The little orange fish

Church Street is high flooded with flushes
Duncan terrace refuses a park
you are tired and hopeless

I am crouched like a cliché
under the dark dungeon of a duvet
playing with words. Auckland’s far

behind and you cry because no one
allowed you a place to park and
your mother won’t talk to you

I am wondering if the Mayans
had got apocalypse right
you snore

I keep the light within t
he duvet like a little orange
teen fish that loves
playboy