Jordan is the recently-crowned 2018 New Zealand Poetry Slam Champion. He is a Pōneke-based poet and public servant. He grew up in Timaru on a healthy diet of Catholicism and masculine emotional repression. When he’s onstage he feels 27 years of anxiety slip away into the accepting embrace of a crowd who spend every day fighting their own silent battles.
Jordan performed alongside Hera Lindsay Bird at Bush Bash 2017 and recently at the Wellington LitCrawl Poetry Showcase. He wants to publish a book sometime in the near future so a tangible piece of his vanity will outlive him. He spends his spare time writing about pop culture and interviewing musicians, angry that his parents never made him learn an instrument as a child.
Ham and Cheese Toasties
Every day something disappears
I’m never sure what it is,
A chair, some drawers, our repertoire,
A night we camped out on the roof
Stitching together our last desperate dawn
With contempt for the plans others make.
There’s no more need for that toastie machine
Bought with change seeking refuge in the creases TradeMe couches make.
We’ve sacrificed bread to the gods of gastric distress
And the rusted amber handle, with congealed Edam icicles
Was graceful in its abandonment
Post-Modernism never fooled this little press
Into delusions of George Foreman-esque grandeur.
I’ve never understood grief or masculinity.
How long should touch linger in these final moments?
Slap my ass, make a joke.
It’s hard to have resolve sometimes.
Like crying all night in the bathroom of a corporate function
And calling it networking.
Or a kindergarten teacher, shitting himself in front of the children out of solidarity.
One day we’ll build our own commune,
In the hills Te Aro keeps for itself.
We’ll meditate on lost friendships.
There will be no young fanatics,
Only a cautionary tale.
Old men with stiff backs, soft cocks and failed plans to spread Marxism.
The hymns will be My Chemical Romance.
And the Kool-Aid will be a cask of Country Red.