Warriors; Still

Is just one drink, still a poor coping mechanism?

Is 12, is a number.  Is more or less the same, more; less.

I guess.
But turns out Dr. Seuss was a racist.

Alchemy or chemistry or both, with equally important features. 

The Kahlua is good. 
Slow me down, but at speed; an inaccurate epithet for the stigma.
Personally.

Is just one drink, still a poor coping mechanism?  If it is just the one.  Earth to Jake-

We once were, and we are now, still;
Warriors.

A Matriarch (..still)

At a loss
I experienced;
The departure, of you
From a distance
Beyond an ocean-

Her waves
Crashed upon walls
Of my own
Societal fortitude

I was gone, you were gone
I was gone, when you went
Now you’re gone

The debt of my humanity
Can never be repaid
With the fragments of my soul
But self appointed Gods
Of deception
Will make the withdrawal
Either way

I was gone
You were gone
I was gone
When you went
Now you’re gone.

A Matriarch

Reading your thoughts

Post quietus-

I hear your voice again

Like a soft stream

With the potential

For rough rapids

Vital; you were

They say

Only the strong survive

So I was sure

You’d win

Cheat death, immortal

Your mortal vessel, gone now

Into the arms of the Gods

How lucky they are.

Untitled.

It wasnt the time I was the bandaid for your heartbreak
Or the time you rightfully kicked me out of your sleeping quarters
Nor was it the time you made me sleep on your shitty couch
With a bad movie playing in the background
On a TV I didnt know how to work
To turn off, or turn down
It wasnt the time you invited me across the ocean
Then proceeded to ignore me
Shut me out
Pretend I wasnt there
Just for YOU
It wasnt all the times you humiliated me

No.

It was that time you treated me as if i wasnt your friend
That time you forgot to send the memo
You swore you thought you had
Despite the countless shitty things you’d done in the past
You’d never do that
Accidentally; on purpose
But you did, and it hurt
That was the time I actually needed you
To just be my friend
And you couldnt
And that was the only time you really made me cry.

But I ain’t mad.

Hedonism.

I would like to extend an apology to you all, to give thanks that you existed in my own existence and to let you know that despite the turnout I forgive you.  I’m sorry for having lived my life in a way in which you don’t agree, for the choices I have made that you felt you couldn’t support so opted to take leave of your place beside me – I’m sorry the road was rocky – I too have struggled to stumble along and continue upon at a pace in which you could keep up, so I understand why you have abandoned the journey, jumped ship, left me hanging at the edge; of the cliffs of life and chosen to take a path separate to mine; frankly how could I not understand?   It is a basic human right to go your own way, to make choices that best serve you, to take leave when the situation is futile – how could I hate you for exercising your rights?  You are my friend, after all, ever dear to my heart always, despite being excused from yours, I remain steadfast in my respect for true camaraderie  because it requires a certain level of loyalty to survive and I refuse to falter, I refuse to love you less, I refuse to withdraw my honour – whether you have withdrawn yours or not, I refuse to follow your lead and turn away my hand to you – to help you up when you need assistance, my shoulder to you – to lean on to ease your tired legs when you strive to move forward.

 

Dear friend, old friend – I refuse to bitch you out like you have done me.

 

“I hope you’re feeling happy now.”- Hedonism // Skunk Anansie

gone, so long.

I remember sitting outside
drug houses with you
If there were drugs inside
you weren’t present
Neither here nor there
you weren’t anywhere

Your prescence
murky

Sullied
by your own obsession
Confessions made
Your denial remains
unswayed
Were you the player
was I the played?
Perhaps
I draw back card
the dealer,

paid.

And you shall forever
stay
stained, restrained, pained
With all your self told lies
The thousand lows
amidst the 13 highs.

Was it worth
never coming in from the cold
Out there getting old
just for a cuckhold
that would never be yours
Belonging only to whores
a thing of war
Raging on and on

AND ON.

You’re over there, you’re over there
You’re over there

still gone.

Sunday Bloody Sunday

I seen her on a Sunday and I don’t hate myself-

They saw her on a Saturday and they done lost themselves.

The sheep without a shepherd will wear his jersey in the Summer, if his mate ahead does wear his at the dictation of his master.

Man will eat the sheep; essentially canibilise himself, out of fear of being odd one out left alone upon the shelf.

For what them want is bedlam, they know not what they do and when the ascendance is upon them I hope they finally acknowledge the word of truth.

The flowers cannot define themselves amongst the dying trees; potential pollination soon to be lost in translation to the bees.

Will the sun sustain them until come rise dawn maidens sky or will her roaring fire burn a reminder of their failed plight?

From whence this message sent to me? Is this fatigue? Is this insight?

Either way; I pray; the goddess moonlight guides the way through layered voids that are my night.

Paid in Full

Have you ever drowned your demons?  I have.
Have you ever saturated your suffering with substance?

I have.
Have you ever clawed at the inanimate walls built by yourself to hide yourself within yourself?

I have.
Have you ever seethed with rage and kicked down doors in houses, but never homes, that didn’t belong to you?

I have.
Have you paid the price?

For the drowned rat.

For the graffitied wall.

For the holes in unholy homes.

Because I have.
With neither pride nor shame. 

I have.
Drowned.

Saturated.

Clawed.

Seethed.
With neither pride nor shame.

I have. Paid.

Moe Mai Rā ē Koro

The journey back to the land that is not my mother is set to begin. I don’t want to take too many short breaths because I know what will follow if I do – the tiny plane I’m aboard hasn’t fired up yet so the absent engine roar won’t muffle my pain. 

Be strong my first born. My father.

Be strong my moko. My grandfather.

Only my father would offer me such endearments though. My grandfather would shake his head at my pending tangiweto and tell me that where I’m going is where the work is and any mokopuna of his knows to go, where the work is. So back to the land I’ve fostered, that is not my mother, I go.
But are you proud Koro?

Have I done well?
The tears are threatening my eyes, I’m trying to pretend my nose is only running because it’s so cold in Invercargill – and the plane fires up and starts moving.

The tears follow, so does the snot. As the plane zooms the runway seeking a clear place to embark I feel small fragments of my heart fall away – pieces that I will never get back, pieces of you and her – small parts of a huge emptiness that now stands; replaced.

Tihei. Mauri. Ora.

Moe. Mai. Rā.
And then the plane is in the air and I know that as soon as the wheels lift off the ground it will be the last time I return to this land, this land that is my mother. This is be my final visit where at least one of you has breath with which to greet me.

And I cry.

seeds

the land will soon come for her
take her into its endless embrace
soon she will become the land
return to the land
the land that has always been present inside her
it is her skin, it is her flesh, it is her blood
soon they will return to one another
a vessel sent forth from the motherland
will sail slowly – back to the beginning
to meet her end
soon she will lay rest her tired bones
her bones that are the land
the land that is her;
will be open to receive her
to join again with the one whom through
her earthly entrance was made
soon she will be reunited
with the one who left her behind
with the woman who gave her a name
she had no use for
in life she was fierce
but loneliness is a pain; unforgiving
i looked through her windows
and in her eyes i saw my father every time

there is an infinite love
unmatched
by those
we both precede
and follow
in utero

the woman who gave her the name
she did not want
was my grandmother
the omega of my existence
her older brother was a mirror in her eyes
and the seed who gave me life
guidance, a reason to forgive
that man is my father