heartbeat city’s golden sun

whakapapa

When the vestiges of vacant anthills empty our mouths of mother-tongues, and the porous paupers of potbellied princesses parade facades of fevered ferocity on TV screens, how do our broken hearts continue to beat?

Bash and crash our lives onto concrete, metal tensions tire as our home-hearth fires dwindle like deadened sunsets.

And yet, a golden-skinned hue of hope hearkens. If our genealogies are our bodies, they bare themselves to witness the warmth of bitumen and tar, far removed from the wharetangata of our browned and ancient wisdoms.

I am trekking the mass urbanisation of Maori people from traditional village nations, into warring global cities of cultural cataclysm; I seek the visage of neo post-colony brethren, even if the postcolony is only a temporal myth of murderous machines.

It stir the coals of the cityscape; the escape from Absalom’s promised promenades, to describe potential futures for people pushed to the margins of mediocrity.

My whakapapa saves me from the social reality dream, foreseen fortunes and fictions fabricated to forever decay.

This is the day.

As the sun forgets to rise again, I am displaced and disadvantaged within the democracy of an urban sprawl.

Today is one of those days where I find myself in the foulest mood ever. You know you’re being a cunt when you can’t shake the make of misery that multiplies as quickly as you tell yourself that you are just being a dick.

It’s nearly the full moon, tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, and the day after is my birthday.

I am totally not really feeling a whole lotta love, in the immortal words of Robert Page, and yet I know that I am totally being a self-fulfilling prophecy, decency’s lament hell-bent on backwards bending. Broken again, my spirit, the sprints I do in the morning most certainly not enough to crush the crashing tides of tediousness. Ridiculousness, it radiates from my core as I try to reformulate its redundancy, petty platitudes to the person I know I am no longer any more.

A bore, this chore of trying to change a tune, chewing the same old gums as they fester, best to try and cry myself to laugher.

Today I remembered the story of my Aunty and Uncle’s dog Pako.

Pako Pako Pako.

Both my Aunt and Uncle had no teeth, they had rotted away, all 64 of them… one day I discovered that they had never actually named their dog, they were just always telling it to “fuck off”.

Today Pako helped me laugh off my bad mood.

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