After a hibernation of sorts

Queen of mangoes,

does a stranger mark

foreign tongues and ink-licks

on your belongings?

I was twelve when they

told me they could

see my aura.

Their righteousness terrifying

and wrong.

I rode to work with

tears dripping

down my chin,

speeding by.

Sometimes it is good to be blind.

The Fifth

It has been a little while.

I have been working on several editions lately, however.

Notes 5

I had wanted juvenile destruction;

I had wanted to kick the shit out of a solid brick wall.

Halfway,

with my sandpaper

tongue.

My fingers and palm disintegrate in

this unresponsiveness. Your

handshake throwaway.

Lilac vision

Yet another edition is here.

It is the product of mania.

I like lilac. A lot.

Copies of Notes are a still available from me. Should you want one.

Notes 4: Lilac Edition

Succulent lilac clouds,

powder me.

I am purple powdered lilac,

warm-washed in nightsweats.

We gathered handfuls of flowers.

sitting quietly in the grass we

proceeded to crush them and tear them

until there was nothing left.

You have lilac blood,

so please stop being sad.

Number 3, Part 2

Here are some more I've been working on.

Notes 2 is now printed up, and Notes 3 will be put together soon.

Notes 3

Why do these people not talk?

I am a virgin.

Or rather, I suffer from visions.

Could I have been documentary

so I would have more left over

than a shattered

disposition?

Congestion and

replay and inksplots

smudging on my thumbs.

Number Three

The latest installment.

I have plans to print Notes 2 today, and am half way through compiling Notes 3.

The following pieces are from number 3.

Notes 3

I left a lot of pages

the second time.

I apologise to the pages -

they will never be used.

Self-contained, I

prefer the existence

of singularity and individual skin.

But that is a lie.

An update: more Notes to come

Here is a selection of pieces I've been working on lately. Notes 2 will be in production soon.

Enjoy.

Notes 2

Bits of blood are flaking off me

and I'm half falling apart.

Flashing lights -

it was beautiful.

I shed grief for the body in the road

and voyeuristically walked on by.

Flick through photos,

give me shocks.

White shoes on both of us.

My head feels cold like it is

dripping.

Remember the loveliness of late night.

Katie rolled down the driveway

and the wind inhaled our

unstoppable laughter.

A Wellington Sonnet

This is something a little different from my usual.

Its a ditty about the city I love and live it. I entered it into a sonnet competition - as a joke, mostly.

Obviously it didn't win, but I did get a lovely hand written note back from the judges telling me they liked it.

Untitled (Everybody in Wellington hates Wellington, but like hell they’ll ever leave)

Sometimes you smell like the sea at night
but you’d expect that living in a harbour.
Go! The Cuba Street drinking posse –
there's nothing like seeing the masses pants-down
in the afternoon.
Let the bus drivers go on strike again
I don’t care about standing in the rain.
The friendly cries of Boy Racer’s burnouts don’t keep me awake at night;
I live on the other side of the hill.
Yesterday I said ‘let’s go sit on the beach’
but the sand is hard and the wind slices me like death.
I get hungry in Newtown when the bread factory is in action
until the burned toast smell becomes a little bit suffocating.
Oh Wellington, you sly dog, you.