There are fragments of words clutching at pieces of my brain, but nothing that actually builds meaning. 

south and north

We're back to breakfast
(today's colour being purple),
unable to stomach the best:
full circle, full circle.

aside from death and dying

In flight:

stage one tonight

to avoid fight.

Karangahape

I love that K' Road is a place where you always see people you know, and where people you don't know will quickly become people you do know. 

take five

You say there's ghosts hovering at my doorway,
your mind mirrored out across the floorboards.
You're imagining them, I say; you
insist.

So I confess
I've heard the ghosts before, and
not just in this house ...
You confess the apparition came from
elsewhere
-- around three hours ago,
to be precise,
in the shape of flattened lego --
and, without me,
for which I'm a little resentful.

Like the ghosts, you seem to
have been
pulled through the walls, defying what's
perceived as possible, suddenly
porch to
Parnell to
Parkfield
the ultimate nomadic
pirate without penance,
the living ghost of amphibia

... after a brief lucid hiatus, tradition follows:
barefoot adventure for hash browns and juice,
talking shit about
getting shit and
doing shit but not actually
really
getting or doing
anything

the ghosts are us.
We are hollow with reckless safety,
invisible to next door's gentrified suburbs,
in semi-perpetual existence
transparent,
indifferent.

old maids

Saturday apocalypse
muddles down Grafton Road, hanging
off each other, hanging
two minutes too late
outside the only
liquor store

stumbling,
confused,
past a lone girl human
who -- distorted, disregarded -- becomes a
missed meal...

but is hollow, anyway,
from all the ghostly motes
rising up from the earth below her
rising up through the arched cement
riddled with probing tree roots
infiltrating bodies
skeletons
pathways
rising up and up and up, and
levitating through
flesh, and
clinging to flesh's back.

"But one day the 'why' arises, and everything begins in that weariness tinged with amazement." 

- Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus.

stop

All contentment wants 
is to wander 

home in the rain, some 

strange/familiar haunting 
in my ears, keeping feet pulse,

however, 
but -

My subconscious 

forgot 

to pick up my umbrella

thinking I could manage 
a quick slip

out, 
the rain -

Your crutches are lonely

Pick up your crutches

they're hiding under the bed

afraid of the world

afraid of me
afraid of my width ...

The end.

The end.

The end.

My body believes it can run;

the head thinks it might never walk.

My words 
quietly 
disjointed as my gait.

Apt Y Idos

New choreographic baby in the making:

Composer: Lucy Beeler
Dancers: Sarah Elsworth, Mattie Hamuera, Matthew Moore, Rosa Provost, Gaby Thomas & Lydia Zanetti.