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.

 

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….

 

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.

Baronecessity

Its every girl I’ve lived with…

Mostly.

It’s every woman in power…

Rarely.

It’s every nurturing mother…

On occasion.

It’s every sympathetic shoulder…

Frequently.

It’s every ‘good time’ drinker…

Too often.

It’s every wizardress of words…

My dream.

It’s every experimentation…

Whoops!

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.

ANI-SEEDY….Part One.

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Her coughs won’t clear as she feels the tightness, tastes the thickness and lights another cigarette.

She had bought three socks with her on this stay. Not pairs, just one single penguin sock, one pineapple sock and a menacing shark motif foot covering with indented nostril bits. She chose this one and the penguin. It’s day three of wearing a rotational combination of said socks, and the shark sock seemed slightly wet, yet crispy at the same time, although smelled the “freshest”.

She attempts to cough and dislodge the weeks’ clogging consumption from her whistling chest. Swallow. Clear. Swallow. She stubs the cigarette out into the ashtray, which she spills all over the couch.

Mustering up all the tight, thick, whistley breath she can manage, she blows the scattered carcinogenic grey powder in various directions of couch crease relocation.

Today’s beverage, after having drained the dregs from leftover Peroni bottles, was an Isaac’s Mixed berry and Manuka Honey Cider. Why this was chosen; she knew. Why she advocated this preference… she did not. She hates honey. And that is all she can taste. However, she finds solace in the fact that it’s alcoholic and that suits her just fine. The coughs have a sweet quality now, as a sickly syrup coats the inside of her mouth and creeps into the embedded cuts on her tongue. Cuts caused by an overdose of consuming two packets of Macey’s Pink Smoker’s lollies the night before. As a result of this, she also has a dodgy guts and urgently flowing bowel…

As a comfort and also detriment to the fact that she needs to leave the house, she puts on and adjusts her headphones, selects ‘shuffle all’, downs the last of the boozy bee nectar and heads out the front door.

Continued shortly….