Live for the soon.

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Today I am boiled jugs and playlists.

I wear “On Leave, B*tches!” clothes with glittery camo socks.

I snack on Mainland© Creamy Brie and flashbacks of last night’s nakedness…

I stay in that moment.

Scenes of sweat-stuck sheets.

Traces of tassels that tease through the track lines of my tender places.

Today I am topped up Whiskas©

I am 30-gram Holiday© Reds on a damp deck.

I am cheap sunglasses and Olay©,

(Which I remember way back when being “Oil of Ulan©” and thinking my Mum would soon transform into that goddess on TV, all milk-bathed, glamour and draped jewellery…)

This afternoon I am attempting

“Chill time”.

I unwind to find that space I discovered yesterday,

That place reminding me to

“Be an adult!”

(Ugh, Boo to this place, it’s riddled with chores.)

Today I am looking for tampons in drawers,

Retrieving hair ties from floors,

Leaving Instant Kiwi© scratchy bits pressed into pages of new notebooks.

I took some time today to do

…not a heck of a lot,

But,

I think I got plenty from it.

We are burning.

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We are burning

Our chests are play fighting

Breasts and breaths fill the space between us

This electricity

Enabling energy

Enabling ecstasy

Disabling every other charge on any single thing we have

been thinking

Sinking into mattresses

Heaving seas of legs weaved

We see heat come from places we’ve only known and felt was inhabited by Arctic frost

Our bodies are lost under blankets

Gasps and grasps as this desperation closes the gap between us

We are burning.

As we climb.

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I’ve cut my toenails & fingernails

Plan to shower and shave

I have this whole day

and a cold.

I’m older next week and the people i speak to daily

say 36 is still young

that I’m “in my prime!”

I find that…

Interesting.

Bring the jug to the boil and seek out my tweezers

See,

All of this takes effort.

I’ve straightened my hair

Found something to wear

I have snot-balled toilet paper in a plastic bag by my bed.

Fed myself cigarettes

I’m finding the energy to stop procrastinating

Bring the jug to the…

No

Fill the jug with 6 Ltrs of water

See,

All of this takes effort.

I’ve applied 04 foundation mixed with tinted moisturizer

Eyes coated with two blends of a glittery shade

Paid $48 for mascara that still lumps

and clumps like my lashes have fallen down a coal mine.

I’m older next week

still yet to seek out those tweezers

Jesus, this is tiring!

I

just

Sneezed.

Great.

So my face now looks as if I’ve hit a tar pit

Shit!

All of this and I’ve not yet left the house.

However,

I still have half a day

and this cold

Am closer to being that much older next week.

Powder peach-pink particles

across the bones of my cheek

Spritz my neck with

DKNY Fresh Blossom

Search the bottom of my hand bag for Papaw

and shut the door behind me.

Down the Rabbit Hole.

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It was originally called “Alice’s Hour in Elfland,”

And I can understand why they changed that.

Mad hats off to those who

twist the tight, White tails of their Titles.

Shuffle their syllables

Get rid of all pronouns

Found letters sewn into gowns and monogrammed cloaks

THat fit them better.

Here’s to the Dodo,

Not Dormouse,

Late night croquet ground creatives!

Pigeon eyeing up cupcakes on tables,

Ably playing with words,

To the beat

to the beat

to the beat

March Hare.

Folding their fable under fabric footsteps,

Yes!

It was only meant to be an hour…

A painted Queen of Hearts falls from her

Powerful, padded seat.

The bottle says, “DRINK ME”

Adrift in a sea of salty…

sober…

tears.

Prepares evidence in the form of

/beheaded/peppered/poetry…/

Eat tarts of mushroom,

A Duchess with chalice,

Sees Alice…

A Sceptre,

A Crown.

Down the Rabbit hole and through the Looking Glass,

“Off with Her head!”

She said to the reflection of her arse.

Passes beneath grinning shoulders,

Under lonely Cat girl literature laden shelves…

She’s small,

Like Elves…

But looks Wonderful in a waistcoat.

Just a Kiwi girl who can roll her R’s.

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My arms are lineage brown

And my legs the shade of Ethnicity

printed on my Passport.

Sport freckles that make triangles,

Or,

Two eyes and a nose.

Hair goes frizzy, curly and sometimes flat on top,

I’ve spotted maybe six greys in total of

my existence thus Far……

ther dead;

Mother married to a Maori Man who is

Dark…

Dark…

Darker than I….

Why do I question my Heritage?

Ko Tainui o te Iwi –

Just a Kiwi girl who can roll her R’s,

Who can remember ‘Oma Rapeti’,

Made cups of tea for Elders on a Marae,

Why can’t I identify as ‘She’ of the tribe…?

Tribe..

Tribal…

Tri

Bal……..tic States.

Lithuania

Estonia

Latvia…

Now, that be

…Ahhh…

Where my biological Grandfather was from.

Yanis Zadenis…I think…

It’s always remembered wrong.

Long frog limbs,

Golden syrup arms,

Former farm legs need work from the sun.

Just one Kiwi girl who can roll her R’s,

Sings ‘Poi E’ through Patea in passenger seats of cars.

Playing darts in sheds,

Drinking jugs

Making bets

Gets Fish & Chips and eats by the sea.

Raised rash forms from stupid salt water allergy,

Says,

“This Wahine, must recall some part of her Mihimihi…?!”

Ko Tania Ahau,

Ko Tainui o te Iwi…

Ko Taranaki te Maunga…

She didn’t know anything Latvian,

She was just a Kiwi girl

Who can roll her R’s.

 

I have a room.

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I have a room.

No children, no husband or wife, no mortgage, no pets of my own,

No licence, no savings, no genital piercings, no lay-bys on lay-by.

No Air Points, no partner, no shares, no cyber currency, no full-blooded siblings.

No white-ware, no furniture, no spice rack, no fluency in any language other than English.

No frozen meat, no moisturizer, no boat, no pair of stilettos.

No I.D card, no minors in my care, no holiday home, no degree, no runway designer clothing, no plants.

No teeth in some places,

No iPhone.

No celebrity status, no Olympic medals, no rings, no tattoos, no antiques, no abortions.

No casts, no camping equipment, no Cabbage Patch dolls, no real singing or dancing ability.

No stocks, no idea how to pump petrol, no bridesmaid’s dresses, no tool sheds, no Uber account.

No living set of parents or grandparents, no disability, no Snap chat, no Last Will and Testament.

But I know who I am.

No need for what is not necessary to me.

No worries,

No regrets,

Yes, I have a room…

But there’s still room for plenty more.

Chunks of Blue.

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25% through vote count,

I’d checked out.

My hopes sunk,

My house full of chunks of cheese and bread and seas of Green and Red

and not a Blue in sight…

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<Right?!

So then,

Why…?!

(Sigh)

I see a thumbnail of sun breaking through clouds in the sky.

Select a guided morning meditation for Peace,

Letting go

And Acceptance…

Except this feeling of unrest atop duvets upon fault lines

finds me scanning through frequencies of friends,

Searching for those responsible.

Feed me love.

Kakariki hearts,

Crimson lips,

(Stay Woke.)

Those who feel deflated,

Hold Hope.

Those chunks of cheese and bread,

although Blue,

Might learn to acquire some taste.

 

Drugget

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noun.  a coarse woven fabric used to make floor coverings.
    • a floor covering made of drugget.
 

“Formerly, a drugget was a sort of cheap stuff, very thin and narrow, usually made of wool, or half wool and half silk or linen; it may have been corded but was usually plain.”

I like to sit and write on the floor.

Lounge,

Laze,

draw on the floor

…just

be on the floor.

Because everything down there is at and on my level.

Dishevelled,

I scribe lying in fibres.

Let them absorb anxieties

as I imagine that my piece of carpet

is stitched into the very bottom seam of the world.

Exiled into textile,

I’m a rug respecter, check my shoes at the door.

Inspect the flecks that checker the coverings underfoot,

put my bag down on the shag

and sprawl.

Crawl my hands through and over woollen loops,

collect balls of hair and make groups of crumbs.

Thumb catches a bitten and spat fingernail clipping,

Slipping catastrophe into the tapestry,

This loom, a womb…

I sat

and the mat held me.

 

I’ve sunk sobs into shoelaces,

Sat next to waste bins

Been a face-first disgrace with lips laden in lint.

Put footprint stains on a Persian,

had an aversion of hoovers,

(***and spot removers***)

Browned skin on Summer ground,

relaxed on the flax, stayed a while on the pile,

There was no leaving this weaving!

 

I love nothing more than being on the floor.

Because from down there,

you can go down

no

further.

 

Force the first

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She says to herself,

‘Go with the first thought’

And watches her hand as she writes that down.

There was almost an italics catastrophe, with the L wanting to preemptively,

Grammatically grotesquely,

turn itself straight into an F,

Respectively,

But she knows hersef…

Self.

Self-reflection on Sundays,

Plays chilled tunes and turns all chat to off.

Off clicks the jug,

She scuffs snug sheepskin slippers past the sink

And drinks down caffeine forced creativity.

Go with the first thought,

which was singularly,

solely

and only just that.

What’s next?

Go with the next thought I guess.

Which is….

 

Chairs in circles.

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I set up chairs in circles and hang things on walls.

I sprawl Big Books across cushions and step

One,

Two,

Three up to 12 I fall into place as I space out the cups from the coffee and tea,

I see …

People coming through doors broken,

I see and hear spoken sadness and silent success…

Yes,

I see

You.

I ask that we desire and confide, that we share and air what’s happening inside,

Inside us…

Inside here.

That, if we need to, we crawl!

We crawl through these doors, where all the chairs are set up in circles and where things hang on walls.

I see you,

Sit here.

Ellipses. (plural)

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If you put three dots after a line of words

It’s like going into The Future.

It’s like

“And then what…”

Dot dot dot

Which forces one to explore the potential,

The probable outcome,

The possibility…

Three…

Dots

Can say a lot,

…depending on where you’re heading.

‘She was dreading her up and coming wedding…’

Dot dot dot

“He didn’t kill just one, he slaughtered the …whole…

Dot dot dot

Got taught in Mathematics

that from Ancient Greece, Ellipsis means

And so forth.”

So forward we go!

Heading into

what’s being left out…

The omission to this magician grants admission for creative cognition

and fruition of thought…

Falling short…

Dot dot dot

The concept of The Future is easy to digest

if you think of life as having

just three period points;

Birth into youth,

Youth into middle-aged,

Middle aged into …

A breath is needed

as we journey into destiny,

Three dots bob up and down in a chat box,

Suggesting there’s more to come.

Dot dot dot

And so on.

Tea for Tarns.

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The teaspoon was wet

So she got more sugar than needed.

The tea towel was dirty

So the plates permeate the scent of old flesh.

Refresh the page,

Stay awake.

 

The teacup was chipped

So she got lipstick in ceramic.

The teetotaller was tipsy

So she knew she was dreaming.

Theming the narrative,

Comparative,

Stay alive.

 

The tea cart was wobbly

So she got stuck turning corners.

The teapot was lidless

So she poured only cold water.

Slaughter the syllables,

Edit the drivel,

Stay steeping.

 

To Float.

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There’s a poem floating

Just under the surface.

Simmering and sifting

And swimming without purpose.

What category surely deserves these

Penned and spoken words of glory?!

Or of shit.

Because sometimes,

I write shit.

But, there’s a rhyme resonating

Between interrogating thoughts.

I ought to just write this…

Avoid the fright of this,

Sit in the quiet with this,

…and be alright with this.

Clean up the scribbles and cut the first three lines,

You’ll find yourself,

just keep floating,

Go deep, go deeper,

Deeper down below.

Slowly breathe,

1…2…3…

Deeper still.

It hurts down here –

it is fuzzy

and it is dark.

A stark contrast from the shuffling, busy reality;

From muffling electronic noise and visuals,

The Rituals of turning on screens,

Ordering coffee…

Residual energies clinging to the slept-in,

Sweated in sheets you shared with both a lover and both your dreams,

Now these scenes are pleasant and positive,

That means,

You’ve just found the perfect category to pop that penned poem into the pocket of!

There are ideas in the hairs on my arms

And through the stubble on my legs.

Mind begs me to note the observations I caught upon my walk up the hill in the breeze,

My knees straining as sneakers feel tight,

Vocals through the right earbud have dropped, if I stop…

I will get too hot,

And the guy behind me will catch up,

Up, up, up the hill I stride,

3, 2, 1 more letterboxes to pass then I’m inside

my house and away from the world…

But…

Ramblings and rantings and creative workings still reside,

They still float just below the surface…

Shimmering and shifting,

their purpose,

is still unknown…

Alone I leave scrambled letters and twisted lines,

Their stanza’d, structured, syntaxed sentencing can stimulate another time,

Because right now,

I’m heading under.

Jigsordid

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We deserve to have someone that fits in nicely against us

like an adjoining jigsaw puzzle piece.

They can be part of the picture in this scene of our existence!

A corner of a tree in the background;

A slightly bluer part of the sky,

or maybe that obscure bottom part of a waistcoat with a floral print which shows the part- ponytail of the redhead that’s standing next to the mule…segment.

But.

Most jigsaw puzzles are simply made from assembling similar shapes that can interlock…

Remember, this is cut from a generically designed template.

We complete many of these“Fun For The Whole Family!”, ages 2 and up, sprawled across the board atop the dinner table so now everyone eats in the lounge on their laps by the fire, winter indoor entertainment boxes of 1000+ jigsaws in our lifetime…

It’s ok if some pieces aren’t flush;

It’s ok if there seems to be a piece missing,

(It’s not missing)

It’s ok if the cardboard has lifted from the knobbly bit that sticks out and into another piece,

And of which that piece also has cat teeth indents upon,

We will fit the pieces that fit for us

When we know what scene we want to see.

Besidewalk.

 

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I hold her,

But I feel like I’m the one

Who may fall down.

I hold her tight,

I might say something

Stupid…

But right now,

I hold it together.

We are close together,

And whether,

…and if

she falls…

I am here clutching at fabric

and my face is nestled into her hair,

which is not at all like a bird’s nest…

Resting heart rate,

 friends wait,

then go on ahead.

My head

on her head,

here we stand.

And if she falls,

If…she falls,

I’ve got her.

:TELLECTRONIC:

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A quiz suggested I live in France because love is important to me in life.

YouTube recommends a 15 minute Tibetan singing bowl meditation to unwind,

Ghost Adventures Season 8, Episode 3,

& a Trap Nation remix of an already acoustically covered pop track on a 1 hour loop.

Facebook notifies me that 5 events I’m interested in are starting soon,

that I was tagged in 2 shared memories from 6 years ago,

that my video is ready to view

& that there have been 4 comments on a comment I commented on that got 9 likes.

My phone battery icon wears a shade of 12% orange

and my laptop dims and switches to energy saver mode.

The alarm tells me I should leave in 37 minutes,

It’s

11.11 –

……. Make a wish……

When is there ever time to just take time?

Because time takes away every spare minute up until death

and that guy is the ultimate moment remover.

The Niggles.

niggle

I like picking at things.

Stuck bits of food on bedding,

Shedding sheets of salt ‘n peppered cat hairs,

– individually –

Continuously taking the tops off scabs,

Jabs fingers into corners of eyes, pulling out long strands of pupil goo.

Visceral – Like a thin wet string of seagull poo,

Do I eat it…?

No, eww.

I just like picking at things.

Such as the way you arrange the dishes on the rack.

The stack of magazines in the loo,

Again,

Ewww.

You get on my nerves, so this deserves a probing;

Bathrobes on door handles,

One jandal mixed between all the other shoes, then,

…the other jandal.

Can’t handle when at 6am you start the sequence of snooze,

I choose to get affected,

These are my irritations.

But, there is also some elation;

like pulling a random hair from your head

That’s somehow managed to lodge up your bum.

Feeling horrified but mesmerised,  

squeamishly delighted all at the same time…

Kinda gross, kinda nice.

I like picking at things.

Blue-tac and price tags,

Loose threads on handbags,

Grammatical errors and your use of ‘you are’ without apostrophe r e….*

The wrongly placed  E, I before C,

Cutlery in the sink,

Half-finished drinks left cold on the floor,

The way you sound when you snore,

Your awful choice of décor,

Your boring obsession with folklore,

and ‘The War…’

The way you swore at that old wh…dinosaur in Arty Bee’s bookstore,

Uncalled for!

You’re…

annoying.

Which is probably why I’m always picking at things!

Exploring ways in which to

purposefully pull you apart.

I’ll start learning how to live with these niggles and irks and quirks of life,

Calm that OCD driven housewife that resides inside of me…

I’ll stop picking at things

and just let them be.

 

 

 

Fourthirtytwohertz

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I can finally feel the frequencies;

This ‘ease up’ on everything that held me in tangled strings,

dangling from a rapidly-descending ceiling has me feeling no more

negativity…

Has me feeling free.

Music is delicious when listened to in 432hz,

Spurts of creative outbursts

Immersed in words, I hear my voice over vibrations;

Melodical meditation,

Manifestation of illogical, yet imaginative works.

Right Brain: On

Left Ear: Tuning

Write down: Everything

Left alone: Helps.

I can honestly hear the harmonies;

This pleases my everything

and brings those strings back together to weave

an intricacy of interior peace.

Hearing that Morning Song, those birds…

Hearing from loved ones and what hurts…

Resonations, reverberations,

Audible relaxations…

I can finally feel the frequencies.

Lady from Boston

fish

A lady from Boston once said to me,

“…Your voice is strong.”

I longed to believe her,

But at the time I was wet with wine

And drowning down a not so ‘Mystic River’©.

Shivering at 3 a.m. and 3 litres later,

I wake up with make up fors and must do’s;

Must choose which shoes carry this broken arse to work.

I’m a jerk when I’m drinking,

As my thinking goes grim.

I skim through sent messages

and there it is,

The woe is me, attention seeking, ‘drunk Tarns speaking’ cry for help…

This lady from Boston does not get lost in

the hopelessness and misery –

In fact, she offers to meet up with me,

another time for a cup of tea on The Terrace…

There has been changes since then

And there for a bit,

my voice lay dormant.

The tormented, intoxicated being everyone was seeing,

was not who I wanted to be.

Breathe, Tarns…

…Breathe.

I took some time,

Adjusted the rhymes and the rhythm,

within removing a nectar proving

I was making a spectacle out of myself

under this alcoholic spell…

No longer I dwell in this debauched depression.

This lady from Boston,

She made quite an impression!

My confessions now have conviction,

My inflections and diction

no longer afflicted

with sick,

Slurred, words.

Thanks, lady from Boston,

Hope you heard.

 

The Gaping Gap.

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I wish to fill a gap.

A large gap that was gaping, openly seeping with pus.

A gaping gap – funny that I never thought the word ‘gap’ came from that…

… “Gaping,”

That is.

Gee whizz, look at the time!

I have all of the things on my mind,

To find what is not yet lost,

but ultimately worth looking for.

To explore my world and what sits within my quiet;

I relax,

Light a cigarette and a thought

I wonder, am I a decent person?!

Am I a “good sort…?”

Do I give change to those on the street…?

Sometimes.

Depends if i can get a long black with one sugar…

Does that make me an arsehole?

Yes, that’s why I give the change.

There’s that gaping gap, you see,

Fill it with things, materistically,

Buy all of the stuff – shit you don’t even need,

That’ll separate you from me!

The gaping gap, the large divide,

Kept nice and tidy over here on this side.

Stride reflected on tinted dressed windows,

Wind blows hair into glasses and passes past pawpaw lips,

Sips the single sugared long black,

Phones goes back into the back pocket and off we go!

Continuing into the wind and into the street.

Look down at my feet and see vivid upon cardboard…

Words like ‘Homeless’,

God Bless.’

‘Hungry.’

I was still on the same side as He on the street…

MY side of the street,

That was kept swept, tidy and clean.

It would be mean of I to just walk by…

To keep smoking my cigarette, handbag swaying by my side.

Make up can hide the depravity of sleep,

Caffeine can un-slur sentences unsteady,

But what can sugar coat lost empathy…?

I wish to fill a gap in my conscience.

A place void of feeling, of shuffling nonsense.

To love and to listen, to look and to give,

To hold onto and remember, to cherish and live

Without images of regret…

Forget yourself for a minute!

Let go of the madness.

Get amongst nature, be happy, be glad this day and everything in it

is in place and exists…

Lift my hand from my pocket and sprinkle the beanie with coins,

Join those crossing diagonally on the green man,

shift my phone from my hand to my handbag by my V can,

Check my appearance in the automatic doors,

Ground Floor

to Level 8 Thanks.