18 September, 2012
The Māorist pauses, contemplates
The building, empty, near bomb blasted,
Glassless, eyeless, majestic
Germanic brickwork, soviet design
Stretching far, on grounds,
granit stoned, loveingly laid,
for russian cans of death, tracks of steel
The Māorist, plastic bagged weapons, in hand, walks
Quiet, alone,
Hissing of sommer cars, everywhere
The concrete steps, bushes overgrown,
Trees, in roof, lost from earth
The Māorist going further, up steps, climbing
Glass splitters, under rubber, crackling,
Sound sharp, splitting crisp iced snow,
Doors, half hanging, other trodden on floor
Strength long lost
Feeling of sadness, emptyness
Longing, strong, for livelier days
The Māorist, room, after room, slowly, searching
Empty room stretches, pillared,
Lined by high windows
Operations room, tanks in ceiling mural
Wall covering hanging, layers of layers, yearly sovietness
Russian prose, exposed, an early life,
Eighties military newspapers, as surrogate, succumbed to reuse
Coming to show, to lose, slowly, occupational hold
The Māorist in op room, two virgin walls, to stain
The room, as others, deserted, light filled,
Scars on walls, from copper arteries, forcibly ripped,
Cigarette stub, in corner, life extracted,
An artist’s sketch, faded, covered with old dust,
Lost, waiting years, diligently, for finder, on floor,
To foot of sprayer’s master’s piece, a daemon head,
its paint, already plucked by time, falling from wall
The Māorist, 40 years on earth, seventy to go, ponders
In centre, blue topped, searching
Legs, thermals covered, black
Above, manly pregnancy, slightly protruding
Socks grey, on first sight, conformist living, a normalist
Subtle two tones, breaking image of bankers secure world
Below, sneakers, dark, star patterned, untied,
New generation statement, cool
The Māorist’s own birthday present, legacy in the making, thinks
Still life, on floor, sprayers cans, bananas, two litre water,
In between, with darkened skin, from burning hanging globe, down under
His cocktail, Māori, European tribal blood, pulsing,
From, trousers short, khaki, paint flecked, the sketch book,
ideas, bulging to explode, waiting for a new sun rise,
taken in hand, feeding his spirit,
The Māorist, bearded, silver streaks, before wall, anticipating
Now in motion, darkened, rubber gloved, hands move,
The artist’s cans of life, in grip
Creating magic, from hovering hands
Lines, a circle, dividing the wall in halves, appears, high up
Radiant lines, thin, like dark sun beams, reach from centre to floor,
The Māorist, giver of life, energized
Stenciled curves, layered, after layer
Filling out, colour after colour, left hand, right hand
working, alternatively, driven by Māori spirit,
double-barreled shot gun, spraying taint
The haze, compound droplets, synthetic, man designed,
Hanging, sweet, in the air
To be swept, per unseen hand, thru’ glassless windows.
The Māorist, Le Chef of blues, composing
Le Chef, master of fragrant hues and toned spices,
Mixing a dish, cooked, the last supper, an homage to 40 years life
Can, shuttled, not stirred, brought to breath
Finger on start, being guided, trained eye
Image, invisible, standing in room, only seeable by God’s missionaries eye.
The Māorist pauses, stoops, recharges
Taking, new life, in each hand,
Muscles flexing, shuttling,
Harmony of motion
Balls inside, racing, embryonic womb,
Pounding to escape, the rattle snakes,
Getting ready for war,
A spark of time united, twins, empathic
To be let loose, unforgiving
To blind the sixties wall
The Māorist, artist preparing, reaching
Cans in groups, three alone, long their life gone
Stand now in new graveyard, to side
Russian post pop chair, battered, grey,
Pre used, by post war repressionist,
Now as step, for post wall expressionist.
On top, wash machine drum, refunctioned,
Stainless, high tech, as pedestal, for higher works.
The Māorist, feeling
New age conductor, on pedestal, patiently, waiting,
Mouth of each artists soul, cough silently, clearing
And then with his hands, a thousand swipes,
Bringing to life, a harmonic symphony, vibrant colours.
Each soul, with cleared throat, singing, an aria of colour
The Māorist, General of spirit, fighting
As General, guiding primary troops, battlefield, wall high,
Trenches and terrain long planned, being carved
A document to a revolution, a new era
The building’s soul, Marxism and Lenin long gone,
Its purpose, being redefining, giving joy,
Excitement, to young radicals, Che Guevaras of Colour
The Māorist, a servant of masterwork, humble
Crouching, wiping out, yellowed backdropped evil,
Stepping up, an eye appears on a polynesian god like head
Symbols of long time gone, on arms held high
A step to the side, filling, new forms,
Thinking, slower, fine detail
The Māorist, a servant of to the arts, blessed
Stepping back, unfolding before, sensory terrain,
Matching, feeling
The scene unfolds, modern day Easter Island,
Moai figures, three meters high, in dialogue
From deceased forefathers, redesigned
Passed through vapours of time,
To servant, tribal priest of arts
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dedicated to Regan Tamanui
Artist (Stuckist, sprayer, stencilist and lots of other things creative)
40th Life Year
© Wizian, September 2012
Bernau/Berlin, Germany