Waves and gulls and puuushhh of water

Exhale and breath is ripped away
inhale and it's sand.
Flax and rocks and crabs in hiding
Roughcast ocean scene


Number 2.

White Water Pounding
White Water Pounding
White Water Pounding
Pounding
Smash.

Thank you.

Thesimapussies.

While peeling kumura
I think of immunology and genetics
of veins and ventricles and tenticles and fermentation.
A pleasing smell of vinegar.

While my bottom touches the sofa cushion
I think of writing a thesis
a compost of fiddlesticks and faggots.
A bay leaf you can't digest.

While someone blows on a baby's face
I think of my sebaceous glands
of follicles and spawnicles and the hair matrix.
A Keanu Reeves 'cut circa Bogus.

All the while
All the while
Amongst the piles of thoughts and sharp retorts
A germinating smile.

Bovril vs Marmite.

Bovril vs Marmite - The Poem

Bovril.
Marmite.
Movril.
Barmite.

Fluid Beef had never tasted so sweet
Bulbous Jars on market shelves,
English hearts a flutter (now I know how Princess Di felt)

But, no to beef!
No to brain shrivelling skullduggery!
Give me Mar!

Oh, the Mighty-Mite
Sanitised sole-right production
Potassium superstar!

The antipodean Nigella Lawson.

Vacuum.

I love my new vacuum...

Vacuum
Too proud to have just one U
Only Llamas come close
A haughty little number.

Miele
2200 watts of power
You've got kick baby
Like Blue Brie, like a Spa Bath.

Vacuum
Sometimes it's like you're absent
Like there's nothing there
Complex. Metaphysical.

Miele
Dressed in metrosexual lemon
You sidle up to unworldly dust mites
And humming, you take them.

Wedding-ding-ding-ding.

Here are two pieces that surfaced on my wedding day.

"Jarrah, Superman and I" was stolen from me by my best man at the tender age of 7. Back then I didn't know he'd be my best man and until my wedding I didn't know he was a thief.

One day Jarrah came to my house. We played superman. Jarrah tried to jump out of a tree. He did. He shouted "supermans got me." I said "come down superman!!" .O.K.!!! He came. He said "what's your name?" I just stood there with astonishment. ".O.K. then I'll leave" "No! No! don't leave." I still stood there. Then superman said "let's put him in hot water." "No!!!!" I said. "Hey do you want a ride into space you two?" ".O.K. said Jarrah ".O.K." I said. "Then let's go." We were never seen again.(1)

... ... ...

"Wedding Poem" was written at the request of Euan. The influence of The Lonely Island is a little alarming.(2)

No one else knows
No one else has noticed
The lights, the lights
The lights!!
(The lights goddamit)
JIZZING EVERYWHERE...
On my wedding day.

No one else feels it
No one else has extreme sensory
Sensing organs like me.
The floor, the floor
The grey speckled, partly cracked
concrete 24 square metre floor.
I feel it
It's underneath my feet
Jizzing subtly
So subtly, on my wedding day.



(1) Story recreated without any chang e to the grammar of a 7 year old.

(2) For the origins of "Jizzing" see The Lonely Island's debut single "Jizz in my pants"

Word.

This is Datt Madley's web-log.

Actually it's Matt Dadley's Poetry Web-log, but I got all spooneristic on my name's ass.

It will display my poems that I write from time to time. They are often random, mainly rhyming and rarely well constructed (but who knows, your feedback may inform me otherwise).

You are invited to view this blog. I know that at least two of you could be called fans (of my work) and at times have been rewarded with poems written about you, and heaping the rest if you into a mass - you are friends who know of my lyrical side.

I worked out that blogs are predominantly self absorbed and self promoting and now that I've worked that out, it seems like just the thing I should get into. I should probably start with a new poem, but I'm not going to. I'm going to hit you with a 'Classic' and if I work out how to do it, it will even come with an associated image.

An Ode to Steve

You were my hero, my role model, my eco-warrior idol
You weren't my girlfriend, mechanic or muse

But you were also a father and probably mowed the lawns (if they ever grew long enough)

And then you got slippery with sting rays, it's like you never learned a goddamn thing.
Crocodiles chomp, snakes poison, sting rays...sting! Duh Steve,
Dumbass.

Now without you here things are different.

We don't talk anymore, your old man doesn't talk to Terri anymore.
Your son Trevor or Bob or something talks now.
Bindi, well Bindi - she's earned herself a whole stanza.

She has bloody well earned herself a stanza! (or two! I'm not yet decided!)

Bindi, like those annoying seeds that stick to your socks and manly leg hair
She wants to fly like an eagle
She wants to save Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins and the Whales and the Universe

Bindi wants to save you Steve, but she can't

She can't.