A poem for Garrick Tremain
A poem by Dunedin writer Victor Billot in response to that drawing by Garrick Tremain.
Phoning It In
I'm phoning this one in from the Deep South,
last stop before the road runs out,
the land where time stood still, ran backwards,
dripping a slimy thick shake of shame.
I'm phoning this one in from Dunners, Dun Vegas,
Dudsville, where dunderheads hit bum notes
and sing from the same sheet of dunny paper
in fifty shades of Persil automatic whiteness.
I'm phoning this one in via Jurassic Park
where carbuncled has-beens clap themselves on the back
for their stand against Political Correctness
and snowflakes who are looking to be offended.
I'm phoning this one in for the sniggerers,
the gigglers, the harden up get over itters,
while lifeless children are lowered into graves
before their parents' disbelieving eyes.
I'm phoning this one in from Pig Island,
South Polynesia, downtown Ōtepoti, Dunedin 9054,
where someone forgot to send the memo
that the natives have feelings too.
I'm phoning this one in from the edge of the map,
the eternal Pacific blue that embraces us,
and joins us together, sea people, island people,
so one day we may see into each other’s hearts.
O Samoa, from this small place,
for your pain and grief and sorrow
we send our love and ask for forgiveness
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