in/spiral

and those of us who have so much
will profess that we have so little;
and those of us abundant
will always cry that we need more;
and those of us well-fed
seem always to be hungry,
while those of us hungry
know others still are starving.

Somehow, those of us sleeping
in the warmth of comfort
will still, in the morning, be tired and cold --
while those of us awake
will see the sunlight pouring in
and feel it coursing through our veins
and know the day is opportune, full, open, alive ...

and instead of shutting our ears,
or allowing the slow droop of our eyelids,
we'll take our fingertips out into the world and manifest magic,
conjuring the transparency
that open eyes seek

and we will know each other better
for having known ourselves,

for having touched some quiet, intimate sphere
that only solitude knows,
that only hunger knows,
that is only seen when life is stripped back
to today's moment; to shedding, to being bare,
to being comfortable with vulnerable --

but that tiny glimmer of goodness found in a stranger's eye,
when he recognises himself in your freckles and
sits beside you on the grass,

or when you submerge your body into the ice-cold ocean
so that even your organs go numb
with the quiet of being

-- that's where we should find ourselves
because that's where we will be fed,
that's where we'll find our energy, bursting from within
the molecules of the earth,
rich and abundant, residing
in the folds of the fabric of time itself--

That is where we actually live
and living anywhere else is discord.

When tomorrow wakes,
time will still move in spiral - and I will be
somewhere,
sitting subtly in the earth's body,
and I will have chosen to be happy.

dreaming of sleep

All the bodies that were ever present on this earth are still here on this earth. Body-less bones sit strewn across the land, underneath its skin; or are pelted into dust and carried whistling along desert air.

The only bodies not still here on earth are some belonging to astronauts. But mostly, the earth is a vast gravesite. It absorbs the bodies living here, continually; it feeds on them and then feeds them back to us. We are sustaining ourselves via long-distance cannibalism.

All the bodies that ever existed are still here.

When I die, I will join them - all those bodies held captive by our God mother earth. One of them will be me. Maybe it will be soon. I feel my flesh weary enough to become voluntarily battered. The lumps of me are gravitating towards the outside edges of me, trying to escape each other. My body doesn't even want to hold itself together, or to hold me inside of itself any longer. It's too exhausting. All of me wants to lie down alongside the world's many billion other skeletons. It would be so easy to lie still and reset a while, rest a while, rest white.

All the world's bodies are lullabying me to sleep. They mouth wordless words gently into my eyes, lips curled around my sockets, a few hours into each day. I begin living and then I am tired, and they are so courteous beckoning me to sleep. They are the earth's hosts, recruiting permanent guests. Most people don't have ears, but I've spoken their language since I was eleven. I hear their invite. I'm ready to lie down.

too many beginnings and
too many ends,
as usual

revilery II

There have been few words
these seventeen days -
my words instead
riddling in their bodies,
writhing around their arms,
fluttering in their oesophaguses

my words have been spinning
in their pretty little heads, their wrists weighed
with the binds
of my gravity,
done up by the ribbons
of my mind

out from their arms fold my thoughts
I have unwittingly asked them
to hold a mirror up to me

and so
instead of talking
to the page, I have been
talked to
by my other

- that angry
dark-haired faerie
has let loose, in the dripping walls of
this third floor on Cuba,
rattled by tens of tiny ballet shoes
and buskers' strings. I have
held white up to my eye
and though those whites weigh heavy

I am all the better
for not having slept. 

back in forward

I stopped
on the stairs above the hostel

because I heard your voice -

not yours, of course, but

so much like it

and my ears, having been lacking

but for drones of engine buses

and crackings of skulls,
a phone call, and so on

drank (you) in

I stopped for longer than necessary

to stand on the stairs 

to absorb that pseudo-voice
and eavesdrop on imagining,
to make the strange familiar. 

revilery

There’s a particular pleasure - a certain sensuality - in our self-inflicted suffering. In our madness, we find ecstasy. In the familiarity of self-abuse, we are home. Our fragility makes us resilient. Like undercover masochists, we revel in holding on to the habits that hurt us.

90 minutes

Yes, we have

Changed Bodies

you-me-I-you ...

maybe that's why

I don't feel here

anymore

and you're 

content with your place

we've shifted 180

I open and open

into a gusty vacuum of heart

and all welled pre-Saturday's

found its way to my eyelids

Baby and Love reunite

Baby and Love are feeling heartbeats:
though no hands on pulse
they know they're alive

Love's flown far, as Love can
Baby speaks languages the angels left on his tongue

Baby and Love hurt over a bottle of wine
over a few hundred kilometres
over two easy weeks
needing touch but
touching scalds their palms

Baby's put her heels on
sweated her skin clean
re-figured herself

she's worded harsh to Love
but Love knows
Baby's harsh is of heart
he still takes her to her bedplace
still wraps Baby up
Love still loves her, his baby Baby

... ghost hears them quietly,
her earthly weight suddenly apparent
because the most beautiful things are also the saddest

the TV plays on,
no-one, quiet,
ghost retreats
to some small space sadnecessarily.

"This world beats all around me but nothing here feeds to satisfy, 
so I've grown this face
perfect in disguise so you don't know what I feel each moment

I don't fit here
I feel like I don't fit anywhere

Make your first move and decide to be conscious 
and god of each moment

Let's see if I can change
I want to feel something here
but I don't wanna change

faster than I used to feel
so faster than I ever dreamed."

- Lines, Dead Letter Circus. 

ebbs and flows -

like the tide, I'm currently

out 

boutique

got to
keep face
when all I want to do is
put my head under
(or out)

the water on my back
like the heat of you
opens up all of me

vulnerable

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. 

I'm directing your youth but you know better than I do

(And this one visits me again

some weeks later.

I like him, I do..

Just come back in a year,

and promise to play fair --

Maybe I won't leave you

at the bus stop

at the wheel of your car

Pay your rent, twofold

and I'll pay time

to your bed.)

don't do it

hunting for words to
say something visceral (like
bad choreographies)

fish

Like a little bit of sandpaper

that flicks 

erratically

all

over

the show

flippity-flip-flip in front of my face

and then

breaks up into several 

little

pieces

and flicker-flick-flicks into my

hair and around my

ears and

past my eyes so that I have to

close them

protectively

and then I have to

close up my whole centre into a ball

and still the paper bits

flick-flutter like the snitch in Harry Potter

over my back and

threaten to cut up my back muscles

and I curl tighter

but still the cutty sandpaper scratches the air around me

"Fuck off," I say over and over

"Fuck off," screams my bolted face

The Skeleton II

The Skeleton asks for a nut.

"Just one," she says.

She leans forward and selects her nut carefully ...
-- A hazelnut that looks a bit sad; brown and wrinkled against the ivory cashews, caramel-skinned almonds and emerald pumpkin seeds.

She shuffles back to her seat and
bites it slowly.

solution

This room is public property
My door frame: the porch

The town's conversations are
leaking into my
bed sheets
I will get into bed tonight and
they will be
damp
with
small talk

I can't even shut my door
because
That requires interaction
Or at the very least,
Eye contact --
Nah uh, no way

I thought...
I assumed, that amongst these people
I'd feel
I'd feel, or
I'd feel
asylum

But as I
keep realizing
All people are the
same.
Always,
All where:
Boring, and boring.
Too interesting to approach
and so unique that it is dull.

They're all different to me
Because I'm as
isolated as them
And therefore boring
And depressing
And stuff

They're all talking about each other
And only listening to themselves
They're all listening to each other talking about each other to themselves

So I pretend that I'm boring
instead of appearing bored
I'm so sad I don't drink
I just think, and then I think--

I just want to cry all over everyone
And kiss up my tears
from their beautiful faces
to dampen my beautiful fears.

The Skeleton

Skeleton stands in the corner
with abrupt shoulders
pointy pelvis
noseless glare

Her self-possessing thoughts
leak out over the sitting heads
dripping tea-drops squeezed from her thin marrow

When I come out of the bathroom
she is waiting. She says,
"Don't forget about me."

No matter how good home is, I always enjoy being elsewhere more.

sink (swim)

I always thought this was only offered in Newtown
I forgot Newton
They can probably see my fresh eyes
but I don't feel embarrassed staring

besides,
it's not staring it's
Looking Intently

I know living here would feed my curiosity
curiosity would feed my creativity
and creativity might eat my pocket
or eat me
or feed me or
both

and as they say of New York
I either drown or flourish

Auckland is drowning me