C O – D E P E N D E N C E

My sister blocked me on Facebook Messenger
Wednesday, 1:13am Melbourne time
It was 3:13am in New Zealand
The last message she sent me was

Black Bitch

Then she blocked me
At 3:13am NZ time

An interesting point to note is that I sport that
Melbourne/shard/cold storage tan perpetually

The most likely occurrence
Before the fact-
Is that she was getting high
At some point, or many
Within the 24 hour expanse of time
In which she blocked me

And that is fine

My sister and I have spent many hours
That bled into days
That turned out to be weeks
Getting high together
During which
At some point, or many
We have been known to fight

This is a reflection
A recollection
Of facts built up from a past
I sought escape from
And departed from

Put bluntly
I left her
Alone
In the eye of the storm of obsession

Guilt is mere in comparison
To the feelings invoked
When I draw upon this fact
A true bane of my existence

There’s nothing worse then being high alone
Because it’s not really high at all
If you have nobody to share it with
And there is no better high
Then the high you are gifted to partake
With somebody you love

My sister is that somebody
That one-somebody who makes my highs higher

But such is life
It all balances out
Because the lows
The lows are of that kind
That have the capacity to raze you

F O R E V E R

The grand evasion happened
A long time ago
…and I have made peace with it

Even so I am brought back, violently
To a place and time
Where violence was less prevalent in our lives
Back to a time
When LSD and bourbon
Were our main drugs of choice

But not our only

A time when we listened to
House of Shem
And truly believed
In thinking about you

Needless to say the acid was strong
And the bourbon consumed then
Is still
Referred to as
Court case in a can

Regardless
We can only think of ourselves

Regardless
Of House of Shem

Regardless
Of the height of the highs
or
The depth of the lows

We are selfish
Dolorous

I am gone
Struggling alone with the lows

While, she remains
Battling alone with the highs

I L L U M I N A T E

Love is unapologetic.
It is without compromise.

Love is acceptance.
It is void of condition.

Pain cannot be truly understood until you have felt it in it’s purest form and love is the way in which it it approaches and also the way in which it leaves.

Love is a gesture unparalleled.
Love is the sacrifice of yourself.

Love is polarity.
Love is death.

Life is a hard road to
navigate.

Love is the guiding light.

The Plight of a Flightless Bird

ANTI-SOCIALLY.
AWKWARDLY.
ANXIOUSLY.


 

I would have been an activist up there on the frontline
Alas; I am too shy
Wielding a placard for a revolution
I stood for, just to hide behind

I could have been that auspicious scholar
Who would always raise a hand
Divulge a new perspective
Dispute a contemporary stand

With emphasis on my capacity
From each corner calculations
Menacing were the whispers
Lacked grasp my limitations

What do you want to do
Who do you wish to be
As if it was inconceivable
For me to, just want to be
Me

Perhaps I could have, done much more
Maybe I would have, been something
Had the pressure to be, somebody
Been wind, contrary to weight
Beneath my wings

I have watched life from the sideline
Witnessed many a fledgling take first flight
But the transmission of common, eager energy
Verified self resistance; primary motive for my fight.

 

 

A poem called

Road Kill.

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She didn’t re-elect to present in my memoir
She would sooner have walked into the path of an oncoming truck
Before making the catastrophic mistake of happening upon mine
Another time
But there she was, within the scope of my headlights again
Drawn in as if she were an offering left
On the doorstep by a domestic feline
Look what the cat’s dragged in
But in a situation as such are the circumstances
Who would properly represent the cat
And who the gesture of gratitude?
The front door gapes upon myself laid out
Atop the welcome mat; a dismembered crow
Only, she is not the domestic feline
Rather an alley cat lurking in the folds of sombre despair
A crow, is a truck, is a metaphor
And a cat has nine lives.

What is ART?

i am not a starving artist
no, it is my art
that is starving

struggling to transpire
struggling to take it’s first breath
to transcend from
the void
into the domain of the sentient

no, i am not a struggling artist
but an entity
on an unorthodox odyssey
upon which my art is
suffering
my art, the sufferer

the words left unwritten
hanging in the abyss
of unkept promises

so,
no,
i am not a suffering artist
i am a being
conditioned by fear
indoctrinated by fixation

 

what is ART?

Enlist Me.

Vague recollections
Lost nights, no sleep
Day dreams become
Dusks cyclic creep
Slip back into darkness
Once and again
Debase the promise
That escorts the end

Each episode
A mislaid chance
To confront the devil
Decline his dance

Let me go, leave me be
Let me rise, set me free
I am weary, dismal, empty 
So far down
Emancipate me

An ascent of light
The dawn maid rises
Breaks a broken day
Upon hazy horizons
Draw, tight the blinds
So turn your eyes
To how many moons
Have fled the sky

Each episode
A mislaid chance
To confront the devil
Decline his dance

Let me go, leave me be
Let me rise, set me free
I am weary, dismal, empty
So far down
Emancipate me

Melting mornings
That came at night
Overlooked moments
Moon bright, sun light
Did rise and settle
And fall away
One wide eyed week
Befell a single day
Time misspent
On soul sacrifice
Not for worth
But for a price

Each episode
A mislaid chance
To confront the devil
Decline his dance

Let me go, leave me be
Let me rise, set me free
I am weary, dismal, empty
So far down
Emancipate me

Song for a Friend…


the delusion of happiness

an illusion
we might never capture
my friend
we are a sea apart
we started this life
a day apart
on either side of a curtain
in a maternity ward
where do we go from here?
armed with our crutches
and fear

to where
will this whiskey road take us

 

are your dreams sweet
my life long friend?
what is the remedy
is your sleep sound
my life long friend?
what can i do for thee
help me, help you
help me, can we

 


misspent youth
and misguided desire
common ground
stinking, thinking, fire
in my belly
with eyes drugged wide
all too aware
we cannot hide
nor decide
so
where do we go from here?
perplexed by addiction
and fear

 

 

to where
will this whiskey road take us

are your dreams sweet
my life long friend?
what is the remedy
is your sleep sound
my life long friend?
what can i do for thee
help me, help you
help me, can we

 

help me
help you
help me
can we
where do we go from here?
to where
will this whiskey road take us

The Pigeons Omen

I don’t often open my blinds, well one blind in particular I prefer to keep closed.  Today for no apparent reason, I opened this particular blind and looked out the window.  Right outside was a pigeon, lying beak first on the ground, struggling to take it’s last breath.

I am an animal person, in fact I’m more of an animal person then a human person.

Yesterday while on my way to work,  I was driving along the freeway and I had no choice but to pass a stock truck, filled to the brim with fearful sheep – all on their unhappy way to be slaughtered, and for what?  For mankind’s penchant for the flesh of a beast deemed inferior to them.  I wonder, what gave humans the idea that they were the superior being incarnate on this earth?  What was it that determined their right to breed another species just for the taste of the meat on its bones?  When I say they, I mean them, I wish not be categorised into the human box.

I called out to it “pigeon, are you ok?  what’s going on?”

I rushed outside and knelt down next to it.  I could tell it was in it’s last stages of life and had already begun it’s ascent to the next realm of being.  It made me sad, so I called Wildlife Services, but before they had a chance to respond, my feathered friend had already flown the coupe of life, it’s soul set free.

It seems it had flown into my window, or the neighbours fence – a collision that ended it’s life.  Sitting on the concrete next to it, I was the only one witness to it’s last moments.

I wrote this 3 days before my Uncles car left the road for the river, the river that swallowed his last breath.

My Uncle; the dead man – a work in progress.

Screen Shot 2016-01-19 at 2.17.23 pmYou will return to the land in the morning.
No later then 12 noon, because those are the rules.

Tonight they screwed the lid to your coffin on, thus concealing you from the human world forever.

This is always the hardest time for the whanau, those last moments with your body, those final glimpses of your face, the last time your 3 remaining sisters get to kiss you and your 8 remaining brothers get to scold you – with your skin, your bones, present.

I hope Heni was there to see your face one last time, she loved you so much.  I remember witnessing arguments between the two of you about who was the baby.

Everyone knew that you were the baby.

But even after your passing as I spoke to my devastated Aunt, your sister, mere minutes after I got word of your death, she said to me “we were both the baby, he was the baby boy and I was the baby girl.”

But you were the baby, Te Iwiroa.
We all knew that.

We buried the eldest 6 years ago.  And now we are to bury you, in the morning, before noon, because those are the rules.

Except I won’t be there this time around.

I wasn’t there to bury your sister last year – who liked to be called Kylie, but whom I always called Paddy.

And I won’t be there to see them carry you out of the shed at ‘Nan’s’ – even though you lived there for so long, that house will always be Nanny’s to me.

The whare of secrets.  Nanny’s house.

I won’t see them load you into the vehicle, or perhaps they will put you on the back of Granddads work truck, I will never know unless I ask, because like I said I won’t be there, this time around.  I won’t see my father and his brothers and sisters, your brothers and sisters carry you from the vehicle to your plot next to my Nan, I won’t see your wife in turmoil follow you, in a box, carried by your brothers, sisters, nephews or cousins and a large part of me is glad.

Once your lid was screwed on, My father, his brothers, perhaps their sons will have left Nanny’s for the urupa, regardless of the weather, they would have put on their gumboots, loaded the trucks with shovels and headed for the cemetery.

To be continued…

Lies Without Alibis – An Opinion Piece

There are two kinds of people – and of the two derivatives, both types are perjurers, in essence.

There are those who lie constructively and there are those who lie destructively.  There are no variations, people are either black or white when it comes to the true nature of dishonesty.  Similar to a chess board.

I’m going to call the constructive liars, black and the destructive liars, white.  It’s only fair and in a sense an adequate representation of the current state of the world, wouldn’t you agree?

I can detect a lie in an instant, both up close and from a distance – especially a white one, for these are the most common, a small mercy, being that these are a less harmful breed of fable.  Even the smallest of lies raise my intuitive alarm bells and needless to say I am immediately agitated by the person with whom I’m dealing for obvious reasons, but for arguments sake I will clarify – what instantaneously infuriates me is not the lie itself, but the fact that the person who is telling the lie is obnoxiously conscious of this detail, yet still persists with their delivery, be it verbal or otherwise – at which point I will consciously cease to absorb anything else derived from the interaction.

In my head I curse the person, in an expletive laden mind rant which usually goes something like this:

“shut the fuck up you fucking bullshit cunt, I cannot believe I am witness to this utter fucking rubbish, you fucking lying piece of shit”

Depending on the person and the length of their ramblings, this could go on, or if I like the person and it’s a good chance that I do – for the fact that I don’t go out of my way to interact with anybody I don’t like, this is standard.  Even if I like you, if you lie to me, chances are what is going on in my head is a violent flurry of hateful profanity, furthermore, as a result of the internal negativity, what follows is customarily a rearrangement of my face into a scowl and a sudden change in the language of my body, wherein my defences will be significantly raised.  But I still like you – I just don’t like it when you lie to me; regardless of the level of the lie imparted or your social standing pertaining to myself.

I don’t like being lied to, nobody does – I also don’t like to lie, for the same reason as a matter of fact.  I don’t like the burden, the way it makes me feel, the automatic feeling of dread and the shame that washes over me when I have no choice but to tell a lie and I make it a direct mandate not to lie unless I am cornered, unless there is no other way around the predicament.

It happens.
It’s not ideal, but it happens.

There is only one excusable reason to lie, and that is to spare the feelings of another, which is contrary to the grounds upon which most people lie – it is not okay to tell a lie to save yourself, even if you tell yourself or genuinely believe it is in the interest of another, because nine times out of ten the lie is completely self-serving (you weak cunt) nor is it okay to tell a lie to add weight to an otherwise insipid story (you fucking phoney) – if you are forced and by forced, I mean having examined all the possible alternatives and finally reach the conclusion that your only option is to respond with a lie, then so be it – tell the lie, process the guilt.

In all other situations, there is no demand for the lie supply.

Some may find the way in which I operate unnecessarily despotic, in connection with the strict criteria I have in place for prospective friendships, beginning with, but not limited to a prolonged observation of potential subjects.  It is my personal perception that those people, even in cases involving friends who have fulfilled the conditions, are either missing the inbuilt  ‘lie-alarm’ and/or have never been a human sacrifice for another persons misdeeds.  Lucky for them, I however, am one of the less fortunate, customised with the former and experienced in the latter, in multiple affairs and facets, therefore I deem it an essential requirement for the foundation of any new friendship, thus disregard their views, not with ego, but with surety.

This is security for me, this method ensures that only black labelled liars are extended an invitation to my small, but meticulous inner circle.  White labelled liars need not apply.

During a comprehensive discussion I had with a friend recently, I raised the subject of my disdain for the visually impaired general-population, the unconscious disciples of the New World Order who watch the news and believe that what is made available for public consumption via mass-media is testament to the truth, a disorder otherwise known as Cognitive Dissonance.

He went on to tell me about a recent study that suggests, that those who possess the faculty to see the truth in the way the world, or anything shrouded in convenient fabrication, is depicted and marketed is a xenogenetic trait and in effect it is the gene that separates the leaders from the followers.  They call this the leadership gene and it too is like a chess board.  There are only two variations.

Black and white.