New Zealand culture,
a fragility,
tainted by violence.
Colonisation.

Writers have examined,
the loss of Maori land.
Less common however,
is writing concerned with
the benefits,
accruing to white people
as a result of the acquisition
of this land.

Colonisation has provided,
Economic and social advantages,
to white people,
in contemporary New Zealand.

A hierarchy,
white Western culture,
sitting uncontested,
at its pinnacle.

The cultural capital that whiteness provides.
Unearned advantages at our disposal.
Live our lives with greater ease:
Homeownership.
Health.
Education.
The ‘Justice’ System.
Institutional privilege.
A political separation.

The white New Zealand system,
designed for whites.
To get through school,
have good health,
get jobs,
get a little justice.
If the system was designed,
for Maori people
it would not be the way it is now.

Overrepresentation of Maori,
in every
negative
New Zealand
social statistic.

The persistence of *******.
Society provides greater opportunities,
to white people,
by disadvantaging those who are not.
Unacknowledged,
debilitating, racism.

Being oblivious,
sustains a belief,
in white superiority.

While factors:
socioeconomic status, gender,
sexuality, disability,
may impact the degree to which,
individual white people,
can access privilege.
On some level,
every white person,
in New Zealand
benefits from their skin.

Blanket city run along soaked in rain. Idiot Boy wastes his time visiting a passing crush at the other end of town. Slips between two houses and a metal sheet, communal refrigerator in the middle of the road filed with half-empty soy bottles.

Dead bell stop, mocking red blink of the operator. Father arrives, a mess of wiry muscles and hair.

“Hey. Is Coffin Cat here?”

“Who?” Father squints at Idiot Boy’s cap. Idiot Boy avoids eye contact.

“Um.”

Recessed in the blackness behind Father, a Figure says, “You looking for Coffin Cat?”

Idiot Boy nods.

The Recessed Figure turns. “I’ll go get her.”

Father returns to his parched body on the couch, content.

Indistinguishable forms move back and forth in the kitchen to the right. They stop their pacing and glance at Idiot Boy as he passes. Idiot Boy avoids eye contact and slips into the left-bound arterial vessel.

“So this is the heart chamber I’ve been living in,” Coffin Cat says as Idiot Boy enters her room. There is music gear. “It’s pretty comfy.”

“Oh, sick mic,” Idiot Boy says, pointing at the mic behind Coffin Cat’s head.

“I feel like a ghost,” Coffin Cat replies, falling on her bed.

Idiot Boy settles next to her. Animal distance. Intensely aware of his rain-soaked right shoe. “Same.”

Nothing comes out right, intersubjectivity a false God to mediate the impossible kernel of being, nobody can find nor express. Idiot Boy searches for connection. He glances around the heart chamber, at the music gear, but nothing grips. Four pears sit on a table by the window, their skins garish green in the harsh grey light.

Coffin Cat moves from the bed to the floor. She opens a virtual aquarium on her computer; fish eat pellets dropped from the sky to **** out coins to buy more fish to **** out coins to buy more fish. Capitalist investment and accumulation. Every few minutes a rocket-spewing robot teleports into the aquarium to attack the fish. Ruthless competition in the global marketplace.

“No! Why would you swim there, you ******* fish?” Coffin Cat yells as one if her fish is eaten by the nomadic war machine. “So dumb. ****. Why did it eat my fish?”

A knock at the door. The Recessed Figure from earlier enters the room. “Hey, mind if I join?” Their arms dangle like fine threads of hair.

“I like your music gear,” Idiot Boy says, pointing at nothing in particular.

“Idiot Boy also makes music,” Coffin Cat adds from the floor.

The Recessed Figure does not respond. They are enthralled by their phone, streak of dead pixels along a digital chessboard, minute reflection of their own gaunt face in the glass. After an extended period, they decide to move none of their pieces. A gaping coffee grinder rises out of the rubble at their feet. They begin filling it with tobacco from broken cigarettes.

“I’m surprised you’re still playing this,” Idiot Boy says to Coffin Cat. “I swear this is one of those games designed to ruin your life. Get addicted, stop going to work, become a hikik weaboo.”

“Already there, man,” Coffin Cat laughs. “Nah, this is my new job. I’m going to be a professional gamer.”

“Stream only PopCap games.”

Another knock at the door. Tired squander in an endless pacing of flesh. Strawman enters and nods at the Recessed Figure. “Hey bro.”

“Good to see you, man.” The Recessed Figure plugs the coffee grinder into the wall. “You got any ciggys?”

Idiot Boy points under the table and says “Ahh” with his mouth.

The Recessed Figure empties it into the coffee grinder. The device whirs into motion, creating a centrifugal blur, a mechanical and headless hypnotic repeat.

Idiot Boy and Coffin Cat look for horror movies to watch. The Recessed Figure empties the contents of the coffee grinder onto a metal tray. Strawman repacks it into a ****. White smoke fills the empty column, moves in slow motion like an oceanic rip a mile off coast, surface seething with quiet, impenetrable violence.

Idiot Boy refuses the first round. It’s never done him any good. Face turned to smoke and the wretched weight of a tongue that refuses to speak. Headless carry-on as time ticks through the clock face.

The door bursts open. Everybody turns as Manic Refusal or the Loud Person saunters in.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. They’re selling me off!” the Loud Person says in exasperation. “First time back in New Zealand in five years and they do this to me!”

“What? What’s happened?” Strawman asks.

“Some rich ****** in Australia has bought me as his wife. I knew it, I knew if I came back, my parents wouldn’t let me leave again. Whole ******* thing arranged!” the Loud Person laughs bitterly, before hitting the ****.

“Oomph, that’s rough,” Coffin Cat quips from the side.

“No, you don’t even understand. This is the first time back, the first time back in five years, and I’m being sold to off some rich ****** who owns all the banks in Australia.”

“But like, who is this guy?” Strawman asks, pointing.

“And he’s been reading all my profiles. He has access to all my information. I don’t even have control over my Facebook profile. Grand Larson’s logged in as me, posting for me,” the Loud Person continues. “I met him once in Australia, clubbing, and now he’s tracked and bought me.”

“That’s creepy as ****,” Idiot Boy says.

“So he’s not a complete stranger?” Strawman asks.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. First time back in five years and I’m being sold off!”

Idiot Boy decides one hit from the **** wouldn’t be so bad. He packs the cone with chop, lights and inhales. Smoke rushes through the glass channel, a swirl of white ether, more than he’d expected. He quickly passes the **** to Coffin Cat, before collapsing onto the bed, eyes closed. A suffocating sensation fills his body. He sinks into the chasm of himself, further and further into an impossible, infinite depth.

“Still working at . . . ?”

“Yeah, yeah. Management. Hospital. You?”

“Like, property. Motions.”

“Subcontracting? Intonements?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Mmm.”

Idiot Boy doesn’t know what’s going on. He feels sick and tries to get Coffin Cat’s attention, but cannot move his body.

“Come on. Sell me drugs, Strawman.”

“Nah. I don’t deal drugs. I don’t deal drugs.”

A strange silence stretches like an artificial dusk, a liminal duration, the hollow click of a tape set back into place in reverse. The Recessed Figure coughs and the Loud Person whirs back into motion.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. They’re selling me off! First time back in New Zealand in five years and they do this to me!”

The Recessed Figure makes a noncommittal noise.

“I knew it, I knew if I came back, my parents wouldn’t let me leave again. Whole ******* thing arranged!”

Coffin Cat laughs quietly.

“No, you don’t even understand. This is the first time back, the first time back in five years, and I’m being sold off to some rich ****** who owns all the banks in Australia.”

“How about this fella? He doing okay?” Strawman asks, pointing. Everyone turns to Idiot Boy and laughs affectionately.

“Still working at . . . ?”

“Yeah, yeah. Management. Hospital. You?”

“Like, property. Motions.”

“Subcontracting? Intonements?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Mmm.”

“Sell me drugs, Strawman.”

“Nah. I don’t deal drugs. I don’t deal drugs.”

Idiot Boy slowly opens his eyes and stares out the window. The same grey light as before. He moves his arm further towards Coffin Cat, but is still too weak to get her attention. The same strange silence stretches. The Recessed Figure coughs and the Loud Person whirs back into motion.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. . . .”

As the conversation repeats over and again, Idiot Boy begins to think he has become psychotic, or perhaps entered into a psychotic space. He thinks of computer algorithms, input-output, loops without variables, endless regurgitations of the same result. Human machines trapped in their own stupid loop. Drug-****** neuronal networks incapable of making new connections, forever traversing old ones. Short-term memory loss, every repeat a new conversation of what has already been. The same grey light painted upon four pears by the window.

He’s not sure if Coffin Cat’s laugh is getting weaker with each repeat.

Signal-response. The exterior world oversaturated with variables: roadways, rivers, forests, wildlife — an ever changing scene to respond to — the illusion of depth. Automatic response mechanisms reorient to new stimuli. The soul rises like surfactant, objectified fractal diffusion. A becoming without end.

But within the border of this interior world, the light stays grey. No input, no change; the same dead repeat, over and over, until sundown triggers a hunger response. Lined all along the street, a black box ceremony of repeating machines, trapped in their idiot cults, walls of clay and blood.

Idiot Boy finally gets Coffin Cat’s attention. She helps him through the house’s arteries to reach rain and wet stone, overcast skies. As he shakes in shock, Coffin Cat mumbles, “It’s cold.”

Idiot Boy sits silent on the ride home. Travels through himself. Tunnel through the body or Mariana Trench. Loses his footing before a traumatic void. Leaves the car and pukes.

Autumn in New Zealand is a masterpiece on canvas
Patternings of goldens and bright rose hips in their beds,
Copses of coniferous in deep and darkly avenues
To the brilliance of a country lane awash with leafy reds.
Chimney fires are smoking in the rural country cottages
The warming glow of lanterns in the windows as I pass,
A tantalising whiff of hot buttered scones is wafting
And somewhere in the distance I can hear a red deer bark.
Strolling by the lakeside in the early morning stillness
My breathing fogs before me in the chillness of the air,
Rowan trees glow scarlet and the naked ***** willow
Has shed her golden carpet on the emerald hillock there.
Rushes rattle softly in the mistyness of lowlands
Treeeferns in their glory of silver filagree,
Sparrows ruffle feathers to insulate the coolness
As wheeling flocks of starling mass to migrate to be free.
Gossamer as fairy dust the thistledown is floating
A harbinger of autumn leaves and freezing frost to come,
Those Coriollis forces are determining the changeling
Where the snowy days approaching means the Autumn tones are done.


Marshalg
27 April 2013
In rural Pukekohe.
New Zealand

I leap across steppingstones in the grass
that lead out to my washing line,
wait for the wind to come and pass
then drape my socks out in the sunshine.

Somewhere, it’s grey and cold
they hang clothes indoors on plastic frames
walls and windows gather mould,
those with wet work uniforms go insane.

There is hidden wealth in the economy.
There is no such thing as inequality.  


(When I was twelve
my family moved to Dunedin,
my brothers became Christians
then travelled to Asia to spread their Religion -
they said “there is no class system in New Zealand,
there is no faith Cambodia” )

There is hidden wealth in the economy.
There is no such thing as inequality.

Tomorrow New Zealand's
beautiful sunrise won't see
some forty plus lives that they too
never expected to miss.

The rose will flower for them too
brimming with brightest hues
to colour the wind.
So are the nightingales have the lyrics
for them to sing.

Not to mention like yesterday
people around of all walks and colours  
expected to greet them good morning!

Alas, it won't happen tomorrow
one openly fired at the peaceful setting.
Killed them all in one go
loved by all the humankind around
and naturally nurtured by reality!
Because we have an enemy within.

Vancouver Island is a private widow who,
Julia, lives with her best asteroids. I need a tree.
Athletes in different parts of the dream,
and their clothes are safely locked and bugged.
The Vancouver Island is a private widow,
Julia, lives with her best asteroid. I need a tree.
Athletes in different parts of dreams,
And their clothes are locked and dated safely.
Order Lame New Family Sporting Game
Blue Bridge model, Blue Knight Memories,
Australia, Australia's poverty is beautiful.
Empty and fish. Newer stars are a sudden
change in York, Robert Sober News, White,
Gold, Turks around the world, Dutch
and Canadians. The authorities will win
as soon as possible. Robertson,
New York, Beach, Sports and public
meetings; And women's clothing,
food, Pharmacy and full study Uli,
French Blue, Feedra, Sugar,
Already in Canada, the Greek Blue
Planet, Australia and Australia
And Britain, New Zealand
and the South America, Europe
and the American film
Gazpakhalta Doma Kiki ibertchi
Ezigis fresh blood blue hair
And Canada, Australia and Australia
New Crossword Zelda l Strelia,
Posters, English, English, English,
English, English, English, South America,
American Literature Ecolasia Dorsey
Blair. The best beauty of desert heavy
It's fresh and easy to drink and drink.
A young woman in Australia, Australia
Australia Vendo is a widow of a man.
I need a wooden plate. A mysterious
one; Gradually the script is unexpected
Revolution in food packaging.
Star star star night Yura Robert
Charity New York: Seafood
with seafood, sports club, Outline,
Famous Clothes, British society,
women, Bread and puppies
in healthy meadows. It is real
and we now believe in life
Definitely in France,                                                          ­there is a new book.
Black, Caucasian, Chinese, Gold,
Greek, big blue, and in our world,
In Canada, forever, always,
as soon as possible. Big parents,
men and women, Weekly music from Billy
and Africa, Australia and New Zealand,
wallpaper link, Great Britain
and South America, United States
and Europe Dumaiki Ebberchetti
Elephant Holmes Cats Better appetizing
drinks. The English schools, hair, skin
and blood are simply and quite blue,
born in Australia, Australia, Vendo,
And a beautiful young widow.
I need wood and shrimp The unexpected
scenario contains unexpected
revisions to the cookie. The star
star of Stella Star is in Yura,
Robert New York, Stella Stella,
Located in the sea. New book
Black, Caucasian, Chinese, Gold,
Greek, blue, Dutch, Canada, forever,
Permanently as fast as possible
Grandparent and grandmother,
Women and older women,
Mel Week Billy Music and Africa,
Australia and New Zealand,
posters, The United Kingdom
and South America, United States
and Europe Dumaiqusu Iberite
elephant food rustic cats.                                                    Blue sky desert sky
Yunus lamaka yeh blue swan
Beiji Yahya Jianzhu Order Lem
New Family Game Sporting
Model Blue Bridge, Canada Red,
Blue Night Memories, Australia,
Australia Poverty is beautiful.
Empty and fish. Late New Stars
is a sudden change in York,
Robert Sober. New, white, gold,
Turkish, Dutch and global Canadian
authorities will win as soon
as possible. Robertson, New York,
beaches, sports and public meetings
and women's clothing, food,
pharmacy and full Uli studies,
French blue, Phedra, sugar,
Greek blue planet as early as Canada,
Australia as well as in Australia
and Britain, the News Zealand
and South America, Europe
and the film USA gazapkhulta Douma
Kiki ibertchi ezigis fresh blood meat
blue hair and canada, australia, australia
greek blood island l stralia
in new zealand, posters, uk, england,
english, English, English, English,
South America, USA eikolisa
Dorsey Blair Chronicles of the beriyana
desert The best beauty is fresh
and easy to drink and drink.
A young woman in Australia,                               Australia,
Australia, is a widow of Vendo, a man.
I would like a wooden slab.
An uninterrupted sequence scenario
contains an unexpected revolution
in food packaging. Star Star Star
Night Star Yura Robert Charity
New York: Seafood from the sea,
sports clubs, outlines, famous clothing,
sleeping British society, women,
bread and puppies in healthy meadows
are real and now we believe that life
in France is guaranteed, it's a new book.
Black, Caucasian, Chinese, Golden,
Greek, Big Blue, and in our world,
in Canada, forever, forever, as soon

as possible.
Big parents, men and women,
Billy's Music Weekly and Africa,
Australia and New Zealand,                                         Connecting Wallpaper,
Great Britain and South America,
United States and Europe. Dumaiqiqi
Iberatchetti Elephant Cats Homemade
dishes Best Beauty Yesterday Drinks
Born in Greek schools, hair,
skin and blood easy
and perfectly blue, Australia,                                               Australia, Wendo,
and a beautiful young widow.
I need wood and shrimp.             The uncoded script contains an unexpected revolution in the cookie.
The Star Star Star of Stella Star at Yurra,
at Robert New York, Stella Stella,
located in the sea. new book.
Black, Caucasian, Chinese, Golden,
Greek, Blue, Dutch, Canada, forever,
forever, as fast as possible.                        Grandparents,
women and elderly women,
Billy Music Weekly Post and Africa,
Australia and New Zealand, posters,
United Kingdom and South America,
United States and Europe.                                                          ­     Dumaiqusu
Iberatchetti Cats Elephant Rustic food
Not headed Blue sky Desert desert
Yunus Lamaca                                          Yae Blue Swan Beiji Yahya Jianzhu

Never what you were,
my retina dulled your rays.
Optics adrift in poetry, prose,
charity shop sweaters.

I spoke of dreamed ambition.
You nodded, morose.
Eyes chasing space.
Never what you were.

Bookshelves, potted plants, a bicycle bell ringing.
Coffee steam clawing New Zealand winds.
This and more flickered in our hazed tethering,
only snuffed when the tap of illusion ran cold.