Lounging,

the hills canter together,
an accordeon squeezes out the tears
over a pint of beer.

I am an infant in understanding,
shedding the unnecessary
filigrees and fragments,
political and social foibles, 
desperately ruptured by murmurs.

My first home, which I shared with
my brother, the modern Icarus, was our mother's womb.
She, our greatest hero - dying endlessly and
endlessly reborn,
so old that I did not think that she
could die, ruptured in God's fingers 
like a Chinese cookie.

The way your glasses stick fast to your face,
tai chi on the top of rusted metal rods,
you are done falling forward and catching yourself.
Better to sit still and push shit uphill,
a little ship cut loose, one lot, two tusks,
beating hard against history.

Lines of linoleum
hanging like fishy leaves,
augmented reality, 
subliminal lullaby,
how it mars the surface of the present.

The universe is insatiable, it has a thirst for you.
Planets are moths circling around a flame,
cigarettes are substitute phalluses,
this is a work in progress and we are projectiles,
we make everything into glass
buildings plunged into shadows.

My name is Thimble and
I am a god of protecting little significant things.
Please don't squeeze me until I'm yours.

Pour out a piano in your hands as soon as silence
moves into the neither here nor there;
dismantle humanity's intricate pathways.
Wave goodbye to question marks, trolleyed wings,
floorless, wished-for moments of existence.
Love yourself; you are the one you're with.

Rubbish and dust fly in the sky,
encounter the line drawn under night time.
If the parking lot is not wet, 
embrace the specific lamp post,
flashing, before rounding the corners.

You have rehearsed this moment.

(This is a pastiche made from lines collected from poets performing at Lounge #23, at the Old Government House Lounge at the University of Auckland on the 19th of October 2011)