personification and retreat
I am here like I am here
like I am or have been here
overridden and steadfast
folded like wideswept domains
I broke walls I count splinters I pack light and swing heels I am broken most of the time and I kind of like it
it’s easy to construct
socket set memories
a forest of meaning sprouting up defining swan songs
and their resonant structures
crawl down the valley all sweet and serene

fall through the floor of the elevator,
    held up by corkscrew works:

   here it is quiet and
           there is invisible fog and
                     the characters are dull replicas
                                                   save for the receptionist,
                                            just a lonely purple and orange
                                                     painted singular eye,
                              and her assistant, the trace.

                               when I've found someone
                                                   I feel even lonelier
                     to know how hollow they are,
           just presets and language

           and there is
                  a terrible hole
                             in the vents,
                                        or the attic,
                                                        wh­ere
                                                             ­  everything leaches out
                                                             ­                           to the colourless
                                                      ­                                                          uncreat­ed
                                                              ­                                                                 ­ nothing.

last night, in a haze,
i stood in your room,
the eternal fool, as
you played out pattern
of the universe and
said:

"tom, go home n
sort yr **** out."

got caught in this small, fine-crafted world:

with half-moon indents below flittering
eyelids, with new rotation about iris,
embers under cloud sprawl, bloodshot from
  later
on in the night. with reveries hung out,
with sharp fog covering the evening: i
misplaced most sensibilities, i
clambered down from
this ridgeline, hope,
for god knows
whatever
reason. i
stood still, continually incapable of translation,
scrambling for word-count, the inside of my chest.

with new broken bones,
some impossible heaviness,
some insurmountable hopelessness:
soft poison, self-administrated;
i'll still climb back up, though,
given any fractional semblance of luck.

we've all been burnt, yeah,
but if you'd take this
half-exhausted charcoal splintering
heart in flax-woven basket up,
i will do my best, to
nurture your own back to
meadowlark wings your
breath takes flight upon, in
interstitial moments, as
your quiet lips
  turn to smile& glow.

my replacing takes part by small
designs. displacements accumulate,
until some day you look
out the window or
breathe to check you're still
alive; and, like that,
this weight will be gone.
this burden, effortlessly
dissipating.
this lament reaches from all hollows.

'cause you only reap from seeds
sown, right? it never
rained once.

you know, though,
i, likewise, never threw a single one down,
and instead just bit my tongue,
carrying out schematic emptinesses.
these hollows fill out and
encompass the entire world;

at the focus of everything,
i act out absolutes
and do nothing at all.

these new fields still look
burnt. i still turn soil, hoping for
salvation.
what if it rains?
will i cope?
will i drown?

you give me butterflies
butterflies made of antifreeze
butterflies made of fish hooks
    i don't like you
       i don't like you
    i need to throw up
  i think i love you
but i really just don't like you
    because you twist my arm
           with heavy wrenches
    but never break the skin
    and i have
      a thing for blood
     i guess
           'cause
i'm too ******* lazy to
      throw myself off a bridge
   in front of a train
           on fire with smoke signal
            "*******"s trailing behind me
but who cares
who cares, really?
           love is all fish hooks
       in the eyes of the devil so
         i'll save
              the last waltz in hell
                           for you, honey.

we twist, moths, to the light
in one another's eyes. this slow
dance, through loneliness. nothing
looks like all verdant expanses- thickets
of wind, icesheets. spread heart to
fragments; points of light above
borealis, your spinning skirt. daybreak.

eight-eight hundred is a ****** of
a number, though. all volume does
dissect, though: given time, pace.
sheets smooth.
tunnels of sharp rock, most days.

and here we step, tiny specks,
blinks apart, in coat of grand
nameless machinery. words
leak, as the length of
mid-afternoon; i can
barely breathe, sometimes,
stuck in these swales of
blush& noise. it is
wonderful, sometimes,
this slow twist under
city lights.

we dance, moths, around
this sharp-tongued
flame of worldly woe,
of each other's lips.

let out into some miniscule town
by someone else's proportionality,
here is always smaller than somewhere
bigger. there are always more people
somewhere else. there are less people
hiding, like me. and i'm left convinced
still, no matter the permanence of what
i'd say or you'd feel, you'll find someone
new and better, or old and more
familiar (this keeps happening,
the same patterns repeat, the inside
of my head reels). so, don't bother
assuaging my fears. somehow,
by this point, they are mostly what
compose me. i'll fall apart with or
without them. with or without you.
it all hurts.
                   and i can't keep it together.
not today. i burnt my self-esteem, by
my own spark. everything tore me
apart. a jigsaw puzzle, returned to pieces.
but i don't fit: not into anyone's plan.
not into any social hierarchy. not
into my own palm. i'll let you cut off
chunks of me, let you cram me into
where you think i should fit. sure.
but you might not allay my definitions.
i'm sorry.
spelt out s-a-d, i'll collapse into the
same heap. you can make me happy
for a day (or four years). sure.
(but it's no good, if i still hate me.)

fine sliver of dawn crawls
through cloud, through boughs;
here, a punctuation by curtain-
hole. song in seven beaked
tongue, held tender in
imperfection. notes carved of
century's trickle. dreams swell
down to quick: dilate through
signatures of some familiar
reality. diluting in the
effervescence of waking
thought. only ever dreamt in
colours of you, out under fields
of stars. oh!, to lay down fresh
tracks; on& ahead to meadows,
to sleep.

this reflexive soul- how readily
i spurn another misery. yours
sat watching from the fenceline.
and me, oh, i get mine in swathes,
and, oh, of course it's over you. i'll
never be over you. i hope this fact
crosses your mind as i dissolve out
of your everyday, everyfortnightly,
every-now-and-then, and, finally,
impresent thought patterns. some
cruel sequence. just come keep me
warm. just a little while. for once, i
won't write it out cryptic:

but you'll be warmer without me. you've no need to apologise. i
don't know what i'd do with you,
anyway. you'll never come over.

curled up down the end of the
bed where loose feet hang,
comfort purrs, doused,
incontent. easy game.

so i sleep a little more:
outside, everything
will churn continually
in cyclic tone, oil-slick,
patterns always look the same.

further out, little
is left but the low rush
of breaking wavelets over
shallowing stone retainer
walls kept, keeping
the weight of this inestimable
machine
on track.

breathe stale air, smile,
the skyline accumulates;
handfuls of grey at a time.

we wound in stars on old fishing rods;
reeling on promises from days where
the light still brought species, clutter,
schematic belief. you caught three. i
caught nothing, but glimmers of hope.

allusions and reality are often cleft,
though. this truth i'd rather cast,
like myself, over cliff-face. but, i
alone am
mutable in this scheme. you named
yours as blank-faced children, born
to the sea.
predictably, i named mine woe.

fate moves through seasons, sovereign
groups, ways set down to dot. the
object stands;
here lies truth. this is the truth:
pebbles form kiltered circles
under the dock. floating
above the architecture of my
ribs consuming churned
air, i watch me fade. i
discern and too, dilapidate.

you raised yours with colour
in iris. i picked mine up
lovingly-
this woe is
awake and tightly circling.

...and i woke up, and
my motion persists, my
trailing light- split to trail-
lines, to curl out and line
up with your perfect
skin. imperfect smile, love,
it is invisible to all eyes:
shaking and glistening, i'd
give it all, for one simple quivering
moment spent with you. just
one photograph with palms
aligned. eyes alight. alas, for all
this is but nothing. all a ploy, you're
finding affection in patterns in
static, monumental, clawing eagerly
through the dark; here, it's high
noon. and i'm stone sober, and
missing you like malfunctioning
lungs. i haul breath to roll your
syllables over my tastebuds, again
more broken
glass down the back of my
skull just to steal a thought away
from inscrutable you. oh, honey,
the things i'd do...

sugar i
am carried on lofty currents,
days like this. days
evaporating, caught in
tumult. hands, caught between
bricks. banks of
simmering stormcloud.
outside, in the throes of
daisy-speckled fields, i
am found with the taste
of your syllables tucked
just behind the lip. thought
convolving, shifting dot,
position, tangent; no simple
question. just combination:
these speckles i know, the
silhouette of
your face in
each blink. the
warmth of this soft hum, when
i sing, to the world, of your
radiant heart.

long breath raked out, length of
day. thought pattern diffusing;
shadows cast on a broadening strip,
wallpaper hung close. stolen breath,
an orbit about you. consistent
glow. hinging on ripples, cut around
this field by clear breeze. branches
stretch, churning in the swept
air. held aloft, in their self-arrest.

i do not echo. this frictionless glimmer.
the vanishing extent to which i
can stop falling.

oh, but i do not want to. not
this time, sweet. each day reaches
out with tender hands, to pull
me up& out of this cavernous maze;
undoing meaningless shovelwork.

i find myself, under boughs, amidst
flowers. it's only slightly difficult to admit
this smile was smeared over
my freckling jaw, for nothing,
save for you.

even birdsong seems pale in comparison,
distant bells, ocean mist; undertow
beneath soft waves rolling
from your lungs to lips.

clambers thus far, the
small-clawed creature inside of
me now; in dreams said
she misses me, but dreams
are just that. classical
case. eyes untouched. gaze
unmet. notions uniformly
forgotten, or forgetting, at
least. the sun rises, the sun
rises oh, am i warm or just
asleep?

faint voices crackled, fourty-five minutes *******,
I had heard the radio with windows open,
the words melting through copper alloys,
                  the dreams all turning to dust,
left these thoughts until last, dusk eyelid flicker, and...

                          and now I'm all spent

and can't keep these lines of narrow survival held up anymore,
and everyone's apologising,
and the rain, just waiting to fall, hangs on stagnant breeze.
                                       so, we could wait around, or get up and run right now:
                                                 full eyes drinking the harvest moon's glow,
                                                            secondhand stories told poorly at best,

                                                                       killing time until
                                                     intoxication
                                     burns old ghosts,
and I'm still burning down with each breath of wind,
each charcoal fragment snaking into alveoli,
each compromised lie, illumination,
reaches so far within,
dragging out moments between heartbeats, just like you.

*just
like
you

everything else confines a
space between eyes an
informant, i, capitulation
finally breaches the wounded
water. you facilitate this,
with only a small clue. i
didn't write conviction down
my arms for nothing. at
least i hope not, this hopelessly
dawning i, this reality in
which we gravitate. find
a path to your palm. a
visceral obeisance you
may find in my eyes. a
low hiss, my heart leaks
to make space for you,
oh darling anew, the
inside of my chest
is snowing.

sugar, you know
i hurt just as
much.

slept* in,
                                                           again
                                     whilst the skies,                          patchwork and
                                                             ­        endlessly spinning
                                             amidst autumn air
                                                             ­                                                   with
         ­                                                                 ­              th
                                                ­                                     e moon,
                                                         ­                         the moo n,
                                                              ­                      the mo
                                                              ­                                   on,

                                                          h­
                                                         a
                                                          n
   ­                                                      g
                                                           i
                                                            n
 ­                                                              g
                                                        *  so
                                                    fragile* in
                                                 the         sky,                  a
                                         ­         sin     gle
                                                   drop of
                                                         ink

it is such a fine thing, to see with clear eyes
all the shine of the world, refracting through both & either you and/or i.
such a surprise, so strange, but by no means the kinda strange
that drags one down:
the strange that instills an un-learnable knowledge
that the world will turn, and things can just keep getting better.
plenty of days i've dug holes,
but, now, at your word, i'm scrambling up outta them
to find acres of turned soil, fertile and beaming;
seeds to scatter wild.
cool water to trickle calm through each new day's turn,
another page in the book,
where our chapters come to coalesce.

how sweet it is to find you in page-length,
before long in pirouettes,
and leave me wondering not
the uncertainty,
but only the majesty
of what's left to come in the world,

and you, lil petal,
and i, lil fern.

i was awake, in the dark,
floating over leaves, as the rain
began. or, at least i wished i
were. instead, i was fumbling under
orange light, dark
patches slowly adorning the
asphalt passing below. i was
free, but only within the
confines of a cage i'd crafted
for myself, as long ago as
organic advent, and as soon as
perpetual. stuck in a reverie,
further down the coastline, i
discovered i could no longer
feel. awake and distanced, i felt
the claws within
                             my ribcage
instead simply pass through,
and couldn't decide if
i'd been cheated, or stumbled
onto the trail of fretless
existence. thus arose my worry,
and, all fears confirmed, is set
out to find something that dug
in. hurt or elate or panic or
wonder hid, behind the curtains
of cold swathing me, though.

       the sky is just a sky.

                                     nothing
builds up, just spreads at my
feet. grass is just a series of
fibre and proteins. a long wait is
just a clock's hands.

down some road, the days
while away in the same or
different places. i am
predominantly the same,
indifferent.

dunedin. friday, three, afternoon.
set from home under a blue sky
with full& prepared pack,
a somewhat empty stomach,
and a necessity to get away from the city.
hiking boots tread asphalt down to the depot,
where, in thirty-seven minutes punctuated
by plastic seats grafted to a wall
and a mildly disjunct group of small or
big-time travellers, the naked bus
pulled in, a hematite centipede
crawling into the lot. it was a bus,
no complaints. all others' bags
stowed, twenty seven bucks outta pocket
and swung into the front-right-window seat,
bid a farewell to the beat-down
pub across the road and onto the one-way
merging into a highway and outta
town the dark bug skittered, on
schedule or something resembling it.
behind the driver, the sun came through
around the beam in the window. warm patterns
laid on skin, the countryside's broad expanse:

cylindrical bales of hay scattered about
paddocks, dark late-autumn florets of flax
on roadsides, plumes of white smoke from
bonfires in townships as small as a thumbnail,
hedgelines of eucalyptus, pine; russet streaks
through bark of single gum trees stood
off-centre in fields. sticky-wooded hillsides
punctured by fire breaks roll almost forever
and back. the rushing sound of passing cars
through the 3/4-golden ratio of the driver's
ajar window; twenty-first century mansions
verging on out-of-place. saplings emerging,
bracketed, through verdant grass patches.
museum abbatoirs. toitoi like hen's plumage
lining drainage ditches. another Elizabeth st-
(how many could be counted out by now?) tidy
front yards and milton liquorland through this
small town. an everpresent tilting sun. fields
of flowered nettle. s-bends through pancake layers
of hills. a delapidated gravel quarry at stony
creek. deer farms, sheep farms, bovine farms, alpaca
farms (favourite); another bonfire seen down a
long gulley; a power substation, all organized
tangles. a two-four 300m before the bridge into

balclutha. 4.40pm.
across the road into the i-site
two friendly ladies circle locations
to make (got a car) or try to make (on foot),
offering a ride in half an hour,
leave it to chance.
across another road, drifter's emporium
(that's the name, no joke) got a knife
to open up cans- bought no cans, brought
no cans, still nice to have one anyway.
down the road, 200ml from unichem, waste
no time, turn ninety degrees, cross a
railway, then outta town in a sec. first
photo: half highway, half clutha river. fine
shot. sit down, watch the water couple mins,
head down the road. red-black ferns radiate
under willows down the riverbank. metal
bumper-bars keep legs on, the road rolls
gentle turns, diverges from the river. stick
to the former, faster that way. no intentions
of hitching. just wanna walk. and walk. and
walk. guy yells out a car window. envy,
likely. who cares. apple tree hangs over
a dry ditch. pick a small one, gone in
a minute. probably ain't sprayed. been
eating ice-cream dinners more often'n
not the last coupla weeks- isn't much
the stomach won't or can't handle anymore,
anyway.

odours of decay from the freezing works.
seagulls sound out nearby.
typical.

down the road, the reek of death fades
out. back to grass. sit in some of the
tall stuff, under a spindly tree. put down
some ink, a handful of asst. nuts. 'bout
thirteen fingers of daylight left. no idea
if the coast is further than that. little
care. down the road the land flattens out,
decent sign. the junction was a fair bit
past reckoned, though. flipped a chunk
of bark (too lazy to get a coin out) to
figure whether the coast was worth it. bark
said no, went out anyway. gotta see the sea,
keeps you sane. past a lush native
acre or two- some lucky ******'s front lawn-
changed mentality, slung out a thumb (first
time). beginner's luck, kid straight outta
seventh form pulls over in a mustard-yellow
*******' kinda beach-van. was headin' out
to the coast, funnily enough. had been up
in raglan (surf central, nz), back down with
the 'rents now, though. out kaka point, only
one of his age, he reckoned, no schoolhouse
there, just olds. was going to surf academy,
pretty apt. little envious.

the plains spread out and out, ocean just
rose up out of a field. there's nothing
more perfect. gentle waves stroke the sands,
houses stare intently out at the mingling of
blues. one cloud hovers so far away it doesn't
even exist. down the other end of kaka point,
back on solid ground, walking into a gorge, laments
about not choosing the coastal route. but owaka
is the new destination, bout 11ks, give or take
(5ks later, sign says another 15.. some give). nothing
coulda beat that sight anyway, stepping outta
a van onto that pristine beach.

entry: gorge route to owaka. seven.
late light painted the tops of hills absolute
gold. thought maybe this way ain't so bad. beside a
converging valley, phone got enough reception
for dad to get through. said in balclutha coulda
got a room with a colleague. too far out now. lost
him in the middle of a sentence about camera film.
surprised to have even got that far. road wound
troughlike through the bottom of the gorge, became
parallel to a cute little stream. climbed down chickenwire
holding the road in place, ****** in it (had to).
clambered back up, continued walking as the occasional
campervan rolled on by. took a photo of the sun perched
on a hilltop, sent it to mel. dunno why. anxieties
over the perfect sunrise picture came frequently,
a goal become turmoil. the gorge flattened out,
and soon in countryside my fears allayed. round
a corner in picturesque nowhere, found my shot.
sat in long grass. stole it. sighed. ate a handful
of nuts. moved on. {about eight}

dark consumed the surrounding gentle-rolling hills,
nowhere near owaka, which was probably the tiny bundle
of lights nestling a little below the foot of a
mountain in the distance (not too far off, in
reality). near the turnoff to surat bay (was heading
there, plans change) a ute honks. taken as friendly.
a right turn instead of a left, farmsteads lit
up in fireplace tones, the sound cows make at
dusk. it got colder. would one jersey be sufficient?
hoepfully. stars began pinpricking the royal blues of the
night sky in its opening hues. eight-fourty-ish slugged
back about 3/4 of the syrup, along with half of a box
of fruit medley (so **** delicious), in light of dull
calf aches becoming increasingly apparent. needed
to walk a helluva lot more. ain't one for lettin'
nothing get in the way of that. lights in the distance
became the entry sign for a camp-site. no interest,
head on. past another farmhouse, stars came out in
packs. three cows upon a slight hilltop. next junction
pulled left a good eighty degrees and was on the
straight to owaka. less than two minutes later,
a dog-ute pulled to a halt and offers up a ride down
most of the stretch. didn't say no.

still stable, as two pig-hunters tell
of their drive back from picking up a couple
pig-dogs somewhere north. they were heading
out bush to shoot, thought they'd seen
another guy they'd picked up a couple weeks
ago, who'd taken 'em out somewhere they
couldn't remember. paranoia grips, but
the lads are fairly innocuous. they say it's
dangerous out here, gotta be ballsy walking
middle of the night, no gun, no dog,
all by yourself. wasn't worried, got nothing
to lose anyway (still, this sets helluva
mood). by a turnoff a k outta owaka, dropped
off. said probably all that'll be open there
is a pub, if that. bid luck and set their way.
above, the whole sky is covered with shining
glitter. down a dip and turn, **** in the
middle of the road. an ominous sign indicating
the outskirts of

owaka. approximately 9.40pm

my head loosens as i approach. the lights
form across a small valley i can't verify
exists or not between dog barks i mistake
for the yells of drunkards and lights
pirouetting from cars behind me. i slow
down i don't want to do this.

owaka is terrifying. plastic.

the street corners thud like cardboard. i
walk past a garden of teapots, a computer
screen inside the house glares through the
window pane bending breathing outward. there
is nobody here, still there is a feeling
like there's people everywhere, flocking
in shadows. a silhouette moving in a
distant cafe doorway. the sound of teeth,
of darkness fallen. thick russian tones
sound from a shelf of a motel. eyes
everywhere, mostly mine. i stop only round
a bend and down near a police station, yet
feeling no more safe, sitting in a gutter to
send mel my plans, to tell myself my plans.
i want to be nowhere again. i am soon nowhere.

out of breath, out the other end of owaka,
the sick streetlights fade into comforting
dark nestled between bunches of indistinct
treelines. the feeling of safety lasts but
twenty minutes, where another dip in the
road leads through a patch of bush, in which
gunshots ring periodically and laughter and
barking rings through. breaking down, it takes
five minutes to resolve and keep going. ain't
got nothing to lose, anyway. boots squeak like
diseased hinges all down the road. hadn't
noticed beforehand, the only thing noticed
now. an impending doom hangs thick like fog,
the thought of being strung up like an
underweight hog. walking faster and
not much quieter, the other side of the
bush couldn't have come sooner. the fear
lasts until the gunshots are distant nothing.
still alive, still out of breath, still
fairly ****** up, there's no comfort like the
sound of nothing but the occasional insect's
chirp. vestiges of still water came around
a corner and just kept coming as the golden
moon sung serenity all over. finally, a peace
came to rest over the landscape. sitting by
the road with a clear view of the moon's light
sheathed in the waters, the stars above wreath
a cirrus eye to watch over the marshland
plants leading into the placid waters of

catlins lake, west. ten fifty-one.
crossing a one-way bridge over a river winding
its way into the lake, another turning point
decision arose: continue down the highway
along the river, or head straight out and
toward the coast again. having resolved to
make it to a waterfall by dawn, and the latter
offering a possibility of this, the decision
made itself. turning back around the other side
of the lake, the road wound a couple times
up a gentle ***** out and up from the valley
at the tail of the lake, and into a slightly
more elevated valley. the country roads ran
easily and smooth, paved roughly but solid.
not a car came by for kilometers at a time.
lay on the road past a turnoff for quarter
of an hour letting serenity wash over, the
hills miniscule in comparison to home, the
sky motionless, massive thin halo about the
moon. walking on, night-birds called from
time to time (no moreporks, though. not until
dawn), figuring out how to whistle them back.
a turnoff to purakaunui bay strongly
considered and ultimately ignored; retrospectively
a great call, considering the size of the detour.
hedgerows of macrocarpa, limbs clearly cut
haphazard where once they'd hung over the
road. occasional 4wd passing, always a 4wd,
be it flash new or trusty old. you'd need
one out here. have no fun, otherwise.
monolithic pine-ish hedge bushes, squatting
giants. once, a glimmering in the sky, a
plane from queenstown (assumedly) almost
way too far to make out. the colossus of
the one human-shaped shadow cast down
from the moon to my boots. how small
a thing in this place. swamped out by
the beauty of this neverending valley.
breathless.

the road turned, not quite a hairpin,
but not entirely bluntly, a welcome
break from the straight or gentle
sway, and five minutes turned to dirt.
had to lay down again- legs screaming
by this point for rest. still, they
had nothing against pressing on. dad
taught me to just keep going. that's
the thing about walking. stop for a
little bit and you're good to go
again. pushing for the fall was probably
overkill, but no worry now. dirt road
felt so right after a good 20+ks of
asphalt, only infrequently punctuated
by roadside moss or thin grass. it
was as if beginning again (well,
kinda, if only with as much energy).
having downed only a litre of water
(leaving only half a litre more), a
litre of fruit juice and about 100
grams of assorted nuts since more
than twelve hours ago by this point,
it should have been a shock to
still be going by this point. don't
really need that much anyway, though.
gone on less for longer. hydration,
anyway, was the least of all worries,
the air being thick with water, ground
fog having been laid down hours ago.

up the dirt track, more cows. they make strange
sounds at night. didn't know anything yet,
though. that's still to come. a ute swang past
going the other way, indiscriminate hollers
from the passenger-side window. waved back
cheerily. so far from anything to be anything
but upbeat now. not even the heavy shroud of
tiredness could touch that, yet. the track wound
on forever. was stopping every half-kilometer
to stand and stretch, warding off the oncoming
aches. the onset was unwieldy, though. didn't
have long. past a B&B;, wondered whether anyone
actually ever stayed there (surely would, who'd
not revisit this place over and over once they'd
discovered it?)- certainly would've, having the
cash (apparently parts of "lion, witch and the
wardrobe" were filmed here. huh). further on, the
road turned back to seal, unfortunately, but
with small promise- surely, at least fairly
close by this point. turning a corner, a small
and infinitely beautiful indent against the bush,
a small paddock bunched up against it, stream
wound against the bases of trees, all lit by
the clear tones of a now unswathed moon, sat
aside the road. it was distilled perfection.
it was too much, just had to keep goin' or
risk shattering that image. next turn was
a set of DOC toilets, an excellent sign. must be
basically sitting on the path entry now. searched
all 'round the back for it, up the road, nothing.
not entirely despondent but bewildered, moved
forward and found a signpost. the falls were now
behind? turned around and searched even more
thoroughly, quiet hope turning to desperation
by the silent light of the moon. finally,
straight across the road from the toilets,
was the green and gold sign, cloaked in
darkness under clustering trees, professing
a ten-minute bushwalk to the

purakaunui falls. saturday. 1.32 am.**
venturing into the bush by the dull light
of a screen of a dying phone, the breeze
made small movements through the canopy. it
couldn't have been any more tranquil. edging
way through the winding cliffish track through
dense brush, the sound of a trickling stream
engorged into a lush symphony of water. crossing
a single-sided bridge across an unseeable chasm,
twinkling from the ferns behind became apparent.
turning off the dull light, the tiny neon bulbs of
glow-worms littered the dirt wall risen up about
half a metre, where the track had been cut out.
my heart soared. all heights of beauty come
together. continuing down the path, glow-worms
litter the surroundings and the rushing of
water comes to a roar. at a look-out platform
above the falls, nothing can be seen save a
slight glisten. down perilous steps (wouldn't
be too bad if you could actually see 'em) the
final viewing platform lay at level with the
bottom of the falls. they stood like a statue
in the dark, winding trails of thin white wash
through the shadows hung under trees. left
speechless from something hardly made out, turned
around and back up the stairs to where the
glowing dots seemed their most concentrated.
into the ferns above, clambered through and
around moss-painted tree trunks and came to rest
a couple hundred metres from the trail, under
a fern, under a rata. packed everything but
a blanket from nan into the bag, laid it out
on curled leaf litter and folded up into it,
feet too sore to remove 'em from boots, curling
knees up into the blanket and tucking a hand
between 'em to keep it warm. only face and
ankles exposed, watched the moon's light trickle
through canopy layers for a few hours, readjusting
tendons in legs as they came to ache. sleep (or
something resembling it) set in, somewhere
around four.

some time slightly before six, the realisation
that my legs had extended and become so cold that
they'd started cramping all the way through hit,
coupled with the sounds coming through the bush.

in the slow heaving of late
afternoons you
distill into columns, dusty
salmon painting mock
gold mirrors
under
the crowded blue, paling,
as
fragments tear
roll,
together, apart,
amidst
your
symmetric relationships, opening up
in
to
wings, in every direction, and
you
tear
my
head
right in half

sitting on the sky
doing all this nothing

every-body was a blurred dot in the threshing ocean
as i washed away; every wavelet playing sunder.
once,
concrete was the sea and i
failed to differentiate, blind,
for the light between slender limbs. disguises,
trees called lovers. silt turned pavement.

we mill about for bits. hearts turn to sand.
        by impact, to glass. one note sung, to shards.
                 the impossibilities of preservation:

anything that is real is fleeting. on crumbling precipice, daydreams spelled out on soft wish were then real, but now, like Siberian radio, waver through our bodies with little effect, and tail off, as time slips on.

but what hurt over concrete is a pale scar,
slurred over weeks, months,
towers spread news, but
-i'm not really listening.-

and footnotes tell tale of time & try & effervescent sentiments;
where we'd play seemingly meaningful games.
where we'd skin knees.
where we'd lie under seemingly meaningless stars, as foliage;
to freeze & bind,
some slower dance through
the corridors of our darkened days.
trembling hands, held at distance.

    where water cuts a warm hole between sky & feet,
     i set out on a separate path. at the root of
    this tower, sitting and staring pure up, failing to
   see the forest for one leaf, i tied strings to
    my fingertips, and just watched autumn come on quick.

but, slowing of pace makes little match for the wind. lives wind like snakes under the soil, but disentangle just as quick. primes become primitives, this much is certain; but, still clueless to the fact, i shy away from ideals & search once more for concrete, or truth,

or at least evidence.

let rise this scene from
the air, as clouds' coalescence:

in a dream took steps,
as in reality. breathe.
don't make the same
mistakes. don't hold
nothin' too tight. don't
forget to daydream.

vision returns in waves,
the horizon softly aglow.
we are in a car and don't
seem to know where to
go. twigs on the sidewalk.
ghosts of ghost towns.
lullabies starin'. out the
rear passenger window.

[i cut this song out, and stood up anew]

and thought:
could i find
your eyes in strangers,
as heavens evaporating,
or at all?

the moon had a fingernail-split underline and
there, in small heights, you could hear the sea
from anywhere. the lamps cast shadows from
objects that were, and are always, beautiful and
ugly. a lone soft life, calling, from out over grass
& then in, rippling through the curtains.

and, there in my bones, was the familiar ache:
the vastness of the ocean, its comprehensibility
appearing only in glimpses as each other fibre
untangled. little warm dissolution. comforting
tiny mutability of the world, and all its associated
weights. laid down in so many russet fields, was
each time-kept glance, gone-stale motion,
fervent belief, or undenied hope:
the breadth of humanity
lay, still.

the world was and is and will, for ever, be
the backlit glow of sunrise over a picture-book
we chose colours for, and reference, followed
by names and indices: here, the paint peeling,
the rain, settled on long grass outside of the kitchen,
the undiscoverable full fear and joy of living,
the cluttered expanse of patterns in the chaos.
the light we only see with half-open eyelids, as
the skyline burns from ahead or behind.

and i firmly insisted i was lying or
standing here, that my eyes were
closed or lying to their ordinance;
that there was nothing but more or
less to life, and that it was not my
decision, anymore, and sat cross-
legged in either sun or snow, and
it did not matter which, at all, for
i had no compass to find bearing, no string
to twist between fingerprints and tie
knots like milestones, just the lasting
impression of my own impossible and
shining inevitability. in the dust of river-
beds or the debris of sanctity, insects
broke down my flesh and the unbroken
rays of sunlight bleached my bones and
finally, all else burnt down& out, the
meaning of life precipitated from an
empty sky, running streams over the
cracked surface.
                              the soil set to loam,
and the dried roots engorged, so swollen
that gravel once again became sand, and
canopies burst from everything: in the
array, in my emptiness, there was still
nothing to know, and my ferned jaw
turned upwards to know, as part of all,
that i, too, was meaning, and i woke,
on a park-bench,
in the streams of the momentary dawn
that punctuate the endless night, as
a mother puts child, sweetly, to rest.

so, finally,
hook was cast into sea or
pick was cast into ground and
life, in its infinite meaninglessness,
struck another second-hand and
bundled its arms tight around,
in this season without relent.

and i, at once, knew:

for all the stars, stuck in that firmament,
or cloudlines, unalgebraically shuffling
against that paling blue, those i'd been lost in;
the uncountable nights and days spent toiling
in bliss and woe, for each unfurling front,
i was not forgetting a single iota, but
simply recollecting all i'd so long lost.

tonight is the first night i truly sink my teeth
into an idea
     of letting it all go
and yeah sure i've been here before
yeah sure i've put another bullet through my skull
but what good is that to you
and what good am i to you
but still i can't think at all
can't think of anyone else

with bare hands you wring my flesh loose
with cold time i repeat nothing else
and subliming frustration
with two words you broke my ventricles down

with "all yours"
don't say anything
and i could dripfeed you sugar, honey
but what good is that
and what good am i
in the middle of some other night
capturing some other set of eyes
all i've got is gasoline for a smile

but don't wait up
  don't wait for anything better to come
'cause you ain't got me yet

but if you wait up
if you wait up
i can catch you
i can catch the wind

but i can forcefeed you frigidity if you want me to leave
and i can not matter if you want me to...

light, you trickle through
my life; bursts of
blooms from all angles.
leaves sit still on
the sky. right pause. waiting
up for
a bit later, each
movement. daydreams
of topologies of sun
patches on your skin.
closer, love, i am
walking, in, through the
columns of this theater.
no actor in the hallway,
just your light, around
corners.

just your soft waves,
lapping.