blackmail press 17
Jennifer B
new zealand
Green American Men From Mars

He sounded apologetic
for being an American, 
for living in a Bush led country
and he asked me if
he should leave
his homeland,
to go live in Canada
or even New Zealand,
when, or if,
he ever managed
to raise enough cash.

He wanted to know
what I thought about 'it all'
how I felt about 'it all',
he was looking for answers
from a stranger,
who lives fucking miles away
across the ocean...

And his words made me feel
kind of sad

..So I told him that.

And who the hell was I anyway,
this stranger from New Zealand
so fucking geographically
and emotionally isolated,
to judge any of them
for needing to believe
what they needed to believe?

..Because I wasn't there
with any of you
that day...

And some time around now
in the space of no time
and the time of no space,
A couple of old
David Bowie tunes
came to mind
and I found myself
singing them both
simultaneously in my head,
thinking about people,
Major Tom
and the Spiders from Mars,
other places,
other than
fucking planet earth.

And so I rambled on
something about
feeling sorry,
for those who'd
voted against Bush ,
the idealists,
the strong,
the aware,
the green American men
from Mars,
who could sit and stare
right over the edge of it all,
seeing right through,
all of the red, right and blue
and the fucking
stars and stripes.

You can't wish upon
those kind of
falling stars...

Because it's
not something about,
nor is it something to do
with the choices
that people make,
but more to do
with the feelings
that drive people
to make them...

Can you hear me
from that
far away?

"This is ground control to..."

And me,
I just live
way over here,
in a land where poets
get paid money
for writing about Tuis
that shit and sing
in Kowhai trees,
a country where writers
whore their souls,
writing glossy,
fucking poetry,
designed to promote,
the remote,
admiring the scenery,
pushing the greenery,
switching channels,
shaking my head,
reading emails,
hitting buttons
all over the place,
and from here
it's all so crazy
and unbelievable.

I'm a just stranger
for christs' sakes,
living in a land
where we bury our heads
in the black iron sands
of the West Coast beaches,
over here,
we just sit back
and blindly wait
for it all
to just
fucking go away,

blow away...

because it's a global nightmare,
a real life,
Virtual Reality Show


I've got fuck all else
to say.

I can't help you,
I have no answers,
because by now,
I've already astral traveled
a billion light years

"Can you hear me Major Tom?"

My battles are all contained
within the pubic fence-line,
on the home-front,
and not the front-line,
I don't know shit
about your private war,
and I'm not even
really sure,
just what the hell
you wanted
this electronic transfer

of key strokes

to stroke?


I'm sorry but,

I can't stroke you.
any more.


Last words.

I think that I heard some place,
something about,
how your feet stop growing
when you reach the age
of seventeen,
how your shoes
are all walked in by then,
soft and worn in,
familiar and comfortable,
so why change them now,
you know?

Why go in search
of newer shoes
when you'll only get blisters
bursting on your heels,
pimping yourself
for somebody else's
cheap, conservative
warped ideals?

Fuck being ashamed
of who the hell you are,
quit apologising
for your existence
and just be,
a green American man
from Mars,
stay right there,
pull back a chair,
take a seat,
put up your feet
and try
switching channels
for a while...

I think that
I told him,
some kind of manic,
like that...

"Ziggy played guitar,
jamming good with Weird and Gilly
And The spiders from Mars,
he played it left hand But made it too far..."