Kings at 23

I envy the boy's confidence
I envy dancing in the square
body articulate with majority
I envy the sport-literate, vodka-born blonde
not for her head but her
knowledge
I envy the summer radiating out of his knees
I envy the capacity within their faces
and their counting backwards
ten at the top to
zero
I envy his small smirk
and especially that it
holds only benevolence
I envy youth as if I were old
even though those born today
envy me

etcetera

The front door open when you wake up in the morning is the giveaway. The mark of late night insouciance. He says there's ghosts going in and out of our house, but I don't believe him. People are coming in and out of the house, I say. People are the ghosts.

The neighbours came over to let us know that our front door had been left open. Thanks, I said. That's real nice of you to let us know. It wouldn't be so bad if a stranger wandered in and lay next to me for a bit actually. I suppose you have to consider who the type of people would be that might do that, though.

That said, I was quite glad to wake up alone this morning. Somnambulating with sleepless blind to the toilet I thought, 'this will assist my ability to be a normal person around him today.' It does feel like everything that happens at night is void. Especially when you don't have to face it in the morning. Not that it would have been a big deal; I get the feeling he's pretty nonchalant about stuff. We could have some fun, we're going to be good friends, we're going to be good friends. Etcetera.

I make coffee in an attempt to catch up with his MDMA head (which by the way, is the least active of any I've seen - though I suppose he's tall (does that make a difference?) and most of it's going on underneath that perpetual quiet smirk). He rolls a joint from the roaches in his van. And so we meet half way on the kitchen floor.

Kitchen floors are perfect meeting places. Many times I've found myself slumped against the cupboards, drinking tea spiked by the underneath of my liquor-bled tongue and ranting about shit that only makes sense when unspoken.

At parties, people always freak out when I get onto the tea and coffee.

"What are you doing?!" they demand.

I'm threatening their inebriety.

"Bro." The passive-malicious sarcastic, one-syllabled serious face. I am still going to be a million miles ahead of you after three of these, if that's what you're concerned about. 

"I like tea, alright. Gimme a break. Got any soy milk? Don't worry, I'll have it black."

So, naturally, when you join me with the kettle, you're on my good side.

"Would you like a straw for your tea?" I ask.

He accepts. Well done.

"Teabag in or out?"

Out. Typical. Everyone wants it out.

"I am going to wear your bucket hat," I tell him.

This is how my belly comes to be pressed against the floor, face shielded by the faux-fisherman costume, fingers woven around the front of the tea mug. The straw describes the gap between my tea and the hat's horizon over my nose and cheeks. A summer cocktail picnic going on at 3:42am in my October kitchen. I see myself from outside, a picture of future-nostalgia.

I don't recall finishing my tea but somehow the empty mug ends up precariously perched on the edge of the bench. I imagine my arm stretching up off the floor, roof-wards, blindly finding (feeling for) the balancing point. This is probably how it happened.

My horizontal shape translates two rooms over. Belly to floor; back to mattress; stomach to stomach. It's all the same.

Your stuff is strewn everywhere (from before I got there, I might clarify). And your bed is bare (also from before I got there). I think about the other people I know who've fucked in this room -- and this bed even -- and revel in being part of this disparate lineage. I feel we've honoured the room's original walls.

Pull out, put on some washing, start again, give up.

Coffee?

We sit in the lounge and watch some cartoon film. The after-chaos calm is interrupted by aggressive thumps coming from the laundry. The washing machine's got a demon in it (or the clothes inside it?). It's throwing itself around the laundry floor, jumping centimeters sideways. I start yelling abuse at it but the old hunk of plastic's not listening to me. STOP. Just stop. STOP. IT.

The same words I'll give myself in the tomorrow hours of today. I will pragmatically organise how to avoid my habits next time. I will make strategies to change the patterns which hold hands with my non-consequence-bearing second reality. Then I will wake up in the morning. It will be sunny. And I will want the door open.

I almost crashed yesterday.

I hardly ever get my period (not sure why) but the last couple of times I've had it I've felt drunk (not sure why).

512

5-1-2
is not like 2-1-2
is not like Brooklyn or
New York, wherever that is --
Is not like, "come onstage" and giveaway the game
what are you thinking.

I write small to keep my secrets hidden and
dance small
for the same, ribs
hunched forward over knees, hips bent
I make the perpetual little
"C-shaped" ball, I achieve
... and glance up under my neglected eyelids at
18 year olds, I remember
being not even at you yet, in first
(don't worry about brushing my hair, I
need the human touch) I'm

not really here anyway, really
really -- don't call me doll
I don't like it.
Come on, this is New Zealand

should/not

I shouldn't be jealous and
I shouldn't
avoid your
eyes
or stare
I shouldn't
worry about my hair being out of place, I shouldn't
wear short skirts when it's this cold
or recycle my friends' abandoned jackets
and I shouldn't
sit in Myer's Park alone
or buy things I promised myself I
wouldn't.
and I shouldn't be alone
I shouldn't fuck around with other people.

elegantly

I am more concerned about my stoicism than my tears
I want all of my flesh to fall off me
in big chunky flaps
I want my finger knuckles to be apart of my wrists
I'd like to freeze to death, I think.

Q

sufficiently drunk
to write a poem
sufficiently drunk
to get fucked off (about)
your
second-hand smoke
don't cry,
dont cry
you'd think on some seeds
on a 1.8
it'd be better than this

I am a terrible liar
I know it's in my best interests and everyone else's to appear in control
But if I'm not, I'm not
Yep, my honesty is my fault

But I'm also a quick learner
So if its an issue then its because this time is more difficult than the last

The porch has become an interview room
Can I get you a coffee?
etcetera, and
please don't ask me what my hobbies are
seriously
just fuck off

I'm consulting crystals
I'm wetting the backs of my knees
I'm holding down
12 hour toast and tequila shots
running it all under water
/
sweeping it under the carpet, whatever

waking up on Sunday morning feels
hideous
and then
fine
and
then hideous

and what are you up to now, then?
really translating as
how are you going to pay rent?
He'll smoke until they come get him, he says
Is that your car there?
yes and
don't even think about it

aboutitaboutit

my neck is sore as shit
because I was dancing with my hair last night
I took a long and convoluted route home
stopped on the way for a chocolate bar
jumped the fence to spy on the bogan neighbours
and woke up tasting black coffee

Thanks for
listening, any
questions
?

call time

gonna play dress ups just coz
wear hearts on my wrist
channel the tutu without
with-actually-in
gonna sit outside some theatrical joint
sip coffee
inhale secondhand smoke
and cark a dramatic
yet entertaining
death

there's probably a better word than 'hate', but

I hate how people look down when you cross paths on the street because it's awkward to look another human being in the eye

and I hate how I lack the courage to do anything different from everyone else

2800 hours

so the porch has turned into
a speed-dating scene
where fucking begins in your head
abscessed eye-tag
left over wine bottles
badly rolled cigarettes that won't light and then
burn
too quick
fuck

one porch chair hurls the occupant out onto
the street
the other
is rigid as hell
and not useful for breaking in, apparently

this summer's going to be a
fun one, isn't it?!
with washing machines that hate duvets
and try to throw them out like possessed industrial hunks of plastic
OH WAIT THEY ARE
I suppose at least, ideally, I'll spend the summer elsewhere anyhow
cups collecting flies stains ash
(I don't smoke
by the way)

if you didn't like the wine then geez, just say so
no need to break a face


I've taken to smiling at strangers in the street
I figure they need it
I figure I need it



but seriously
geez
if you're gentleman enough to
smoke outside
then be gentleman enough to leave me alone
and if you've made your mind up about
company
about six rolling into seven
then you just talk straight, ok?
because your pretending just
fucks me right off


(and then I made some generic comment about men being
persistent
predictable
oh its soo unfaiirrrrrrr, whined my brain)


I've taken to smiling at strangers in the street

but I can only do it if the right song is sleeping in my ears
I need my ego to mask my ego


I smile at women too

I think they like it

brooklyn's getting to me, baby

I just duns even care eh
if there's holes in my stock
ings
Yeah I am pretty poor
and a little bit scabby
A bit shit
but that's not why there's ripsin
my clothes

My left temple is mapping blues where I
bashed my face into a small chair
I didn't get inna fight
that's not why i wear the colour purple
and that's notwhy
I have
holes in my stockings, either
I just like 'em that way, okay?
Makes me feel a little bit rock'n'roll
A little bit
fucked up
And that's what we all wannabe
right?

appearing normal whilst making friends

Last week we performed a show in Christchurch. The review is here and I reckon it's alright eh. It's going to be in Auckland Fringe Festival too (the show, not the review) so tell ALL YOUR BROS.


This is a snazzy promo pic taken by Blair McTaggart:

Sofia McIntyre, Sarah Elsworth, Emi Pogoni and Ruby Reihana-Wilson are cool.

(meanwhile)

Wearing your jumper (and) sitting on your chair (and) drinking from your mug (and) shutting your windows (and) eating your bread (and) meanwhile not associating any of these things with you.

3.8

The house jumped.
Lurched off its foundations.
Forced me 1.2 centimetres taller.
Ever so slightly increased the cracks
in the tiles
in the ceiling
in the skirting board
in the basin.
"Did you feel that?", she asked me.
"Yes," I said, my leg dangled off the edge of the bed.
Then we both went back to sleep.

in-orientation

put me in a sequinned glitter-jacket

sit me on a bike

and pedal me somewhere

send me over the bridge, on my own

hold your headphones over my ears

adjust them a little too tight

make me hard of hearing

arrange me horizontal against the gravel roads

press your whole weight into me

walk between the cars and the railing, drag me

hold a hot torch over my leg's atlased bruises

sit me on your front porch

disregard the neighbours

force feed me consecutive coffee cups

make me stutter

remind me where the ground is

tell me I slept funny 

the moon and the 

house jumping

read me excerpts from last exit to brooklyn

ask me how many hours there are in a day

carve words into me

force me to cut my nails

drive me to crooked rivers

wake me up at 4.35am

don't give me excuses

sit me in the overgrown garden

push me over the fence

arrange me vertical

tell me to fuck off when you're sick of me

tell me to stop smoking 

when I'm drunk

roll me a joint 

forget to reply 

if you're drinking

arrange me vertical

drive me out to gravel roads

forget how many hours 

make excuses

carve words into my lungs 

arrange me under the bridge

make conversation in the middle of the night

make conversation with the people whose heads are down

roll me a joint 

on your front porch

on your rooftop

tell me to quit dreaming

read me excerpts from your paperbacks

press your whole weight into me --

your whole weight

send me on my own

tell me to fuck off

de-wheel the bike

walk into the cars, into the kerb

put me in a sequinned jacket, 

pedal me somewhere