Brian Evans

I am Brian John Evans, born 29th June 1933, in Auckland, New Zealand, where I still live.  I studied for four years at Otago Medical school, then left and went doing hard physical work, in things like freezing works and ten years pounding all the streets in Auckland reading electric meters. I just loved it!
Then I ran my own old victoriana shop in the city.  I built up my fitness and love of people (close-up.)

As the American TV bit in to NZ, the dogs got bigger, fiercer and the people more obese, atomised, one from the other and Orwellian slave, in character, as sadly happens everywhere.

In opposition to the redneck politics, I constantly rang all the talkback radio in NZ and became known as "The Talkback Terrorist of New Zealand".
They would send the police around, as I had 100 different voices, as I am banned everywhere.  (My brother, the famous award-winning cartoonist, Malcolm Evans, got shoved off our main newspaper The NZ Herald.)

A "dear old lady" who might speak after me, could get cut off talking back,  for, "You sound like Brian Evans!". "No! I'm a dear old lady!" she might plead.  What fun!

If more people emulated me, talking back to the world's media, the redneck TV radio "hosts" and other bad corporate-biased media could disappear and there would be no more war!

I have two poetry sites, http://apoem.com (googles well for "Brian Evans") and the new one http://bestpoet.com!

SPIDERS CANNOT WALTZ MUCH

 
Doctors say our spiders rarely enthuse,
When the sound of the fast waltz fills their rooms,
For the medical fact of the matter is that,
Each of a spiders' eight feet, arches quite flat ;
That’s eight reasons spiders won't ever be drafted.
Though spiders are fleet foots and rarely get shafted,
Their waltz-skidding on corners is woefully harder,
For spiders get their eight leg-pits so in a lather :
What with stomping, then squirting under-leg deodorants--
This takes the edge off Tales of Vienna waltz exuberance ;
So spiders sulk as pouty wallflower fixities,
Investing in mummified fly-future liquidities--
Why did man give away his happy dance halls,
For sour individualism and depression's free falls?

Kiss your Love—forsake Duty—for night’s stallion bears down,
On the bright mares of sunlight that jostle and clown,
Fresh-eyed from lush waters--last colours their prize--
They have frolicked with tree witches all naked and wise :
Magicked they lift them—their long witchy hair—
Till witch-winds go-tumble witch-glistens in spray.
One scared witch withered to her dried-sphagnum lair,
Had schemed and composed her near human disdain,
But so dark is man’s dungeon--she burst from its shame!
She sang like six night birds--she rose as six moons!
Her mouse cast six shadows--six fat owls scoured their bones ;
How she ached for her sisters--till each found her in turn--
Become all things and no thing—our joy—and its pain;
In the heart of a poet, breathes that witch girl without name!

Four Doormats

I bought four doormats on a spree,
(I owned no home you see,)
And laid one by this comfy tree ,
And climbed on to the lowest leaves,
For some sleepy reverie;
It felt so good I dreamed at peace,
And schemed unselfish dreams:
Where the city's homeless grieve-
Find  three forgiving doors-
(No bourgeois outraged screams)-
With porches to keep the rain at bay;
The irony is, "the worst of times",
Had freed more guys like me;
Three doors like wooden headstones,
For my hardcase homeless team,
Now as doormat-rich as me.
Another door was boarded up,
And I laid my rope mat there,
We live against our locked-tight doors,
Till the Good Lord opens all.

Big Oil

Big oil
Big spill
Why drill?

Big Gold

Big gold
Big holes
Just moles?

Big Coal

Big coal
Hot sales
Freezed souls

Big Gold

Big Gold
Live hedge?
Gold's dead.

Big Veg

Just dig
Big Veg
Instead

Big Silver

Silver's silver
But silverbeet
Is Silverbeet!

Albatross

God took little tufts of feathers and fashioned them with love,
And thus gave man - sparrows, nightingales and doves.
Then God invented Physics - which has lots of gravity,
Then one almighty saline pack - which Adam called the sea.
"Not bad," said the devil "but when push doth come to shove,
No intrepid spirit blazes from your boring little dove-
Your creatures are like rusting nails on your salty brine,
Not waterproof, they are drowning, all the blooming time!"
So God took icebergs, fish, taniwha, waves-storm-tossed-
And out of God's wind tunnel burst - the mighty albatross!
"Oh dear," said Old Nick, "I'll be scheming overtime,
To impugn The Lord's creation - God's bird is so sublime!"
Thus earth and heaven merge in endless treaties:
Tapestries of albatross gliding over the centuries;
Vain man began religions when he found he could not fly -
Religions gave man 'souls' - and souls got man off the ground!
But Taoists clash with Dualists,
Muslims clash with Christians,
Muslims clash with Muslims,
Christians clash with Christians,
Husbands clash with wives
And poets of course clash with everyone:
While man's debates they grind all night;
The albatross glide relaxed, in perfect prayerful flight,

Folk flee to faiths that promise better sleep at night-
Like "Jesus' Congregation for Country Invasions"-
And "Mother Mary's Right-Wing Conversations"-
"Members pray, listen - then shoot-at bird migrations!"

Go free - Go with me! - We'll go easyriding! - We'll go gliding! -
With the albatross birds at sea!

Patupaiarehe

The perfumed sails of evening,
Rose gently o'er the sand,
Where drying nets and wooden boats,
Lay freed from human hands.
The tide relaxed its restless roam,
And slowed in dark repose;
A boy and girl came near to stare
And to breathe the sweet sea air;
They kissed and Patupaiarehe lights
Streaked through that Waiheke sea-
Oh teeming sprights! Oh feral mites!
So old! So young! So free!
Side by side those lovers dived-
We swam with the Patupaiarehe!

Jesus

They aren't making jews like Jesus anymore,
As ubiquitous as Walmart or Hell's pizza to your door:
The threw away the Jesus mould and went back to ancient lore,
Eyes for eyes and tooths for tooths,
And craving juicy real-estate, of the defeated poor.
Everything is such a bore in consumerism's miserable grip-
Everything available except Jesus' soothing lisp-
Yes lisp! - you first heard it here- his so endearing trait-
Along with all that ginger hair hiding his holy face;
Other stuff I'll reveal as God's Angel presents to me-
I get these Angel Emails in Bold Roman-
No Trojan viruses and so far quite spam free!
This poet needs rebirthing - send Jesus and holy water on the side,
There's this gorgeous Mary Magdalene that brings out my naughty side;
Our priests are far too fallible- mine owes me heaps of quids-
And scratches his itchy bum and picks his nose-
Which Jesus never did;
Once rebirthed I'll clean up my poet act-
And write perfect Shakespearian sonnets-
I know that for a fact!

Health Inspector

I'm a cool City Health Inspector,
So my report on your boss is true,
Everything's just so lovely,
Especially sweet Freya too:
Her eyes, her cheeks, her lips, her...
Earn my A-plus tick for your crew!
Bring more coffee, pretty girl do-
Blow the cost - I'll be Big Spender,
And write great poems for you...
Ooh I've spilt some molten brew!
My thighs afire like a burning desire
My eyes water red and moist-
Buckets of ice cream would melt below!
(Raspberry's my favorite choice)
Oh this growing scalding glow...
I'm a tough City Health Inspector,
But I grant my permission - GO!
Within my stringent hygiene rules,
Ice cream your Inspector's family jewels!

GEORGE W BUSH

George W Bush hit on these 'ere master plans,
He'd get all them pesky ayrabs and such,
On Mcdonald's and other depleted mucks;
They'd fall right into his oil and blood stained hands.
So the super-clean teams, zealots and preachers,
Of the American media engines of rule, our teachers,
Arrived in them there ayrab badlands
But ohmigosh them towel and burka heads were so healthy! -
How to turn ayrabs into fast-food fat compliant fools - be stealthy?
It had worked in Beijing and Sydney (mirrors and smoke);
New Zealand was a pushover already hooked on Coke,
Battered greasy fish and fat soaked chips,
That ends up on hearts, cheeks, tummies and hips,
Kiwis suspect our muesli, beads and sandals folk-
Who just plot to keep us well is all - some hope!
But them pesky arabs had no westies and such denizens
Or talkback radio - unless you count them muezzins
And praying six times a day; all holy public prayer drill;
No poor-white trailer-trash or Oprah or Doctor Phil,
And people being made mad by their unholy splits
In the extended family, like us poor stupid gits;
Lord, unlike us they only shot their guns to the heavens,
In praise of the continual joinings and happy weddin's
And ceremonies and song and dance -
You could see that here, real men, still rule-
Not some jumped up, mixed up, poof fool-
Broadcasting his or her slimy family-splitting drool.
Ayrab religion is a total mix of God and Politics,
Which are lead by men - not secret-agenda drips;
Unlike us who individualise which weakens the common-good
And lets the advertising ayatollas of Madison Ave and Hollywood,
Have us hooked on their 'happy meals for families',
Who're gonna hyper-split-up their family trees.
Well before old George W could have it all,
There came this poet both lean and tall:
"Make my day you mummy's boy!
Junk like yours means we'll be passing hard 'sinkers',
Not the soft 'floaters' that make porridge munchers pinker;
Your weapons of mass digestion will give folk pain
And pollute more than your spent-uranium, insane
new bugs will be outa control,
Killer-food tsunamis like no other toll!"
George W now parks your car at Fallujah Mall,
And that muesli eatin' poet is president is all.

The Talkback Terrorist of New Zealand

Their blood runs red and their breath stnks too,
Our loony tunes media looking always for a superficial reality
Everyone could sniff round Bohemian Grove-
Fruitless?
Better buy gold?
Walter Cronkite out of a plastic speaker?
The Empire is on the run?
Nah, it is as aprochable as water;
The drilll sergeant calls one two three?
And 200 haircutted handcuffed marines scream "Kill!"
Digitalised feudalism my friend,
Spin and lies,
Not Norman Rockwell anymore -
Appreciate what you have,
Listen to some tunes-
Information age a joke, oh god-
Keep it simple-
Charles Manson got it wrong WRONG!!
Avoid the rat-hole Matrix
Love?
Maybe.
Poetry rules still and always will.

ANTIQUE JOURNEY

My canoe is made of water,
With its paddle of soft cool air,
My body seems all hazy light,
Even my whitened hair ;
Lads and lassies speak my name,
Or sing as I leave earth’s shore,
But a little sigh escaped those lips,
When that heartbeat was no more--
Less a sigh, more like fretting :
Is this my dying King Arthur--
And where is my Sir Bedivere?
A little child now takes my hand
And laughs as if at play--
“Well hello sir—I died just yesterday.”

Olde Bull

All was calm, near sleep or stil

Above the brow of Prisoners’ Hill,

White flowers of the risen night,

Glowed round the moon, that baffling sight,

And bats from verdant hunger trails,

Flapped to dark and castled caves,

Whose wrinkled rocks grew gypsy warm,

With bats' voluptuous ancient form :

One joyous generating head

Hung down in tribal rest. Well fed,

The lustrous light outside,

Floated borne by fine web spider thread.

One stressed crazed sexton stumbled still--

--Craving his church ding dong ropes to pull--

Even one comfort bell--with some kind hymn on the side--

Trevor’s brain crunches cogs with his business ‘Satan Mills.’

New Order mills and coffee are hypertension high slides,

Trevor’s New Dis-Order hands are like hot wet gills ;

Trevor panics and pelts down Ecumenic Hill,

And ends dignity-impaled on his parish old bull.

"Olde bull I thought you were my church rustic stile,

I should have stayed in my icy bed awhile."

"More moans from money’s tied man," the Olde Bull said,

"Money ignores our people-centered Christ’s "Be still!"

"So Christ is yours as well," gruff pious pants said,

"Which Eco Christian faith encourages your head?"

"Well a good loaf and a fish were our good Jesus' treats,

Bulls love serene saviours who steer clear of steer meats."

Our punctured sexton is borne to St. Bandaid Hospital,

Where Doctor L.O. Bull reseats every corpuscle.

Trev’s chafed cheeks both sealed our grateful lunarian,

Like Darwin’s first bull, trots now sugarless-vegetarian :

Calmer, handsome, with nearly dry hooves... er...hands ;

Trev is two veterinarian’s tissues just short of perfection!

With Trev’s moods improved May Magdalene who had left him,

(May is a Weight Watch Diploma, in Bulimia Remission)

Canters home to try Trev’s trans-meditation reflections ;

Both also try bellowing as moonlighting muezzins--

Which really breaks up the town’s bickering and divisions!

Just by turning our eyes to bat-moon’s soft stars,

Night’s love seems to float in to dew in our hearts.

Though some souls are bullish for more magical rebirth,

New bull follows old bull towards our final true worth......