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Poetry

October 9, 2017

1. Green plastic bag draping fork in the tree. 2. Wooden toy (a chubby horse or cow) with dangling legs, draped next to the green plastic bag. 3. Dirty jar — would be big enough to pickle something in. About the same size as the jar with a lid that didn’t fit that I pickled […]

October 2, 2017

Sit still while I comb the demons from your hair. On their way out they are spitting, and fighting. Grabbing at the knots, their lips on your lips. I bite down hard and tear them out with chunks of hair.   Picking out the lies slowly from between my teeth. Like looking in the mirror […]

September 25, 2017

Am I my skin? This tan, yellow brown, People’s colours changing from town to town, Exposure to the sun, Adaptations beginning from day one, I am seen for what you drew for me, The colours you choose confine the lines I live in.   Dear White Supremacist, I see you, I see what you have […]

September 18, 2017

The layer of mist over paddocks, delicate and cold; the layer of cows under a silver sun-bleached tree; the hills rising over them and in the distance the whole countryside demarcated by accidental hydrangeas or a gentle river.   All of these layers upon layers over something good, I say.   But then I remember […]

September 11, 2017

Nō te uho o te ngahere i wehe atu te mata o Mumuwhango tōna mana whenua i muri tonu i a ia. Auē te kaha o te karanga i pā katoa ai i a ia, pō iho, ao ake. Tē taea te wareware.   Ahakoa tonu, te pora hoki o tōna kite whakamua. He wātea […]

September 11, 2017

I woke up to the cold outside Left four small quarters on the floor Picked up my mouth Sometimes it hurts, it’s sore The me days linger of burnt toast Smells sweeter than most But sweet is a cheater that is subtly composed A hard tainted kiss in the morning Waste, exhaled In the cracks […]

August 21, 2017

Love is like an ocean And I’m hiding in the blue Truth is like a knife And I’m hiding it from you   Love is the truth Yellow Silver true Cuts me open where I’m open Silver yellow blue   There’s a rock over your bed at night Daylight cuts the string Suspended by the […]

August 14, 2017

one day i will pack up my bags quietly carefully without warning and leave (colourless sky) for a place where there is no post— __________________________________ [tenor♀ for afterimage:] parcelled Sunday & postcolonial theory          (yet wedded          to mis-history) red dawn raids, then the Mandela exodus […into…] colour blindness

August 7, 2017

Here in sunset city The streetlamps flicker on In sickly saffron grid-lines, marching Out across the plains, While headlamps pulse Down darkening streets In liquid floods of light. In sunset city, Cicadas clatter like Loose screws In empty lots, where Weeds, persistent as grief, Push between the cracks In memory.