Rµbþð¬

dear Margaret, a screaming smoking bronze statuesque figure, one part Giacometti, one part Wicked Witch of the West, patinated green, greets tourists with gotta ciggy? parts with fuck you! scares children, weaves into fabric of city, better expresses city-ness of Auckland & its fabric than its absent civic spaces, lack of civic personality, let alone personalities, hangs on to its pirate past… She told me, sitting at the bar of Brazil, about that fucking bastard, her husband, who, she said, ran away… there were the years of fox-furs, of bigger hair, of somebody must be looking after her, she’s not looking so shabby, of sherry bottles, of seeing her as constant as the weather and reading her for the state of the city… K’Rd. business association could do worse – usually does – than commemorating her on the street on which she spent so much life, spit so much invective, kept so much life, without spilling a drop, and sucked the badness of like it was ever any good.