POETRY & PROSE

Georgia Wearing  Content Warning: Sexual Language, Sexual Themes, Drug Use The Guitarist He looked like Alex Turner. The headlining Guitarist jerked his head at me, pointedly, towards the backstage door. I followed him, giddy, giggling into the lip of my glass. I hadn’t seen a man up this close before. His eyes were dark, almost black, and the pencil liner in his waterline had dried and flecked, small shards now on his cheekbone. He looked worn in, scruffy, an alley dog. The

Elio Mikoi  the woman in black begged me to take her husband / she was a gentle figure of horror / and so i did. / i exist as her husband’s darkest secret / i’m not even back in black yet. / rough bites and cuts / swollen lips and bruised wrists / bodies swelling with pride. / his body is unforgiving, / and i am no priest to forgive such vindication.  inhabit me, instill jealousy and love within me / his skin leaves me delirious / his hands leave me hungry, breathless. / and

For Ali It was something about it,  Just sitting there — cat curled into a comma against my thighs,  fridge humming softly in the background.  You said you’re sorry for upsetting me.  And I replied,  I’m only upset because I— care.  Really care.  Too much, maybe.  And if you told me to run,  to throw myself from the overpass on State Highway 1,   because you needed me at the bottom— I would go. No hesitation.  I would do anything you wanted.

A dove wisp daydream –  in the reflective space   of sweat and tears.   A strand of hair tied   around your pinkie toe   murmurs "hello it’s me".     The humidity of daylight   grasped in his palm.  Entangled in our conversations,    there is something worth saying.     You are radiation captured   in my dreamcatcher.  Entrapped in my fine vase   stolen, meshed in    memory fibres ––  too personal to recount.       You are the mystery   under my bra-strap,  the gaps in a tatt

I adorn your face from multiple lifetimes.   Do you recognise me as yours?   My voice resembles yours in one sentence,   Did I sound...

The moon takes up our sky; it's the first time in weeks I have no open wounds. I can smell my sister’s gash. The split near her eye is...

By Tamanna Amin  The wind rustles the leaves. The sun slips  behind a passing cloud. Thomas sighs. A dog barks from behind a fence. The...

Words by Jasmine Boreham Wright (she/her) They took the scenic route as they left the hospital. The car hummed underneath them as it...

By anonymous  For Renée It was late—too late for both of us to have work the next day. (How will the government keep running when you’re...

Ryan Cleland (he/him) You painted me the other day.  A flurry of reds and oranges wove through my hair.  Greens and blues filled the...

Words by: Chloe Hope (she/her) Drag of silk over skin —  My fingers in your mouth, the rasp and scrape of your molars  against the pad of...

By Anonymous   It’s a black coffee morning. Not just the drink—though that too, tar-thick in a chipped Coat of Arms mug—but the mood of...

By Quinn Cassidy (they/he/she), Te Arawa The sun sees her as I do.   Adorning her with freckles,   Gifted upon her knees.          Her...

By Vin Mahadevan If there’s one thing my father and I have in common,  it’s that we’re both addicted to putting fags in our mouths. Every...

By B. I. Godson In those days Brother Jean-Baptiste had no doubts about God. There on the top bunk, the balls of his feet pressed through...

Kermit Winona  Chat GPT — take my seed.  Spread your legs.png and  painlessly bear the  generated slop messiah.  Praise be, praise be to...

Joshua Toumu’a (he/him)  Once again, I have looked upon Desire like the sun and they left a lavender bag of themself in my pillowcase. I...

Kermit Winona  Scientists gave octopuses MDMA, just to see. You see,  they hate each other.  The octopuses, I mean.  They just really,...

Ahinata Kaitai-Mullane (she/her; Kāi Tahu, Kāti Māmoe, Waitaha)  I am  tī kōuka.  We are.  I can’t decide which.  Perhaps it’s both  at...

Izzy Christie  I don’t want to be happy. At least that’s what I tell myself. My heart beats behind the cotton wool of my jumper at the...

Pluto Rennie (he/they/she)  Last night I realised I can see the moon through the gap in my curtains.  She was bright,  almost complete, ...

Elliot Melville  Every song has become yours. Every melody, every lyric, every brushstroke of every painting, every street sign; the...

Te Urukeiha Tuhua (he/him; Tūhoe)  Maurice rummaged through the boxes that had been discarded and forgotten in the back of his closet,...

Lucy McCorkindale (she/her)  His unbending hands aren’t good with buttons, so I undress the both of us. He lifts his heavy arms to the...

Bram Casey (he/him)  under skylight in black underwear  nobody knows me like i do  in my head plays  a shaky digi-cam video of the full...

Jackson McCarthy (he/him)  Make me of the body spell  And even if the night were bad,  how could I want the wanting day,  everything in...

Bob van Beek Self-hygiene had never been one of Friedrich’s strengths. This fact is most readily apparent in his oral region, which,...

Cadence Chung (she/they) I’ve got one of those colds that sneaks in like a text to an ex-lover, and my lungs are full of salt. On Marion...

I have always known I had a voice / The vibrations shaking my throat 

Low-hanging branches brush into Ata’s face as he crawls up through the forest that covers the hills.

In the heart of the city, where the lights glow bright, / Lies a place of delight, beneath the moonlight.

Streets lined with coded colours / A subliminal call to replant yourself at the source / Hibiscus hues are covert beacons 

Trying to write about grief is like Trying to count the number of times I’ll sit down at a table that  Should have one more set

The story of Leveimatagi and Leveifualolo is all about good vibes, honor, and creating a cultural legacy.

I am a descendant of Tagaloa and this is the riddle of my being— / a tale of identity, heritage, and resilience.

In the tapestry of time, 20 Father’s Days adorned Each a treasure, each a cherished morn  For 20 years, we laughed and we embraced 

Our tupuna gather around us, Our kōpu tangata embracing us, Coming together to coat us.

At the seabed of midnight ink, I roam, A Pasifika daughter, far from home.

Sitting by the water reminds me of you.

I do not choose the finest grapes only what is found in my garden

By Danielle Kionasina Dilys Thomson In your malaga, I feel seen Afakasi speaks So I am heard I said I would stop calling myself that But...

Words by Sarah Caroline Bell It took us a long time to make a campfire that night. Gotta get driftwood, you said. Pick it up carefully,...

By Chris Girven Dad is picking up shells for the garden Mum is sitting and watching Ben is washing his hands in the water So particularly...

Izzy Christie under the shallow / the tempered porcelain below the wave / waits the rubber duck emulsified into congealed butter / i am...

Last summer when Matairangi burned, Ginny and Tom stood at the window of their lounge, watching kākā shoot skyward from the burning trees.

sixteen minutes into saturday and my arm is unbroken.

By Larry McMyler I hold my hands skin-searingly close to a fire of my father’s making. I am ten, not yet old enough to drink my warmth...

At first, I just wanted to feel something. Just wanted escape, if only for a moment. 

Words by Mauatua Fa’ara-Reynolds The fabric of our skin was paperbark. Unravelled my tapa to unravel your tapu. Phrygian shepherd...

I see him at the checkout, adorned in a khaki apron. Under the harsh fluorescent lights he waits for me, like Heathcliff on the moors.