NO ONE SPEAKS LIKE THAT WHEN THEY’RE DREAMING

who gets to tell their story?

repeated
like a mantra
1. divorce,
2. personal crisis,
3. middle class ennui,
4. a failed (insert bougie dream here) looks back on a life half lived from a vantage point of lonely stability

someone smarter than me once said
“language is a virus”
beige fairytales spread like herpes

how about this?
it’s like a Marvel franchise
where nothing happens
and instead of superpowers
all the heroes have anxiety disorders

gimme disaster
gimme someone sprinting towards a dead end
gimme a 400 page fall from grace
i mean, everyone wants to see the car crash right

who gets to talk loudly in their own voice?
who has to put on the accent of someone who’s never demeaned themselves to survive?

people passionate about what they’re saying seldom talk in riddles

the first thing they teach u in self defense is
learn to read a room
a street
the intention of them shadows

jargon is just slang for jobs with sick pay

years ago i worked with this cook Bartek from Poland
he’d twist his english
into the most beautiful shapes
the other cooks would correct him
trying to kill his magic

who are these pedestals built for?
who has to hold the ladder?
who gets to climb up and kick it out after them?

everyone likes to feel special
but i hate heights

i reckon the fact we’re all flawed and full of shit
is the best argument for equality

and like Jesus said that one time when he was wasted
“fuck meeting your heroes
they’ll just let u down
when the lights come on
with their bones
and skin
and human concerns
amen”

what histories get books?
and what ones get rewritten into low budget tv series?
by people who weren’t invited

when i write about my past
reviewers like to say shit like
“a punch in the guts”
“hard hitting”
“unflinching”
but i remember Dennis who could throw a tennis ball so high it’d vanish
i remember the old yellow house playing reggae music
weed smoke pouring out the broken windows
i remember Elise’s brother who was the best dancer in Grey Lynn
i remember the DRGs and the TCGs
i remember when i was 15 my friend took me down to Combat Zone
and pointed to all the graffiti
like pastoral poetry for a dead city
i remember jumping on the broken trampoline
laughing as our heads brushed against the dusk
i remember popsicles staining our hands all summer
i remember when the side door at Foodtown was broken
and everyone walked out with trolleys full of food
we all ate ourselves christmas fat
i remember learning to rap over the B side of Albert’s Public Enemy 12 inch
i remember my first kiss in T’s garage
half drunk on warm beer
i remember feeling alive like i was on drugs in a movie
but everything degrades into memory eh
and they reckon the winners get to write history
looks like a pack of losers 2 me tho
lol

what emotions are allowed to be expressed?
what ones will get u politely asked to leave before anyone’s even touched the canapes?

some might say rage is a reasonable response to a life lived on wrong side of a locked door
bottle it all up
sell it on the side of the road
a nice handwritten label
“oh how lovely”

i hate the taste of my own tongue

did u know smiling while being condescended to
is the leading cause of heart cancer?

now i’m in rooms with people who think raising your voice is a kind of violence
guess they’ve never been stabbed in the face
with a pair of safety scissors
by XXXXX
for talking shit too loudly
when u was pissed

who decides what spaces have welcome mats?
and what ones have moats made out of glass and hold music?

if instant coffee doesn’t remind u of justifying your right to not be homeless
to someone who moves their lips when they type
u haven’t lived

for years i wandered from one art space to another
sharing cheap piss and ideas
thought that was life
but i was yet to experience the pure joy
of a wine bar filled with dead eyed people
who do nothing
and get paid like they have dirt on God

all hail mighty gatekeeper
6 figure
smart casual arbiter of taste,
if i don't answer thy riddles three
it’s lentil stew for dinner again

whose discomfort do we apologize for and whose do we ignore?

everyone's house smells weird the first time u go there

i don’t think i suit glass slippers...thanks tho

“if u just [meaningless task]”
“if u just [meaningless task]”
“if u just [meaningless task]”
“if u just [meaningless task]”
“if u just [meaningless task]”
“if u just [meaningless task]”
“if u just [meaningless task]”
“if u just [meaningless task]”
“if u just [meaningless task]”
“if u just [meaningless task]”
“if u just [meaningless task]”
“if u just [meaningless task]”
“everything will turn out just how u planned”

discussing money isn't as rude as minimum wage

a minute of silence for all the interesting people lost to professionalism

“a policy of appeasement always works out in the end”

form over function over fucking uncomfortable furniture

what traditions get to be sacred?
what ones do we paint over and forget?

___________________________________

every ritual started out as someone's weird habit that caught on

“the gentrification of ideas”
landlords writing books
politicians doing art
rich dickheads posting about marx
next thing the bloody dog will be mates with the cat

who gets money from the bank of mum and dad and a long line of asshole ancestors?
and who gets 8 percent of the profits after costs for turning their shitty lives into entertainment?

(lazy metaphor #2364)
locked in a burning car
in between
bad breath bureaucrats
and 1st prize winners in the nepotism sweepstakes
i hate this fucking place

i swear every contract has a “only a moron would sign this” clause
“yeah sorry Dominic, but it says here we’re entitled to all your happiness in perpetuity”

serious question though
why are rich people obsessed with ripping off artists?
“oh u want to take 20 percent of my meager earnings?
like the amount u spend on coffee in a month”
do u think it's like a sex thing?

who gets to dream of a future?
and who gets a bed full of broken sleep?

i read somewhere Tāmaki is the city of music
they must mean the ghosts
howling through the citadel
dancing beneath police cameras
while saints of methamphetamine and melancholy
race e scooters
through the trash and neglect
cos noise control took care of the venues
and people from the suburbs took care of the rest

and who gets to go to gala events
full of people who signed that James Wallace letter
strutting around like god on sunday
free piss
expensive shoes
and who gets to yell poems on the side of the street for $150 before tax
(if you wanna invite me to your event with free beers i’ll still come tho)
and who gets to tell their story over
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