Tapora
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Like Hannibal we crossed the pass and crossed
the Alps (okay, the Brynderwyn Hills)
and a bridge too far on north-west passage.
From out of the Valley of Mizpah
to the fires of perdition at the gates of Sodom
down Port Albert Road till at long last…
Tapora on the Kaipara Harbour.
Land of pixies, eunuchs, and banjo strummers -
home to flat-earthers, doomsday-preppers,
bootleggers, desperados, and sheep-buggerers!
Yet we were on a pilgrimage,
and behold “the Eagle had landed”
or in our case the Red Falcon
to burn in its fires and rise from the ashes
like the Phoenix (no, not the pub, Einstein,
the great flamin' mythical bird!).
And so the winds of folly did fan the salty
sea air on ruttin’ sodomites and nervous sheep.
Soon night falls on the dunes in No Man’s Land -
the Southern Cross high in its galactic belt,
and constellations of Gods and sacred beasts
gazed at by ancient Babylonians
and Greeks and Maori shimmer in the heavens -
the maps and lights of all antiquity
flashin’ across the Milky Way!
Now I’m no Copernicus or space ninja
of the cosmos but I too was seein’ stars -
I’m always seein' stars - the curse of deja brew!
As we played darts and Dylan played
I confess I was wise to not much I fear -
joyfully I was blind and mute to sublimations
and dumb to the ideology of civil obedience.
Gandhi I’m not - more like Mau,
yep, Chairman Skeet! Actually more akin
to Marx (Groucho, not Karl),
author of the “Up Yours Manifesto”.
And unlike Marx (Karl, not Groucho) truly
wisely deaf to the bullsh-it of my own speak.
I am zen to the ancient art of mind over matter -
if Skeet don’t mind it don’t fu-ckin' matter!
The cache of hooch is a target rich environment,
and as self-appointed quartermaster
and rankin' officer of this rabble I must do
what I must, for Skeet is
an ideas man (yep, bad ideas)
and my master plan was indeed a bad idea -
to drink the merry lot till I saw the Four Horsemen
of the Apocalypse or the face of God.
I was hopin’ for God! No, these were not
the banks of the River Jordan, but I did
see a pale horse in the wilderness!
Soon by the glow of the midnight sun conspire
the fates to rid me of all conscience -
and when I can drink no more I am
the last man standin’ (leanin’) in the dark,
and nothin’ stirred, not even a mouse till
lappin’ waves upon the shore lull me to sleep.
And as the mornin' light on the Kaipara breaks
so too my mojo risin’, but my long runnin'
battle continues with vertigo and the Earth’s
centrifugal force and gravitational pull.
To cure my bottle flu I skoll
an early DB corpse reviver
and I’m alive again - not hungover…still pissed!
In my addlemania I dry ringin' wet clothes
from my baptism of sand and sea
fallen in the dunes. The estuaries and mudflats
whisper yonder. Bugger! Kaipara Harbour’s
great inland sea at its low ebb,
a remote ancestral place of myth and legend.
Those haunted banshee badlands
echo in the wind and echo a man’s soul.
Later under cover of darkness,
Regiment covert Black Ops! Left base camp
HQ at 2100 hours. Helter Skelter Company!
Cursed by howlin' wind more eye-rollin’ drunk
than before - dug in on the shiftin’ sands
of Iwo Jima, bivouacked on the beachheads
and foxholes of Omaha Beach
under a great umbrella of stars.
Behold seal team Victor Tango Charlie in the long
grass with “all guts ‘n glory” Bowden
(twice mentioned in dispatches) at my side
stalkin’ a local frontier girl as she danced
the dance of the seven veils.
Meanwhile seal team Delta Zulu Bravo
deployed on recon for cockles and mussels,
but the blokes under my command
had heads like Romulans so we had
to bug out - bid a retreat lest
toothless villagers wavin’ pitchforks appear
(hey, in these parts a cowpoke is a verb!)
Yo, is that Deulin’ Banjos I hear? Banjos sh-it me!
Returned to HQ and debriefed in our madness
to sleep off my funk as grunts frenzied on cockles.
Out of nowhere an enemy patrol rained incomin’
shellfire on the tin roof, stoned us with their
hit and run not so smart bombs and vanished
like the voices in my head.
Just kiddin’! No voices! Not psycho!
Before I could say “ho lee fuk!” they disappeared
in the wind up the local Ho Chi Minh Trail -
not exactly the Battle of Long Tan but eerie sh-it.
But alas worse was still to come
at Camp Crystal Lake when my
Blood on the Tracks tape sh-it itself. The ghost
of Dylan died! O’ but there was an Idiot Wind
blowin’ through our Shelter From the Storm,
and in my cabin fever I did
become yep, Tangled Up in Blue!
Sunday, alas low on hooch - more precious than
the Ark of the Covenant. Was then plotters
plotted in the pampas grass on the Kaipara shore.
Thus it is written in the Book of Skeet that I saw
John the Baptist and Paul the lay missionary
with the Virgin Jillene (okay, virgin is a stretch!).
I saw Three Wise Men: The Good,
The Bad and The Coyote Ugly
(or Rob, Rich and Craig boy) - better known as
the Wit brothers: Dim, Half, and Fuk!
One was fishin’, one was drinkin’, and one was
suckin’ on a fagg (cigarette that is, lol!).
And so with jellyfish in my jacket
and mischief in my heart I was on a mission
from God. As I rolled back the bedcovers
I felt good and just cause. As I laid my slimy
jellied friend down the stars and planets aligned.
I had prayed for Deliverance
but I think God misunderstood,
so like Jake and Elwood we smoked that Monaro
outta there before insurrection in the ranks
and before any pig squealin’ dumb hillbilly
mountain men showed up to take a bride!
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2022
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