New Tourettes Poem

Heres a poem Tourettes posted on his myspace page last week...

Aramoana
The sky was weeping as we pulled out of the garage,
the grey shorts of my school uniform, too tight.
Someone was talking inside the radio,
the voice was familiar
but the words were off.
“Gunman”
“13 dead”
“Jesus” my mother said under her breath.

Years earlier
we lived near Aramoana
in a small town with one shop
where the air smelt of burnt toast.
The voice inside the radio kept relaying details,
every so often the formal words cracked
emptying the viscera of emotion into the blue Holden Kingswood.

People were shocked that it happened
but I remember the countryside,
with its choked madness.
I remember the wind slapping my face
while the pine trees shook with laughter.
I remember the moon staring so hard at night, I couldn’t sleep.
I remember the weather, fierce,
Screaming, crashing outside my window.
In this setting
mass murder almost seems romantic.

At school
no one talked about wrestling or spacies,
no one pashed behind the hall,
the day was like a half developed Polaroid.

That night the television screamed sympathy,
my feet hung off the end of my single bed.
If I closed my eyes
I could just make out
13 souls limping towards the point,
where the grey southern sky joins the sea.