A BALLAD OF THE CHRISTCHURCH SUBURBS

(Vespers)

God spare me Merivalians;

the matrons and their sons,

their moleskin-wearing sisters.

From Fendaltonians

deliver us Lord, the mother

whose tongue’s a fearful lash,

and her younger brother

who married into cash.

In from the batch at Hanmer

two Sloane Rangers and a child

in their four-wheel-drive Pajero

brave the rough suburban wild

for cheese and wine with neighbours

(he’s a sot and she’s a bitch),

be they National or Labour,

doesn’t matter if they’re rich.

The glory of their kitchens

comes from a magazine

in Provençal or Tuscan

to keep the Joneses green.

God save me from the yuppies

and their ironic lives

of pathos, and the strangeness

of parvenu housewives.

Her jewels and bonhomie are faux.

With sneer curled on her lips

she asks of your position

among the first four ships.

It’s boat shoes to do gardening.

She wears a strand of pearls

with her Crusaders rugby shirt

for drinkies with the girls.

“It’s Fendaahwlton, not Bryndwr!”

despite the map’s divide,

“We don’t live in Linwood, dear,

we live in Avonside!”

The borders are quite nebulous.

Wish the social climbers dead.

Come lovely, friendly bombs and fall

on Avonhead.

First published in Quietus: Observations on an Altered City, Analogue House, 2012