Saturday, January 6, 2018

Wellington On A Plate / 30 upstairs Gallery Event

In 2016 I was invited down to cook for 'Wellington On A Plate.'
 Wellingtons yearly food festival. Short works
of my fiction added to the event. I created banquets for the
 second week of the festival in 30 Upstairs Art Gallery
 Courtney Place Wellington,
Lamb smoker hanging out the window,
hotplate on a shelf,
all without a kitchen. 

 A Cook A Gallery A Painting A Feast

The Event ran over a week with diners enjoying banquet meals
 each night presented as 'Art Cuisine' in their own right.
 I was asked to base it all on Abby Meakin's still life painting
 which hung in the Gallery behind the Diners.

The Middle Course was served on long banquet boards,
 each person received a scroll of my short fiction and poetry
 to indulge in and converse over.

This Dessert the finale of the night was Audible.
Wasabi and Coconut Panne Cotta 
Ginger Soil / Lemongrass Jelly
Yuzu flakes / Lychee popping Candy.

Hanna and Manu added another level of drama
 to the event with their sensuous demented
 and unexpected antics throughout the night. 

This was the first time I have presented my written works in public. 
20 pieces of poetry and short fiction were
scrolled up and served with the main course,
 enzymes for conversation starting, 
over the diner table. 

 Abby Meakin, The parade ( 1 panel)

A special thanks to , Jhana Millers and Lisa Martin for creating the event
 and bringing us all together , Hanna Tasker-Polland & Manu Reynaud ,
 for just being themselves.
Abby Meakin For Painting the parade.
Thanks Jeff McEwan from Capture photography for his awesome photos.
For Laura and Tina coming down to Wellington and supporting me .

We dined , We wined 
We celebrated existence.

Proposed Book Cover

This is one of the cover ideas I am looking at using for 
my current book of short stories set in
New Zealand and Mexico. 

Thursday, December 7, 2017

The Customer – internal monologue of a deranged mind. : excerpt

            The news came on, a jumble of facts so sad that they all started to lose their meaning, a disaster here, a war there, a famine on the way, rapes, murders and political corruption, I had to turn it off. It took meaning away from my life.
If I thought about the world I became infinitesimal in having any effect on it, so I stopped listening, I stopped watching, I stopped waiting for something to happen where I might be involved in the calamity that went on around me. That's when I realised I am but an ant. But it didn't matter that that was all I was, as to me I was the biggest ant in my little world. To everything else around me, I became quite deaf. That's when I put the Iron through the Television set. 
It's still there. 
Afterwards, I just sat and looked at it, realising the error in my action.

How was I going to iron my clothes?

Wednesday, November 29, 2017


All memories of Christmas entertained will be gone when the parents of presents given no longer sit by night under pine needles scent.
Children will not half-awake dream of what’s to come.
No bicycle bells will ring down ‘Boxing day’ streets. Christmas tarts, fruit mince sweet, with enough booze to baffle the dog that stole them from Christmas table and guiltily eats them on the floor, will not be remembered.
Who will rise to the occasion to save us, 
remind us of overfed tummies, 
family feuds on yearly retreat and proclaim:
 This has been so much fun,
  how great it is to see you all.’
Just the one uncle, who, after embalming himself in brandy stumbled between the trees outside in stupor and shouted,
‘I can see the curvature of the Earth.’
Only then can we say Christmas remembered didn’t fall flat,
finally proof also, the Earth is not.

Monday, October 30, 2017

The last word on existence

I am just the voice
My body left earlier
Over time I discarded the parts
They were starting to malfunction anyway

My mind was overloading
So I shut that down too
Sometimes I would try to find the pathways to use it again
But it evaded all attempts to be found

Then I was
As I am now
Just the voice
Sound waves in the ethos

With the lack of the mind
What cannot be processed
Can never be wrong

I am spoken but not remembered
Living only ever in the moment
Shouted  at times
Caught silent in the wind
in those moments between

I do get noticed
Then people turn my way
And look right through me
Noticed no more

I am the words
They thought they heard
But when they look
Even of that
they are no longer sure

It makes them wonder if there was anyone there in the first place
Putting down the voice to just a figment of their imagination
And that moment when everyone stops listening

I am the voice
No more.

Sunday, October 29, 2017

Western Park.

It’s a deafening roar the cicadas shuffle,
echoing out across Western Park.
Here in nature's morning,
I expected silence, away from the cities drone.
What I got was Gaia shouting louder than cars.
A ball of fluff rides the breeze across in front of me
unidentified in its origin,
maybe a dogs shedding coat,
possibly a duvet inner or violence ripped jacket.
Artificial or not it seems to belong,
while it still dances just for me.
But then it settles beside cigarette butts,
pie wrappers and empties.
The breeze drops letting the acrid smell of urine permeate upwards.
At this moment the cicadas are alone
in claiming back this patch of nature,
from drunks spoiling exercises the night before.
Raising the question, Whose park is it anyway?
Who is to say another's freedom through the dark hours
was not it's intended use 
Then the breeze returns,
and on it floats away my dancing fluffball.
Shards of light break through,
looking all biblical,
a church shop faded Jesus scene in broken frame,
The atheist in me laughs that it is him who notices.
I lay back now looking up at the trees,
Embracing green mottle jades replacing dancing distortions,
My glazed eyes little by little seeing clear.
Reborn I breathe in nature’s fresh desire swimming in each lungful,
and then I expel,
move on and off the seat,
back home and towards other worlds.
Perhaps by night, I may come back for a ciggy and a beer.

                                                                                Kirk Lafferty Feb 2017


Saturday, May 13, 2017

Child's Play

The word I won’t say lest it scare her off
That sits at the top of my tongue waiting to slide down and out
And when it does the playground will be open to me
Or not.

The word I won’t say because it scares me to say it
To let myself go and leave myself open
To what she says in return
What If the seesaw drops and she is not there on the other end

Other words come easy
I will climb up and over them
Roll with them on the grass
Shout them from the top of the castle
But they are not what I feel
I yearn to
not always play alone in the sandpit
I want to take walks to the point and further
To grow up just enough to
At some time stop acting like a child
Gain the courage to say

I love you

But only in some moments
The rest I just want to play on the swings.