Minutes missed.

I was a good time for a long time
Until there came a time where I became a bad time
I was a bad time in no time!
I was a bad time in less time it took for a good time to be had.

I had to have it all
The good, the bad and the less attractive.

I have this ability to remember things back a bit differently.
Filtering through files of mental footage

Finding the finest,
Shiniest examples of being:

Great company

…not a moody, selfish problematic drinker at all…

I was a great time ‘til a late time
Wines ‘til 1am and then some more beer…
Should mention here that this is a “School night”
Whatever, didn’t care.

1 becomes 2 becomes two more, then one more
Then i see 3…
something A.M,
Well then!
Vessel’s empty,

Best fall into a…
Pass out,
Out like both headlights on a car in a ditch…

This was my situation each night.
Fight the urge to go into the
Bottle Shop.
Don’t stop,
Don’t stop!
Go around,
Just pass,
Go straight…
To the back fridge and leave with an amount of piss I’m just not comfortable with telling you about.

The amount of times I took time off…

Took time to think up elaborate tales to tuck away the truth
Took cash
Took booze
Took Centre Stage when told not to…

I was taking everything
Not realising everything was getting taken from me too.

Too many times waking up with no idea how I got
That bruise
That roadcone
That much money out of my savings
This jacket that’s clearly not mine.

I was in denial for awhile
And for a while
I just wanted my time to be up.


I took the time to take some time and told the time to


A lot of Sundays didn’t even exist…

Missed Midday sunshine
Missed catch ups with mates
Missed the bowl sometimes when hungover hurling…

Curling my watch around my wrist,
I set an alarm to wake up.

Tarns Hood 2020.

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


My arms are lineage brown

And my legs the shade of Ethnicity

printed on my Passport.

Sport freckles that make triangles,


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



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…?




Bal……..tic States.




Now, that be


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,


“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.


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.


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.



draw on the floor


be on the floor.

Because everything down there is at and on my level.


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




Force the first

19490401_10159120821060268_1226627514_o - Copy

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,


But she knows hersef…


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,


and only just that.

What’s next?

Go with the next thought I guess.

Which is….


Tea for Tarns.


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,


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.




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.


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.

The Niggles.


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,



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!



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.






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


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


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…


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.


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…?


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.’


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.




I have used up all of myself today.

Exhausted all of my resources and pulled out extra efforts

Like super powers.

Did I do good things today?

Yes I did.

Did I speak and eat and meet up with friends?

Did I laugh and love and be loved and feel love and wish love for everyone and everything…?

Yes, I did.

That was me.

Was I listening, absorbing,

analyzing and reforming,

Exploring the scenery,

waking up my energies…?


I’ve seen myself change,

No longer living wet and dazed,

193 days away from burning liquor,

The 3 litre piss box that made me feel sicker,

And sicker……

and sicker…

The quicker I get to the farthest away from there,

the better.

I used up all of myself today,

But I hope I managed to give you

a well needed top up.

Remind me to forget about you


Remind me to forget about you

Every day

Be a memo of misery

Every day

Resurface continuously

Wrap yourself around irrelevant things and bring back imagery of what you were to me…


Every night

Remind me of your destruction,

Of your presence

Every night

Make me aware of your essence that declares you left a bitter residue…

Remind me to forget about you.

Take your grip from off my wrist

Take your name from off my list

Take your triggers, you won’t be missed

Every hour

You fight for floor space within my mind

Every hour

You hide, but are easy enough to find.

Remove me from your special promotions

Remove the content, the context,

The addicted devotion…

Remind me to forget about you.

This Cup


Drank the sun down

Drank the sun back up

This cup filled with sand, ash and regret,

The hours have passed,

The minutes we forget.

We forget dates on calendars marked,

Trip, then sit on journeys embarked,

We lose count of the amount of times we said we can’t be fucked!

Ducked under duvets on Sundays,

In some ways

We just stayed still.

Time stops when you’re drinking

And you’re thinking,

Not true…

Week after week after week I’ve consumed.

Long night and long islands and a long hard look

at a long black in the morning,

Dawning on you, yet still you say

Nah, No way!

I’ve partied, had cocktails and been on benders for days,

Displayed behaviour questionable,

Been barely workplace presentable,

Unstable within moonlit, blackout evenings,

Leaving tables of empties,

Bottles aplenty hidden in plastic bags in boxes under beds,

This begs and beckons me up now with the sun

For if I must choose from these options,

then this is the one.

This cup filled with a double…


Time starts, we check we are present and then go

On dates on calendars marked.

Be in your moment.

Be in your moment.

Sit in your skin.

Observe the people and their place and their faces and look at their shoes.

Be aware of how far we have walked

And how we hold our own hearts very carefully with both hands now.

Be present in your world.

Feel what a good life feels like…

Live this.

Embrace your friends and soak up nature – be in your moment.

Surround yourself with calm and kind and caring and love…

Be in love.

Sit next to skin.

Observe their eyes and smile and look at their hands and hold them, feel and soak in how this feels…

Be aware of your journey and pick the path most pleasant.

Now there are four hands around your heart and they are still holding on very carefully.

Be present in both your worlds.


Its every girl I’ve lived with…


It’s every woman in power…


It’s every nurturing mother…

On occasion.

It’s every sympathetic shoulder…


It’s every ‘good time’ drinker…

Too often.

It’s every wizardress of words…

My dream.

It’s every experimentation…


It’s every curious student…

Hardly ever.

It’s every kind, warm soul…

Once. (But we were better as friends)

It’s every gaze I meet –

Your hands

Touch me;

You laugh forgivingly.

Your mind cautiously choosing what to say next…

In line for everyone that comprehends and finds artistic creativity; defends her psychological intelligence, personal mantra and strength…

She’s out there….

Waiting for me.

Hood for the trees


I wear a very convincing mask.
And I ask that you believe this facade. That,
on all fronts,
I’ve acted out a persuasive scene.
In between rehearsed lines,
you’ll probably find someone shaking within the wings…
This brings me to you thinking I’ve not delivered the true,
the real me…
On the contrary;
I would rather you witness the happy, the vibrant,
The free…
It’s just…
erratic & painfully sad is not what I want represented.
Defend then,
my quiet misery.
Do I offend you when my shit becomes too hard?!

So, therefore I skip on,

Standing up on a privi-ledge


Is this OK and do you care what I think?
Is it important for my quirks and quips
to fill your sink of thought..?
I ought
To just be confident and comfortable within this frame…
– to be one of the few,
not one of the same.

I touch the walls in my house to feel like I belong somewhere;
You sit there amongst friends,
Platters of cheese and bottles of craft beer…
You share;
Stories and tales of the day –
Your superficial,
pretentious conversations a dictionary of decay,
That rots
And irritates
My insides…

Floor staff abides your every beckoned call –
Fall at your feet as you order another expensive Pinot Gris –
Is this alright and do you mind if I sit here?
Is it necessary for my anecdotes to adhere,
to the points you’re making;
Faking pleasantries to appease those with whom perch upon your top tier…?

I look up in order for myself to ground…
You select and sip Top Shelf
and have found,
That what you say…
…What you gesticulate and convey –
May not be the pinnacle point of
that particular persons’

This is who she is, despite the birds.


She was animated and light. Yet painted with dark striking features. Like a transient under street lit luminescence; her eyes lit up, but also reflected shadows.

Pale skin adorned with inked symbols, was peppered with dark hairs; finding areas of settlement, like colonials obeying an ancient hand-drawn map. Hair that journeys and inhabits everywhere. Thick; a matte black like that of a turned off plasma screen. I like to be underneath it. I enjoy how it traces brush strokes of painted sweet scenes across my face; how it tickles my nostril like the tip of the wing of a bird. I don’t like birds.


Rousseau Me Up.


Strength and Fidelity

Wealth and Inequality

Our old souls sing.

We are all Optimists in a weak world.

Life left to the will of the Prince…?

I wince

at the rise of Aristocracy.

States of decay,

Your mind a mental Magistrate,

Are you wise enough to Govern your Psyche?

Our oppressions, our obsessions become submissively strong on the inside.

So, we hide.

Talents hidden,

Virtues ignored.

The Tyrants of disturbed thoughts go unpunished,

as we lie in a democracy of despotic dreams.

Oligarchy Oscillates like Opiates in an Open Opinion,

Sit on the floor….

Caress the privileged

Manipulate the poor.

Placate –

Annihilate the past acts from your self Sovereign.

The body may wish to hurt all, but cannot pick on a particular one.

Rousseau Me Up with stitches and seeds of silence…

as i take Aristotle’s quiet seat on the shore,

I deplore…

Man was born in chains,

Yet he can always be creatively free.