7 births, 3 deaths and 1 immigrant

3 Euro dress on K Road
black cotton no bra on.

My nemesis appears
and the guy I held hands with last night adds me on Facebook.

The city has become another body
a swimming pool of skin
I dive in, I kiss everywhere.

Is this some cheap Star Trek remake
with four million bodies
moving at different frequencies?

There are no slaves in my living room
only guys between jobs and the odd call centre worker.

The green bus snaking back Waitakere way floats tar.

I try my best with CNN and Assange
even when it’s sick shit like power tools in virgins.

I write down the lyrics to their marches
even when my ego disagrees.

Home is too small
I have seen things
K Road is under water.

It’s midnight in Munich
the distance they fed us in school
has becomes senseless.

The bin across the road
it sat in concrete
the whole time I was gone.

The same barefoot soldier
checked for scraps each dawning.



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