My First And Last Splore

Rakau flows.
Woven fabrics from similar walks. 
Manawa wide open. 
Gay Bar Camp Site.
Sparkling Fabrics Akimbo.
Fastened and fashioned by darling 
expert hands
into the fine hours of the morning.

Cousin in tow.
Darling old friend in flow.

Early morning miso.
Burned tongues.
Whitebait fritters.
Lilos at closing dusk.
Nightmares on Wax.

Front left speaker.
When Francois Kaye plays
Hope For A Generation.
And I fall in love with an Albino boyfriend 
with excellent taste in music 
for thirty minutes.

Meet me under the great Rakau.
We’ll sit within the roots and be.
Spit rhymes and feel free.
With reformed spiritual fuck boys.
Who see me.
For real this time.

Darling old friends.
For many years.
Up all night and into the next day.
Secret buttons to stymy snoring.

Pot of noodles with an egg.
Fried chicken.
Margaritas.
Autumnal breeze.

The lesbian circle in Aotearoa is too small, to feel ease.
They find out you’ve broken up with your girlfriend 
and someone that met you through her, 
gives you the googly gay eye from across the paddock.

Stay far away.
You wouldn’t be able to swim in the waters I’m at play in.
Plus didn't you date my ex’s last ex too?

Too close. 
No more poly football players. 
Witches shouldn’t date football players.
I used to be a football player too.

Ok, now I’m confused.
Another babe flashes me her boobs.
Says she wants to snuggle and that I’m cute.

Hot pants.
Hot topics.
Sparkles and moop and moments in truth.
Making sure you don’t feel trapped 
amongst the toasters and misfits.

That you know you can leave at any time.
Whilst we chew the fat.

Spew the skewed facts 
that only munters can
in the morning after sun.

Reaching the highest of heights.
Dosed with 5htp to ensure the moonlight 
doesn’t shine too brightly over the coming days.

It all feels wrong in the end, 
once the trash is piled high enough that you struggle to find your friends.

But you search for them constantly 

All the while going full send.
Collecting the cans and frivolities of the human's humaning
Piling detritus up around the vestibules 
Of waste collection
That can never hold enough
To make a difference.
But fuck, 
do we try.

Scattered heart shards
Carried by all the platonic love affairs 
your mouth met in those moments.
With ancient bards
And gamblers 
only showing you a teasing glance of their last card.
In the witching hours.

LED’s in trees and pillows and secret nooks.
Catching lost sequins 
and the children of the secrets spoken
Whilst toking up and filling up their broken cups

Trust

The rust will all come out in the wash
Hands stained black in leather gloves
Make my fingers look deathly and demonic
But before I took them off -
babe I was on it.

Fly as fuck.

Gee’d up from the feet up.
But now my hair needs a brush 
and my teeth do too.
Legs cut and bruised.

What more can you do.
The ubiquitous rhythm
Calling me home to my ancestors groove.

I surrender to the inner rave gremlin within 
and let her bare her ratbag grin.
For every polished and sacred moment in time.
There’s a need for something more disheveled and defiled.

What is required of us in these collective entrancements.
These celebrations of the universal soup.
But to show our shadow and our light - 
our individual and collective truths.

And watch to see who wants to be close for awhile.
You for you.
Scoop your knees up from the loam of the hill.
Surely by the roosters crow, 
you must have had your fill.

And now it’s time to do as Warren Gee would.
And regulate for awhile.
But my, 
that was fine, fun and fantastic.
Even with the purple, pernicious, pips 
spitting out from the mouth of Wayne The Great
Loud and boombastic.

Thank you for the mental, 
spiritual and physical gymnastics.
No need to latch onto to the darkness of the world.
But I will pay credence and offer awhi 
to the unfurling as I always do.

Ensure to utilise my privilege 
as my cousin moo’s at the cows we drive past.
And don’t forget the sheep.
She likes it when they look at her in acknowledgement 
when she sounds her sweet maaaaaaaa 
Out of my caaaaaaaaaaar window
From the safety of her seat

Oh how those rainbow fabrics looked, 
fastened, akimbo around my mother's gazebo hooks.
I feel the burned tongue from that hot miso
on the roof of my mouth days after the fact.

I reminisce of my Japanese techno sisters 
that taught me
Of the wonders of that soup's life giving properties
At three in the morning 
And the party is still going.

In the realm I live in
Everything happens for a reason.
Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

So... maybe I deserved a burned tongue.
Maybe it was time to go to bed 
and I just wasn't listening.
Maybe my tongue was too hot from too much talking.
Or maybe sometimes. 
Shit happens.
And it's not that deep.

Well my friends, so much happened.
At my first and last Splore.
I couldn't tell you it all. 
So I hope this adventure of key snippets
Honoured it all in a sufficiently peculiar way.
That's my favourite way to play.