My parents were married in a storm
and since March ‘92, I have felt a roar
through my hair and in my sinews.
Quiet surgency of the eyes and throat,
I am a floating Machina of despair –
overturning insides, my skin still
screaming like an engine from birth.
Inwards, I compress to meditation
and disturb my depression with a kiss.
The cities shred and mammalians cry
but settled in the eye – no one can see us,
I whisper in a breath, clean as rain and
more impressive than thunder. Like Tāne,
we hongi amongst the lightning, held bright
from the whir. I caress my angst, a baby.
This typhoon cocoon, where stillness is
forever, I honour our love when I havoc,
blessed and scooped in something wilder.
🎨/📷 by Shane Cotton, Red Shift, 2006/07