Name: Chris Marriner
country : New Zealand

This is the sound,

This is the sound of a companion in an otherwise empty house. Familiar noises, familiar words that group together to form sentences to make the mind run. I know this feeling well, and I feel it tonight. Look not upon the sea the broken ocean, lined and ruled and made to fit. From the spray and the split of the waves upon the ruined docks, this body breaks others. The constant worry that you reach out a hand to grasp a trail of good intentions, and watch someone walk across the cleancut perfect grass, trailing sunsets and warmth that turn the green summer gold. Nothing to grab, nothing to hold. The intangible which might one day reach a level of tactility, but for now cannot even be thought of as having a surface, a texture, a size. No. This is internal reflected in the eyes, the man steps into the traffic, deep in the pages of a deep novel, missing buses and trucks by the skin of his teeth. The narrow margins of self doubt, self sacrifice and self belief. Converted into speech, this is a lack of apologies, run on sentences possession without apostrophes. Rules ignored. Return to the feeling at heart, at gut, at dinner, over breakfast. taste her lips. debasement. fuckit raise the roof. bust out of the ceiling, i'm having nightmares (BUT AT LEAST I'M DREAMING)

Three Objects, Three Verses

The Lighter:

The exquisite containment of an eddying force, 
quik flik and then dispose.

Pop the childproof and sit entranced
by the dance
of watching bricks and bones corrode.

And see me ageless,
springing from the gap at the most simple of commands.
We be hot young things!

Creative ?
How can you feel romance from the glow of a woman
dying from 100% burns?

“My Mum says if I don’t get a job and a girlfriend,
I’ll end up a bitter old man”

          sparking off every surface………

A Piece of Mayor Island Obsidian:

A stone stuck in the shoe.

A diamond at the back of the throat, cut.

A sliver of fireborne black, the knife.

A memory, stolen.

Worn Collection of Chinese Poetry:

The wisdom of the east.
Desperate to dive into meditation
on the black and gaps.

Meeting drinking companions under clumps of words so delicately poised…………….
Waiting for that distant lover to return through silk screens.

In believing the past there is an element of trust.
Chinese poetry,
half cut,
on the bus.


A cooling memory
that stains permanent shadow.
A quickening breath
that forces thoughts of a deep peace.
I stand on the leeward side.

The storm exists inside
the eye in most brutal form.
An illusion of calm
As my last chances dance a waltz
screaming through the sky in time.

I stumble heart drunk
my body was born incorrectly
so I trip on my words
waiting for a fatal step.
For my condition to emerge.

I remember this
known by the lost child always
the sharp intake of breath
readjustment of the body
move to meet the world halfway

Unable to be dry
and happy instead I walked
a hundred storms true
to their movements until I
found this and also found an end.

The rain has blessed the
moment of my death with her
own ritual and rhyme.
Ignored by most with a time
running out to sea with storms.


This is supposed to be the
absence of words.

They creep in
the door,
through the
in the window.

In a perfect world,
this sentence

it takes
a   deep  breath,
and runs screaming through my house SLAMMING DOORS!!

Circuits with every
burning to the point
of burnout.

Pages tattooed
with sick ink
until a diseased masterpiece

Words selected
but essentially outside
my control.

Language burns
the hands of
its users.

Empty handed.
The careful considered absence of words.