the last half

All significantly mundane occurrences begin or end on the porch. Like sex that doesn't end up anywhere; that traverses dates only to rewind. Books which are read whilst waiting diligently for the second education. Two-legged, three-eyed fancies over a cup of diuretic tea, jogged around the catwalk of Grafton bridge. Plans for travel, art and fame -- the most mundane fancy of them all.

Suddenly, the illustrated inside space -- meant for insignificantly mundane tasks such as sleeping, hair-brushing and thinking -- becomes the ultimate anti-asylum. Insomnia rears its best when there is less capacity for its consequent occupational output. The cosy walls are insulated with grief and the porch steps represent the unattainable starting line. Start before the starting line. End at the beginning.

Is it bad luck to leave a knife out on the front porch? Maybe there'll be red marks through the letterbox slot in the morning, where the neighbour diced her tobacco (carelessly, or deliberately). Maybe the red car parked outside will be painted a shade darker in a passive-public protest. Over what, who knows -- but certainly not smoking. Perhaps I'd find myself lock-picked and sigh, with the knowledge of dreams ... I'd say quietly to my visitor, "thanks for coming." Followed by another sigh. And then nothing.

I'd start hallucinating that the lamp posts outside were the moon, all of them, all-full twenty-four moons lined up at very exactly regular intervals. Parallel to each other on either side of the street. Not earth, obviously. But something like it.

Just as I receive my welcome visitor, the tobacco-wielding neighbour collects one too. He (the visitor) crosses past my porch, head inclined away from the gracious homicide adjacent: towards the moons. He slips in through Miss Cigarette's window. Elegantly. Practised. He slips into her bed with the porch's wisdom tied at his ankles.

meta

I said, my 

feet are the 

only part of my body I 

don't like

and then my foot broke.

Poor foot.

I'm sorry.

you don't need to 

dislike yourself

just because I do.

Sophie

Sophie says,

"You drank too much coffee today."

"You've painted your head Krimson."

"You should've gone for a walk," Sophie says.

Sophie says,

"Remember Wednesday nights?"

"You're going to leave her. You know it. You're selfish."

"Sophie says," Sophie says.

"Time isn't a thing."

"You drank too much today."

"You're painted."

"You're young."

"Sophie says," Sophie says.

"Remember Sunday nights and have breakfast before bed,

throw away your days," Sophie says.

I lie around aging while 

young Sophie says, "Sophie says, Sophie says."

terrace

I came home and there was a
half-smoked cigarette on the kitchen floor
still very orange at the end
still very new-looking
except
not in its entirety.

I came home in my clothes
from the night before
twice:
slightly before midday the first time
and slightly after, the second.

I came home to half a bottle of sparkling Lindauer
sitting, uncorked
on the passage-way table
I don't think it belongs to anyone who lives here.

I came home and went straight back out again
coffee curdled in my stomach as I navigated the Aucklanders
out for their standard Sunday stroll

the sun was shining.

I came home and was alone
because
everyone else was
out

I don't see them much or for long, the other
bodies who live here
but I investigate
the things they leave behind.

chevelure

There's this dead thing growing on my head
It is large
I keep growing it just to show how dead it is
growing the dead thing
lots and lots of it
deader at the end than
at the top
decomposing down its length

I change its colour to make it feel
living
I arrange its dead limbs as I please
sometimes
on special occasions --
but mostly, on a
day to day
basis,
I let them flop everywhere
all dead-like.

When I dance
I thrash it around so it looks like it's moving
but it's not really moving
because it's dead
I'm just trying to shake some life into it.

12th

Day off from routine vice

makes way for second outing

out of home and head

but hosted with home-spelt hospitality

Home is the power-cable cluttered attic of
some haunted old theatre

Home is a smile across the fourth wall

Home is where sticky studios become
cauldrons of genius, where I
have a loyalty coffee card 

despite living
distantly

Home is:
a Road that collects

a ziplock-bagged gesture

Home is new friends from old lives.

Home is on stage, Downstage.

Home is the perpetual Elsewhere
Home is nomadic.
Home is present.

Home is now. 

centennial

the rarity of the floor orders her drinks minus cream, but
exchanges that discipline for kind nicotine
(when offered by green eyes you
forget your tongue
and then remember it)

hand held, saltine mouth streaked
speaks: Why'd you take off your pink lashes?
"Because I wasn't wearing them anymore."

I have flashes of distortia
a personal address flecked with hollow threats flies through the window
stands she and leaves the mid-life fight, left light
I won't carry your fuck-ups, mothers
there's some gorgeousness in my youth and I feel it

Ladies Rest

I need to sit amongst the trash

If I am to feel normal 

PN

Under gargantuan pink lashes

No-one sees the salt

but he sticks his brain in my face

and asks, "what's the name of our motel?"