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.

 

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.

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.

: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 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.

 

One pot wonder.

image

Upon a Formica table,
We sit across from each other.
I chose the dinner music,
And you’d prepared the
S….l….o….w…
Cooker.

I wish I had
That discipline

in

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

that
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
in.

I sit alone now on driftwood.

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Putting headphones on to escape reality,

Yet I’m sitting amidst one of the most beautiful scenes,

Propped up next to driftwood…

Looking out to sea.

My former lover not far from my mind,

Interrupting the poetry, the vista, the find.

I need to escape,

need to wee!!!!!

and unwind,

I need to recover and to myself, be kind.

Sits trying to light a smoke in the wind – alone.

Sand atop the can, listening to Nina Simone.

Feeling Good….but…

Feeling exposed.

Writers always make the loneliest notes.

I sit along the same stretch of sandy shore as she,

Look out at the same island,

and into the same breeze,

I look, just as she does, at the sea,

Wondering if she’s doing the same as me…

The distance between us now is wide,

The gaps and rivers swell up the tide,

I remember the times we walked here, barefoot,

side by side,

I sit alone now on driftwood,

as the waves say goodbye.

Thood

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