Poetry of Doug Poole

Mourning Catastrophe

We make love creating earthquakes

Under tonnes of rubble our love is safe

Beneath the sheets the roof and top

Five floors collapse. Waves subside

Thunder crack, walls caving in.


The morning news tells of catastrophe

That took place as we made love

Remembering ecstasy across your face

The death white face

Of the woman thought dead whose eyes flashed

At the moment of our ejaculation.

Under tonnes of rubble, others suffocate.  

Force Fed Violence


Let me keep on watching

Mummy/ Daddy

TV Violence/ Hollywood violence

For we are being bred

Soon will come a time

No longer will I just kill you in my head


Love Mask


Paint stained lover

In a gloved hand

Been pushed over




Bruises, scratch marks

Accompany promises of



Blood stained mother

In a closed hand

No way out




Cleans the floor

Her own blood

Is this














In Love with the Phantom


This is a love story, with a ‘40’s notion of Love

Focuses on a nameless woman, in a red dress

She is nameless because you have not named her yet

This woman can be you or a woman you know

Who has loved the Phantom

Now you must decide for yourself

If the Phantom is handsome or ugly

Alluring or disgusting


The Phantom I have chosen wears a purple body suit

Though he blends well into any colour scheme

 A vicious Bastard, hands come from anywhere, you

Could be lovingly stirring your tea, when pouting lips

With child-like eyes appear, to soothe to allure


The Phantom is driven by sexual enterprise

You could call it Business, a pallet of flesh

Open for recreation. You’d better keep

That yellow shawl to remember warmth

It can get pretty cold within a harbinger of Love.


He may be your Romeo, but rather your Juliette

A surrogate botherer of Feminist, believe, he is

Right into psycho-masturbation…


And ‘She’ the woman in red, drapes the yellow shawl

Lovingly stirs her tea, and smiles, quite appallingly.  




Near the sea, Pohutukawa

A fallen Babylon

Four waves to break

A waiata for you


Guarded doors

Pyramids; an arch view

Islands; an ocean to cross

A waiata to you


Goddess Papatuanuku

Red Flower highlights

Your sunlit hair

Strong legs, hands

Fertile womb


Long hair; streaming, hilltop to valley

Grown creeks to rivers; your hair

A net to seduce, desired I writhe

Entangled and intertwined

A pleasure, a fear, drawn to

Light in your dark eyes, to

your mouth. To be eaten

strength of ancestors living within you; Waiata

A song for you



Come Sunday


Lay it on me

Preacher/ Pastor/ Priest

Dogma n Sex

Choir n Small boys

Come Sunday I’ll be

blue eyed ‘n’ lonesome

A virgin, on my knees

Exposing one breast; in purity.

Come Sunday


Front from the Fifties


It is a males prerogative

To ‘staunch’ in a pub

Fraternity of man

Red drinkers.

‘It’s my Life’ ‘I do what I want’ ‘Bitch!’

Repressed middle class desires

Penis envy; suppressed accuracy

Due to Dad’s Marital Practices

‘My Car’ An extension of 18years Phallus

It’s 4WD substitute subservience

It’s can’t find a fuck concussion

It’s Bad news from the front


Dad was a totalitarian


Dad was a totalitarian.

Rounded us up, told,

he was our father, by decree.

Passionate, eclectic, never shallow.

Dad was a totalitarian

Collected 33's in crates and cupboards where

Others kept food. john cale, joy division

snakefinger, john mayells blues breakers

the bee gees?!

Dad was a totalitarian

Drunken i love you's, drunkard violence.

Now he believes in Jehovah, God,

i still see blood on the carpet

'n' scratched dylan tracks


Evolutionary drive


These crowded roads, congested steering

Engaging eyes; as if we could fuck: Traffic Sex

Moving into the fast lane too fast

Road rage victims.

Perpetrators long gone.

Safe on time at work

Scavenger wardens ticket the dying

Double parkers loose doors

Police break sound barriers

Radar Junkies parade naked

X rated speed camera action

Road Auckland is evolutionary drive

Demonstrative. Ritualistic: mating, conquest and death.



Broken bone


Koueue shattered on the concrete

Drive. Landfall left me broken bone

Once hollow flute, articulated ribcage

Larynx chortled my own didgeridoos

For now, I am broken. Awaiting the vessel

To runth over ; muse or just an email from you.

All poetry  by Doug Poule

Click HERE to go to page two of poems by Doug Poole. Page two focuses more on Doug's spiritual, family, and Maori poetry.

Doug Poole is the Editor of Blackmail Press, a New Zealand based journal which is rapidly becoming one of the most exciting and successful journals online. His poetry has been widely published. Many terms used in his poetry draw from the New Zealand Maori culture, a  culture in which Doug's roots dig deep. Click HERE to visit Blackmail Press.
(The Journal opens in a window, so pleaae turn off the music first by clicking the black square in the music box at the bottom of this page)

Artwork:  Graphic modification of Kina shell, native to New Zealand, by Kit and Sue Baker Wilson (also of New Zealand)

Music: Hine E Hine, a Maori lullaby

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