four days of stories from my hair:
Wednesday night's hurtling through One Tree Hill,
demanding some over-carbonated inebriation
from the hand of my instigating passenger
(afterwards I said, "that was naughty, I know, but...")
and lying under the pseudo-stars,
deciphering some thick German accent that wasn't father's
and then deciphering the ambiguous labels
on the condiments at the dumpling house
Thursday's venture back into the body
with a less than pretty abdomen and the
sweat of some stranger rolling over me, first on the Tarkett
and then in another's bed
Friday's collecting of summer's last salt
which clung to my pores like a child
coaxed from its parent
on it's first day at a strange kindergarten,
and the sand dunes that rolled somewhat like New Year's 2013
and the river-reminiscent towel-bedded grappling
which happened with the same
and finally, Saturday's
habits. Yog-esque sweat
and mud on the edges of me, a large step
above Karangahape's wo-men's ventures
and the gloating run over
Ponsonby's well-endowed diners.
Finally after four days of collecting
my head is heavy, so I give in.
it all slips down the drain, and for a brief moment
the palimpsest of myself is fainter
- but still, when squinted at
- visible.
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