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.

Down the Rabbit Hole.


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,


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…



Prepares evidence in the form of


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.


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.


Chunks of Blue.


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…


So then,



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.



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….


Chairs in circles.


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

I sprawl Big Books across cushions and step



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…


I see


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)


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…



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.



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.



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,


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.


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.




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.

A short walk in the wind


She spoke in poetry

And the rhymes were in time with her thoughts,

But too fast for anyone else to keep up with.

She sought your glance

And hoped that your hands would need her hands to pass you something.

She follows the direction of love

And waits for you to read from the same map,

So you both land in the same place…


She walks too fast for anyone else to keep up with.

She stops.


Then sets off with you, making smaller paces,

so spaces closed in,

Became closer.

She craves your face

And wishes that your heart would need her heart too.

She stops and notices the rhythm in the wind

And waits for you to sweep her hair out of her eyes.

The walk.

A hole in the toe of my shoe shows a hole in the toe of my sock as I walk,

wondering how u do the voodoo that you do to me. 

And it’s not pricky like pins…

more like smudges of pleasant across sensitive areas. 

And they are good sensations. 

And that makes sense. 

A hole in the toe of my shoe that shows a hole in the toe of my sock would sometimes worry me….make me think that passersby assume I am not 

all together…

…that I’m lower level…

but it is only me staring down at my feet. 

My sneakers squeak as I ponder how you appear in portions in parts of me in pieces of my day.

And it’s not easy to write as I search for perfect word choices…

…but all my summarised scrawlings are smudged.

And that makes sense to me and that’s ok.



Can a leopard change its spots really?
I can smell the scum from under my fingernails.
I have yesterdays regrets on my breath and possess the want, need and desire to be a better me.
Like the knots in my stomach attune to those in wood –
If I could…if I could
…even see the trees.
Can a zebra mask its stripes wholly?
I can hear the sighs from my 82 year old Grandma…
If only
She knew what caused me to feel like this.
I have tomorrows ambitions weighing on my mind.
I have the tools, support and backing to ride this nauseated wave.
But I waiver…
And doubt.
Like a lioness whose cubs are lost throughout this corporate and confusing jungle mess of existence.
Can a new page be turned in an old book?
Can you look at me without disdain, misery, pity and worry?
A clean chapter is what I’m after,
I can return with pride.

Sole Ties.


New shoes on an old walk.
Thinking shit but feeling legit as I stride in shiny kicks and guitar licks prick my lobes.
I go slow…
Then fast with the last of the sun and crumbs of tobacco that burns down to the bones of my first two fingers.
Linger about the entrance
as I’m too early to be late…
Unfurling of fists clenched as I take in the stench
Of this decomposed life.

One pot wonder.


Upon a Formica table,
We sit across from each other.
I chose the dinner music,
And you’d prepared the

I wish I had
That discipline


any given area or aspect of my life as you had marinated and spiced,

7 hour plated and consumed dream.

I played Comptine D’un Autre e’te
to accompany Tiersons’ adagios at ease….
I’m pleased with how I feel…
and how you’ve made me feel.

A meal heals a remarkably broken heart.

I Thank You…
For giving me warmth,
A knife and fork
And for letting me

Me, Myself & Morpheus


I lie in my double bed,
Four pillows
One head.
Instead of displaying splayed confidence,
I assume a foetal cocoon off to the side.
On the edge
– where duvet hem rubs my legs
And my arse crack and back is exposed.
Crave others warmth
have no fire of their own.
Home is…
both a solace and a cell –
At nights I dwell on
Relationships walked,
I talk to myself
and think up lots of dumb wanderlust shit.
I hit the snooze in the morn
after I recover from a yawn
that doesn’t fit –
‘Tis not
Quarantined my heart and pathetic emotions,
The notions of becoming BIG in this world start small.
I need is to rise…
…and to fall…
Whereupon I can dream
of a likeable,