in a car park in Rai Valley

Chet was there then, too

nestled in amongst those dark blue giants

hovered by lightest grey clouds

and held in the hands of the youngest man

I asked for him by name at Te Kainga

but I was the youngest girl, so

The Shins rang out instead

and that was okay, except

now they make me nostalgic

and are mandatory listening on South Island road trips

(just as The White Stripes were, briefly,

for a short while 'til Chet fixed it)

and so there’s something unnerving

about the unfinished house in this paddock

and the rolled joint sitting in your ear …

except you’re reading me a book and

cooking me a meatless meal.

renegade joint

renegade joint:

we pass it back and forth between us

lightening speed, the opposite of green -

windows down and A/C on,

natural lavender scent sprayed,

sunnies on, beer in hand -

waiting in line on a hot stretch of tarmac

I recall how easy it feels -

my breathing flows in spheres

and it seems unfair

that this isn’t default …

my eyes rest

my peace returns

my lips relax

I actually feel happy

I think, and I

stop thinking

I am “not thinking”

about thinking

Everything is dancing

we float on the water

moving easily between islands

the captain conducts a drill

and nobody moves.

Fortrose in the Catlins, Otago, Aotearoa New Zealand

It's so hard to be with the world today. 

bump

I don't have a Wednesday.
Wednesday disappears from me -
it scampers away like the mischievous child
that time is, climbing up the rafters and
tripping people over when they least expect it

Wednesday is the steam evaporating off the bathroom mirror:
I wipe a small clearing with my perfumed fingers
so I can see myself better,
stare into the forever-abyss of
my own reflection

time winds back and forth and back
and forth

My Wednesday is
the last pages of a very good book,
but my weekend is the world
in which the main character comes alive.

sgel

oh, I know
                   that sight lingering in the eyes
               that heavy breath,
           those off-hand truths spoken
                                                      in and out
                                                                 of context 
that gently self-loathing
                                  emergence from the bedroom

the Sunday morning, next
      as you rummage through your own vomit
         a brief flutter in a spate of normality

the waking up early, cold secrets
that soft melting 
                     in the corners of the eyes
that horrible crash 
                               of parallels
oh, yes
             I've known it

that intimate and (unavoidable) forever
that trip to the shower 
cold
I've felt it;
                  I've wrung myself out
                  down someone else's
                                                   drain
 
That shattering quiet, that
              shared omission

that piercing stillness --
that nervous withdrawal,
I've also 
               agitated it

that space
           alone, afterwards

that fumble with the light/s off
that listening for the right timing
that 9am escape trick, I've also
                                                  attempted

I've spent Saturdays 
                            not eating
and Sundays watching
                                      sad films
just to hold some skin afterwards
                                                       - trust me, it's not
                     worth the wait.

I can't help but berate
                               my tired nostalgia

I can't help but want

unfolding infinities
my future my past

Anawhata - 2

I love how open we become
the words flood from your head
(and mine from my fingertips)
your senses made manifest
a private exhibition for my curiosity
(mine published on the world-wide web,
a public reassurance for my inner existentialist)

Anawhata - 1

I love how wild you become
blinded by a vision of white,
your forearms braced around my chest
in hap-hazard triangles,

how far my back can turn to meet you and
the way your hand sometimes creeps up to my throat,
the window almost always open and
space flooding in, the night
flooding over us - and even the
ocean crashing softly in the distance
- or sometimes just cars -
the manic pursuit of exhaustion,
followed by the beautiful rest...

waking in the morning
and finding ourselves still skin-to-skin.

legs

oh, I know
                   that flush
               that glint,
           that close-by sit
     those footsteps down the
                                              hallway,
that gently euphoric
                                  emergence from the shower

that suppressed
       flutter through normality

the waking up late, warm in the cold
that soft melting in the eyes
that lovely crash of
                                juxtapositions
oh, yes
             I know it

that (after) separation
that trip to the laundry
I've held it;
                  I've hung out
               someone else's
                                             bed sheets

That beautiful quiet, that
              shared omission

that piercing stillness --
I've also held it

that
        space alone, afterwards

that fumble with the light/s on
that listening for the timing
that 7am escape trick, I've also
                                                  done it.

I've spent Mondays making sticky pancakes
and Sundays watching
                                      bad films
just to hold some skin afterwards
                                                       - trust me, it's
                     worth the weight.

I can't help but indulge in your
                                                   present-nostalgia

I can't help but want

to re-live, to unfold
my parallel past

I spend most of my weekends in a state of high anxiety
some invisible claw curled around my throat,
a pin stuck between my eyes

the ultimate self-sabotage
there's no down time in this body

its head is restless
and the only way to sedate it
is to administer some heavy fists
so then at least I'm crying from pain rather than guilt

but soon enough the ghoul surges, back from the living
looking to suck out my eyeballs
it doesn't care how I look in the morning
much less how I feel right now

he turns me into a gasping mute
whose words are mouthed rather than spoken

I spend my whole week waiting for a break
and when I get it
it breaks me, alright
it snaps my ribs one by one
and then suddenly
it's Monday again
and I begin my week
as a well-composed pile of bones

liive

on stage
I've committed many suicides
and had others commit them for me
knowingly and
                         unknowingly

I've died many
tiny deaths, I've
melted into the
masses, drowned
in their arms.

I've performed my own baptism
I've held a chalice to my lips
I've swamped myself
in a duck-shit-filled lake
in the name of art
I've snuck around the sleeping
I've begged, borrowed and stolen
I've clambered through labyrinth limbs of strangers
I've lived inside a tiny box

I've stood for five hours, freezing
and rinsed myself blue
I've broken bones
and worn out tired kness
I've scraped the inside of my stomach
I've let strangers put their mouths on mine

I've breast fed plastic dolls
I've stood on giant pedestals
I've exposed my flesh
over and over, so many times I've lost count

I've been lifted up, trodden on, dragged
                                                                by my hair
I've let people cut my hair
                                           off
I've let people
                       etch signs into me

I've left my sweat in foreign cities
I've stuffed food into / onto my face
I've flown giant birds
I've borne the the onslaught of abuse
and made many people smile

I've written countless bad poems
and never spoken one.

I've died many tiny deaths
and orchestrated countless suicides

I want the certain ritual
of being
reborn.