Transcript

Kick in the guts.

1am Panic. Textbook panic.

Smarting eyes

10 reads later.

Eased now.

While sitting in patchy sunshine

(That is Wellington)

I look down at myself;

Reflect on my colours,

Grey, red, white and black:

Russian Constructivism.

(Failed attempt at the Indonesian flag)

This was a metaphor,

And a reminder.

For in my hand lay Tolstoy’s tome

And, in my bag lay the Communist Manifesto:

In my heart lay deconstructed abstractions

Of reality kicking in.

I was as alone as Zhilin in a 12 foot deep well

Gnawing at the dirt in search for reason.

I had preconceived this reality a few eves ago,

In a flush of early childhood Christmas eve excitement.

Suspecting entirely.

Premonition for sure.

A few afternoons prior

I sat, unwound completely, like graced ribbon

In the shadow of my new Muse;

In the company of fine sentinel trees

Fading down, then up, springtime hillsides.

She laughed. Repeated the name

Amused surprise written in her smile.

Aaah. Mutual friends, I thought. Incest.

The quick phased obsessions. That phase out.

The name too that I suspected

(insert another amused smile here)

That spangled the whole dealings

Those 5 months ago.

That night. Baraka. Scrabble.

Pinkfloyd’s Echo, Marvin Gaye’s What’s going on,

When full well, something was going on.

Then those 5 and a half months later

When having furtively avoided eye contact

And embraces

(Having seen her

Exchanged a smile;

But sad to know

That all of this

Resulted in nothing)

I slipped away with the

As furtively slipping away Muse

Into the torrential ice rain

Of Lambton Quay

Into the hills

Up unstable steps,

Across epochs of time

(in my head)

To her life.

I  finally crossed the threshold.

With dragonfly pottery cups in hand

Of ‘restful’ tea

We sat on the floor

Of her deliciously decorated room

That overlooks Matiu Somes island

(in the daytime).

I tread carefully

Around the topic;

Mutual intent. Incest.

But much advice had she

Many stories too

From the depths of her favourite books.

People. Her un-forgiven awkwardness.

He rang me. Twice.

I didn’t understand.

But something like there is cake.

Why hadn’t I come.

(On reflection I want to cry

For having indulgently missed this milestone

Of arresting his case)

I still didn’t understand.

Why now?

In the torrential wind and rain home

My fingers trembled

While fumbling for words

To articulate my confusion.

No awkward. No hurt.

Just bitter cold.

I had no expectations.

No excitement.

And yet, no answer troubles me.

Deconstructed now,

As cold as a Siberian winter

Fumbling through iced confusion

Preserved bitterly.