The Apathetic Enthusiast

Poetry + Imagery

Fight Club

I am Jacks overwhelming sense of discouragement
I am Jacks seeping acceptance of wasted opportunities
I am Jacks failed attempts to stay sober 
I am Jacks shadow of short lived enthusiasm 

Jacks island of apathy

Build a raft and drown. 


When April Fools never comes

I am Shock
Cling film wrapping around a sphere of salt water
Wrapping my mind around unbelievable gravity
Thick force unrelentingly pounding
A distortion of time
The same epic seconds on loop
A creaking door
An inability to reason
The sudden Death of a friend
I am heartbreak
I am menial activities throughout the day
I am  

Apathy doesn’t mind

Being Gone
Like a sliver of the moon
You ask me to apologise,
for not being around all the time


Leaving you in the Hospital Cafeteria

        The streets are impersonal and unwilling to make excuses.
        My money wasn't worth what I could stomach, but it was worth the time.
        As soon as we leave here its over.
        As soon as we leave here,
        We're gone.




Diluted Days.

Changing scenery so suddenly
Unnervingly adjusting to unraveling so seamlessly
Quietly stepping
Accustomed to such company
I’ll excuse myself until the sun goes down

The Face I left with

_MG_1293                  Bloody nose in the dead of Winter
                Clean clothes thrown out into the rain

                  I'm on the first train out of here

Dead Not Buried

SteveJoWaitarere 1034
In celebration we party
No particular reason
We smoke cigars and drink in the day 
Beer bottles foaming and spilling
Who cares.
Who knows.
Whos watching.

With music and plans for life I make us half lunch half dinner 
My house. 
My ways. 
My time.
My comfort.

Pastry defrosted
Fresh eggs and bacon
Mushrooms tomatoes and herbs
Cutting board. 


I see them.
Two of them.
Fat black and crawling.
Sick and disgusting.
Feasting inside thin plastic wrapping. 
Wings wet and bathing
In juices of room temperature flesh.
Feasting. Feastering.
Flies. Big and Black.
Black Black Black in and on skin
Solid skin thick pink and feeling.
Fat hairy pigs hot in the mud breathing. 
Sliced and diced and chopped for soups for breakfasts for pies.
Minds eye seeing flies eyes eying unseeing eyes dry.


I am 5 years old
Dads hand on my shoulder
In the middle of no where.
A roadside farm cafe
'What's that Daddy?'
'A fat pig'
Ice cream melting over small sticky fingers.
I climb higher and lean over the fence for a better look.


Can't handle
Drop the knife 
Shaking the bag 

Get out. 
Get away.away.away. 
They hold on
Tiny legs clutching at flesh ridges.
Black holes in my universe. 
I am crushed
They take me 
Suck me in and freeze me
Tear me and twist me
Wrap me in plastic light and tight against my mouth
Drowning in weepings.
Constricted in time. 
I am a decomposing sea where flies enjoy what's left of me.


Whats your problem, what happened are you okay?
Laugh it off 
Shake it off 
Off. Off. Off. 

I'm sorry I'm fine It's okay, just a fly, just surprised.

Laughing shaking straining 
How silly, such a shame.

Don't tell them you never want to eat again.


Escapes to the park
Black feelings
Loud laughter
Dancing feet thudding on floors
Spilk drinks
Towels soaking
Smoke in the house
Strobe flashing 
Bruises mounting.
Tip toe creeping
How can they be sleeping.
The sun is gone and almost back again 
The last moon my company
Flattening pastry
Mixed spices
Coco and dark berry jam

Deep breaths and straight back
Flies deafly buzzing
Stumbles, blurring, calm even humming.
Sugar burning and bubbling
Cold hands on hot glass

Pies packed with vows I'll burn my mouth on.

Things we see in Windows

all 369                           You don't know me. 
                     I've never crossed your mind.
        Your imaginary life will exist and carry on without me.
      Once the train arrives the colour of your shirt will leave. 
                       Your hair will fall away. 
                     Your shoes will keep walking.
                   But not the hardness of your face. 
      Cheekbones gouged in wood. Scorched. And nailed to my chest.

When it’s over and a waste

          Disappointment was a blinding discovery
          A sudden and obvious truth 
          A sinking ship in the night
          Cold water engulfing warm bed sheets
          Regret was thicker
          A tough meat stuck in your throat 
          A choking realization collapsing your lungs
          A thief in the day  
          Robbing you of all your favourite possessions 
          While you relax in the sun 
          Enjoying the scenery

Not Saying Anything at All

April 10-14 151

             Hiding in silence
                       Peace in the quiet
                              Leaving all well enough alone 
             Moonlight on water
                       Lamp light on streets
                               Cold air freezing the time 
             Waiting in secret
                       While all the rest sleeps 
                               Relieved to finally be    

I The Stranger

                 Today, I forgot myself.
                        I woke up
                        and left memories         

                 I saw them piled on my pillow 
                        as I went to leave
                        but couldn't remember 
                        what they were for
                        or why I would need them
                        so I carried on 
                              getting ready 
                                       for the day.

                 I went about my business without a worry
                  and with not much to mention in events. 
                        But I learned a lot 
                        about an everyday 
                        And in some ways 
                        It was the best day ever
                        By the time I made my way home 
                        The moon was out in full force 
                        Bright as anything 
                        washing the clouds in silver. 

            Such a beautiful sight
                    And I couldn't remember 
                           ever seeing 
                                         so lovely


The First Day

                   Hitchhiking Hippies 
                   Shrinking dandylion crowns
                   Wind knotting wild hair

                   Peace signs thrown from car windows
                   Lost scarves on fences 
                   Carefree catches in the heat

                   Painted toes no shoes
                   Hundred dollar sundresses
                   And second hand hats

                   Town to bush and streets to sand
                   Spots for cloud watching
                   Seats for cold beer and charred meat 

                   Water fights on decks
                   Lawn mowers echo off the hills
                   Strangers share the sun 

                   Until the last day
                   When its too cold for those things
                   And the rain is back

Closed Tracks

            Walking on trees
            Reminds me
            That I take light heartedness seriously
            Sarcastic with reality
            The storm pulls the pines down vertically 
            Soiled hands hold torn roots ceremonially
            This is a graveyard playground of balancing tom foolery
            Laughing in high winds on lost limbs precariously 
            I make the most of this tragedy with sombre mockery
            Tomorrows chainsaws will come with no sense of sympathy
            I can only take dirt home with me


Salty Cliff Air

April 10-14 145

        Under the protection of the roof 
        We climb the branches as high as we dare not to
        Red vines grow thick and fast along the kitchen walls
        Grasping blindly at our feet
        Wrapping themselves around our moon lit ladders 
        Desperate to catch us before we reach the stars

A Year of Taking Notes

Empire 106

My friend Bailey was the first of my group to have a baby, ‘Baileys baby’ we all said when we heard, with a bit of an Elvis twang. She had wanted a painting from me for years, I had promised I would do one but I could never decide what it would be, and she said she didn’t mind. She was caring and cheerful and all I could see was a farm scene of unicorns and cats, which she would probably love but I wasn’t feeling it. So when she had her little guy I thought ‘brilliant, this I can do.’ I chose one of the first photos she posted, only a few days old, and set up the coffee table with all my supplies and got into it. Within a few hours I had a beautiful rendition of him. Soft skin and perfect colours. I had used the white of the canvas as the highlights, and his features where exactly where they should be. I was so proud and couldn’t wait to tell her.

Of course a few days later I picked it up again, set on doing a green background with leaves falling around him when I muddied the colours and placement of his face.
He was bruised, almost rotted. I felt him slip through my fingers, like he had been handed to me and I dropped him. I didn’t touch the painting for months after that, I couldn’t bare to look at it. I hid it in the cupboard and tried to forget about it, every now and then pulling it out and staring at the sick dwarfish face, desperately wishing I could take it back.

It was after a long night at work, usually me and one of the other girls would sneak off to the kitchen on a Saturday night while the bar and band was in full swing to polish and roll the cutlery for the next day. She would polish and I would roll, sometimes gossiping, sometimes in silence. Rolling cutlery was my favourite part of the job. I had it down to an art, every single roll was exactly alike, tight enough to hold upside down and loose enough to pull out the cutlery without effort. Not so dipped that it would destroy the napkin to unroll it, but they never came undone on their own. It was my ultimate OCD dream. But one night we were short staffed and I had to do it alone while the others held the floor and bar.

Instead of going to the kitchen, I quietly slipped through the glass doors into the function room just next to it. I liked this room, on busy nights I would have this all to myself, I would set romantic tables for two and family tables of fours to sixes. I would leave one door open for the smell from the kitchen and one closed for privacy from the chefs. I would have a candle lit on every table and a refreshing breeze stirring the air, and when the sun set, I would tilt the blinds just right and fill the room with bright orange dancing beams of light.

It was dark now though, empty and cold, all the chair legs up. I lit some candles just for me, keeping the lights off, sat at the farthest corner table and rolled each set of knife fork, spoon knife, fork spoon, perfectly.

When I was finished, I stared at the full baskets, napkins glowing silver blue in the darkness of the moonlight. It was then I remembered the story of Dorian Gray. His portrait painted so honestly and with so much love, that it had captured his soul. Had I rolled my soul into these utensils? How could I put so much of myself into something strangers used to eat with, wiping their mouths and dropping to the floor for me to pick up once they’d gone. I doubt anyone even noticed how efficient they were, or how beautifully they were placed in rows upon rows. And I was always rolling cutlery, it was a job never finished, I would fill basket after basket after basket and it never stayed full. I had rolled thousands. Hundreds a day. They were my accomplishment.

When I got home I set my paints up on the lounge floor and pulled out the painting that had been my undoing. I cleaned my brushes and looked for each stroke I needed to bring him back to life. And as I painted I saw him more and more, until I was staring face to face with my best friends son, dreaming with closed eyes that might open at any minute. I mixed a dark blue black oil and let it flow over the dead green leaves, from the edges of the canvas to his face, painting my soul into depth of the universe I wrapped in the blanket around him. When I was finished and the sun was rising, I scattered ink stars with small silver flicks of my brush, creating galaxies, without waiting for the paint to dry.


The Long Road

IMG_2094 Silver sunset silhouettes
 Sleek and slender branches bared  
 In the unforgiving winter air
 Majestically unaware
 Of their natural beauty just by simply being there

Cold July

 April 10-14 709  When it's late and I'm alone 
And all I want to do is sleep
       The minutes pass me by

 And when I can't bare another
It comes
                   And it goes


The Island of Smoke

IMG_2718                     Further North than I thought
                           The drowning plateaued
                       And the sound let me sleep
                                      For a while

Fish in the sea

              It hurts to see you in shirts I don't recognize
              Tan from days in the sun without me
              All security disappears
              I am the fish I caught earlier today
              Torn from water
              Blinded by light
              Thrown into dry darkness
              To Writhe
              To Panic
              A bucket of sweet home relief 
              Poured into my tomb
              One quick deep breath
              I am safe 
              Then you slit my throat and bleed me out

              To think I sat there watching myself die
              Trying not to be upset over a fish

Tight lips and Pockets

Every time I see them they are arguing about money, which makes me wonder why 
they bother going out at all. I have been their waitress at three different 
restaurants now and not once have they given me any sign of recognition. 
I try and relax the tension, one meal at a time, as any good waitress should, 
but they never let up. Once they even turned on me together, it was the chefs 
fault but at least they were united.
I see them on my days off sometimes, just around town. Her walking ahead, him 
pushing his wheel chair. I guess they don’t live too far. One day I saw them 
coming back from the beach, with six kids in toe. Three with mocha skin like 
hers, and three with freckles and long faces like his. They skipped along the 
side walk in pairs, matching in ages, laughing and screaming about ice cream. 
The couple charged on behind unsmiling, 
                                  hands clenched, 
                                             laden with shoes and wet towels.


Secrets and Lost Earrings

I was quite sure that in the context of my life this made perfect sense.

Not only that, but in context it was a cosmic joke. A round about twisted turn of events. To the outside point of view it might have been tragic, with a pinch of irony for those with a sense of humour. To me, I was Donnie Darko time travelling. In a second where all the late nights and crazy thoughts made sense. Manic laughter building from a sinking ship.

There was even a lesson here that people could benefit from. Not that I was going to let that make it okay, I wasn’t going to lie to myself. This was a bad thing. Besides there were too many words to get wrong. I can’t share this, I can’t tell you everything.

That’s the thing with secrets. You take them to bed with you and feel them in your sheets. You hold them tight like a lover, terrified someone will rip the blankets off and leave you shivering. You kick them to the side like clothes on a hot night, suffocating you, shirts tight around your throat. Pins and needles and stray hairs disguised as spiders, crawling and keeping you awake. And in the morning, you leave them where they lay. God forbid someone catches it in your eye, or sees it in the corner of your mouth. Twitching in your fingers. They are something you come home to. Something you leave lying around underneath things. Hiding and waiting to be found when you have almost forgotten they were there. And when the years have finally dulled the edges, you burry them, throw it into the sea like a stone that caught your eye on the beach.

You don’t have to explain it. It doesn’t need to make sense to anyone else. It’s yours.
Sometimes I think my whole life might be a secret.
No one will ever get the joke better than me.

Just Take Me Home


                 Quick swims in clouds
                         Quiet smiles 
                               Patience swaying

Late Night Groceries

You've been on my mind through all the years haven’t seen you
And when I miss you I don't forget that it’s my fault

But when the bitter chill wakes me and I look up through the rain 
And finally it really is you 
I stop.

I won’t ask you how you are.
I can tell by your face that time has started to undo you

I won’t ask you where you’ve been.
I don’t think I want to know

I almost can’t bear to look at you.
The face I remember burns my eyes
Years of snapshot memories are crashing down on me


You haven’t seen me.
And I don’t call out

The Last Time

On this sunny day

Strangers stare at me
Stealing all my secrecy
I can’t bare to watch

Down the busy street
I walk fast avoiding eyes
And watch the buildings

Each one broken up
By rich to poor apartments
And whimsical shops

Optimal leasing
Of hundred year old history
Tacky paint jobs peal

Some stand side by side
Some are split by alley ways
To secret car parks

Others big enough
Only for empty beer cans
And cats in hiding

Spilt ink and Burn marks

One of my favourite ways to pass the time
    Is to sit at the open window
        In lace underwear and my best dress shirts
            Smoking crumbs of tobacco
                And drinking drops of red wine 
            From near empty bottles
        Hoping that no one catches me
    Revealing in being alone.
While I watch the birds fly back and forth
    From trees to the nests in the gutter on the roof
        The clouds drift
            The sun sets
                The wind leaves goose bumps on my bare skin.
            Once the wine is gone
        And the tingle of satisfaction
    Becomes the thick taste of cigarettes
You come home.
    I watch the butt drop three stories and stand up
        You say ‘Hey Babe. What have you been up to?’
            ‘Oh, just pottering around’ I say
                ‘Sorting out the spare room’
             Something I'm always doing
        Because my art can be such a mess.
    But every time
I get caught up in the memorabilia of my life
    Flicking through un-finish paintings
        And bus tickets
            Until I find a piece of something I missed
                A feather from the pillow you burst
            A thread from my shirt you tore
        A shard from the glass you smashed
    When you grabbed me by my shoulders
Bruised me with your fingers
    Punched me with your fists
        Laughed at my tears
            Until you finally left me 
            To find the pieces
        Wrap them up
    Sew them together
Hide them in boxes
    Bury them in rubbish bags.
        And when you finally fall asleep
                          WindowApril 10-14 086