gas station

we've slipped

in\to 

that day-to-day habit

the Dance of the Mundane

- it's okay, I think

we flow

in and out, sometimes

faces smushed together, 

sometimes

heads towards 

opposite ends

- it's okay

because the universe

(and all within it) 

is spherical, because

everything

must always

return

home

our fingertips will eventually

weave themselves

back into each other

and we'll remember all the lives

that have flushed themselves through us

birth / day

there are things that cling to me
that are not mine -
things that have come
from somewhere
else

they like to latch on to the tendrils
of me, at first I don't notice
the scratch at my periphery -

suddenly, I feel
my brain
dragging,
my
reproduction organs
tugging themselves into swollen knots

and I know.
I'm
holding
within me
a parasite

at least
I know.

it's still revolting.

at best
I can stand
by the window,
and invite
the rain to wash over me,
to wash them off

at worst they'll cry through the tips of my fingers
make their way up
into
my throat

and flood out my eyeballs

mostly, I don't mind.
I'm so good at playing host.

but other people mind
and they mind that I don't mind
they will encourage me
to fix, or
get fixed,
"okay?"

though I know fix begins
with staying, still.

I feel the parasites out,
their little footpricks on my skin hairs -
trying
to get
somewhere, too

They also want out.

They've another destination.
it isn't me
and I'd be self-absorbed
not to realise

A place that isn't even at this volume of gravity -

and eventually, after climbing
beyond capacity to fill
they'll slip down my
face, rest
briefly in my mouth
and continue back down
through the earth
to inhabit some other soil

I'll be empty
again.
and I'll wish to feel
the echoey ding
of those ferocious ghosts

it kind of feels like a lie

to say, "when I 

was in New York

I made out with a stranger

who barely spoke English

with crosses on my hands to mark 

DO NOT SERVE

my dad and his partner a few 

meters away

in a nightclub that 

felt like a labyrinth

and I was scared

and I loved the adrenaline"

but it wouldn't be a lie

that's a thing that happened

and it's probably 

no big deal,

anyway

en Pinnacle

Tomorrow

I will emerge into the forest
and I will wonder how I could ever
not be okay

or,
I will be
traversing
the phlegm-caught lungs of my chest
and wishing
i were alone

I will be

carrying the spaces for us all to sleep
carrying, again

I'll be thinking about her
and him,
him, him

and all of them
and all of that

I'll be

(I'll be)

standing in the puddles of myself
without your kiss on my forehead
but
with someone
who gave me one, once

(because I coerced him into it..)

S16

not many people like
the smell of Rotorua
but to me, it's lovely,
like

the earth's come home
from a hard day,
or,
just woken up
mouth laced with the night's dreams,
like

resting my face
against you, softly breathing
in the scent of you,
after / wards, like

catching us
on me
for the better part of the next day,
like

when my flatmates
burn flesh
I don't want it
but it fills the room

"Ultimately, all things are small because all things are transient." 

- Eckhart Tolle

I edited it your poem.

Maybe you'll find it soon.

south

The houses here are nestled into the base of the mountains, like tiny pups sleeping, curled into their mothers' soft bellies. The snow shines ultra-violet against the rose morning sky and it's easy to understand why these giants were personified by the land's tangata whenua. They are indeed alive, carrying the wisdom of an old kaumātua and the stillness of a person who speaks only when of utmost necessity.

The cold is different here - it's exhilarating, flushing your face with the crisp foreshadowing of afternoon sunshine. It's the kind of perfect air that makes you want to thrust your torso through the open window, forget your mortality and spiral around icy corners just to feel your blood accelerate in lieu of barista-made coffee.

We arrived in the dusk; Now we're leaving at dawn. Last night we turned off all the lights to let the fullmoon-lit snow flood us with its generous ambience in our tiny two by three cabin, inflated by the ski season and allowed by our desire to escape, if only for a few days.

Here, I realise the things that really matter are:
people
being
feeling
releasing.

day / eight

there's these arms
wrapped around
each others'
heads
and at times they look like lovers
but they are daughters, mothers

the arms - three - cut,
choke, slice
they form diamonds over purple eyes

wailing, shrieking, leaking salt
(both in and out the designated space)
index and pinky
strike, point; blank; fight
and all we've seen within our seven sights
manifests,

these women know
the All that all women know
and with the fleshy parts of them allowed to speak
they are
Speaking -
fleshing words out of stacked fists
as their brothers do
scratching sentences from throats
carving mouthfuls out of teeth

for centuries we've been taught
to be seen and not heard
so we will be seen.
and we will not be unseen.

whito

we were in that other plane
as we approached that cave
end of the beach, the
darkness shook us --

I was the first to say it
because I was
unravelling
but you concurred immediately
there's something there
we knew it:
the land was holding.

so we turned swiftly in our sluggish bodes
"sorry," I said aloud
because it was necessary
for it to know
we knew our error.

I wove the reo into my speech,
talking of "tapu"
so it would know
I was friend,
so it would forgive
me, us

I'm trying

-- back to our designated place
where we exchanged money
to sleep by the pou
I wrapped my blanket tighter around me
in lieu of a coat
in lieu of cup of tea
the thing we want
the most
right now

cold enough to know we're here
high enough to know the difference
centred enough to know the thing
and white enough not to see it