giving up artists

bit of a touchy subject for me, in more ways than one.

“so, when you know someone is probably rapey as fuck,

do you continue to support them?”


well, i have misgivings about supporting the artistry of the following people:

  1. r kelly
  2. michael jackson
  3. bill cosby

i have huge angst over letting their shit go. why? because i grew up on their shit. they were black faces, black music, black expression … that i was sadly lacking in my life, and even though they are not my ethnicity, they were the closest colour to me and i loved that. yes, i followed the indigenous and black female artists too … still do.

and then the accusations against them came to light, and my heart sank.

do i wait for proof?

do i just roll with my own thing?

do i hold to the theory that their artistry is not their ‘alleged crimes’?


yah see, if i write these cunts off, no one but me is going to care. and it will cost me. it will cost me a large portion of my actual good memories growing up. it’ll cost me the music i love. it’ll cost me …

the illusion they portrayed to the world.

and there it is:

this is what its like to be ‘on the other side’.

this is what it’s like to be the person that says … “oh that was ages ago, get over it … are you sure that happened … do you have any proof? …”

and i tell you what, as much as it hurts me to give up the music and the artistry, it hurts me more to remember #AllThoseTimes when no-one believed me, or justified the pedo cunts actions, or told me to get over and move on, or told me leave the past in the past, or said ‘i’m sure they’ve changed’.

you see, no-one gets to give them a pass except that people they offended against. and even then those of us who are supporting the music and the art, still have a choice, whether the recounting of crimes is fact or not.

as the saying goes, ‘if it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck and walks like a duck … its probably a duck’ … and the same goes for a pedo.

how do all those people offended against, feel?

the whole world is still listening to these dudes music and watching and celebrating their visual artistry. what kind of fuckery is that?


the time has come where i have to put my money where my mouth is.

and i’m starting with the hardest for me to give up.

r kelly.

*bye bye rapey cunt*

and heres to all the people whose lives you didn’t give a fuck about.





the preference is…

‘they’ prefer my response be more


rather than literal.


rather than literal.

but literal

is what you are.

pathetic is what you


for you to die


would be



the preference

is for


to die,


the same

amount of


as you have


thats my technical and literal


#throwback  Jun 12, 2017 @ 08:01




“Too Much Truth” Exhibition: Finale and Shout Out

The Exhibition “Too Much Truth” Women’s Global Resistance to Sexploitation, in Wellington, is coming to a close.

I would like to Thank, the organiser and curator of this most righteous Exhibition – “Renee”of  “Writing By Renee”. What a brave and fierce woman, who I am truly honoured to have connected with.

I would also like to Thank “Thistle Hall Gallery” in Wellington, for supporting Renee’s venture and for supporting the contributors of this Exhibition.

From the bottom of my slightly blackened soul, I am humbled to have been part of such a beautiful and fiercely staunch conglomerate of feminists, activists and artists; all representing their Truths.

As promised, the following photos are the scoped out versions of the macros presented previously. The Descriptions below my “Response ~ Resistance” pieces, include the writing on each piece, and the context / explanation of each piece.

They are all painted from a Childs perspective and are a dual perspective / response of a Child / Adult Survivor of Infant / Child Sexual Assault.

“they said i should have got up and walked out ~ instead of holding him accountable”

I can not recount how many times throughout my lifetime, I have had ‘bad advice’ levelled at Me. When superimposed in this context, its ignorance becomes crystal clear.

“from her ~ he let me pick the colour felt pen he would use ~ to split my tiny cunt open”

Often times, therapists / counsellors / psychologists, have asked Me to ‘describe’ the ‘act’ or acts in the hopes that there will be something for Me to ‘reconcile’ or work through. What they seem to forget is the ‘devil’ is indeed, in the detail.

“he said i could put sugar on it so it would taste better ~ and to make me an accomplice to his sickness”

‘Professionals’ and family alike, forget that a child doesn’t have the vocabulary to recount the emotion of a crime enacted against them, but they can recount the ‘simple’ things. And it is in those very simple descriptions, that the filth of such a crime and sickness lies.

To find other contributors works, please follow this Link, as permission hasn’t been sought to display their works.

A Final Salute and Congratulations to the Organiser – Curator, Gallery, Contributors, Artists and Activists.

photography & art @kpm-artist 

From Sep 30, 2017 –  2017 Wellington Exhibition




what does

did yah know that

sexual assault

or sexual violation,

whatever your feng shui;

does a number of things

to ones gig.

theres the physical act.

the physical results.

those scars can be permanent.




a womb, that won’t bear children.

just to name a few.

then there’s the psychological





dreams: nightmares: night terrors,

potatoe – potato.

whatevs: bitches are bitches.

then there’s the sexual effects.

we are sexual beings.

sexual violation, is an offence of the sexual being.

the results:

flashbacks –






to get it fucking twisted

a pts(d) fuck:

that those past violations

are present violations.

that they are re-lived

right here

right now,

even though you know with your head

they’re not now:

you body says otherwise.

from pts(d) expression series #75 – Jan 2, 2017 @ 08:03


exhibition art [2017] resistance, response

art has a way of


what can’t be.

like a child’s.


art can describe

what may otherwise be;


to explain;


to understand;

too uncomfortable,

for the polite;

to raw for breakfast.



but art can capture

the emotion of a scene,

when nothing

else can.

*These are macro shots of a series of 3 paintings I created, that were part of the “TOO MUCH TRUTH – Women’s Global Resistance to Sexploitation” Exhibition.

The Exhibition finishes this Sunday. I’ll post full shots of these pieces, and their descriptions then.*

First Published: Sep 29, 2017 @ 00:08

photography & art @kpm-artist 






them and that stuff

Yes, yes, yes.

I know I talk about it


and at great length.

And I shall keep talking about it

until I’m good and ready to stop,


by the way,

won’t be any time soon.


because that is who i am

Although I’m not a hoarder by nature, and tend to gangstah lean toward the minimalistic slant on life, there is one thing that I do, unintentionally, hoard.

Sexual assault memories.

Now I don’t hoard them on purpose; they’ve just made their way into my basement and that’s where they stay. However, they do make uninvited appearances whenever they feel like it.

While I’m asleep.

While I’m awake.

When something smells familiar.

When something sounds familiar.

Otherwise known as Flashbacks: Or ‘Fuck-off Flashbacks’ as I like to call them; until recently, I thought everyone had this phenomenon happen to them. I figured though, that if their lives had been full of beautiful, picturesque, cheesy moments, then the emergence of any said basement memories, must be a pleasant, rather than horrific,  occurrence. How sweet does that sound!.

Turns out, flashbacks come with pts(d) aka Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; they’re not an everyday thing for everyday peeps. Although an ever popular title at the moment, the first time I can remember this title being used to describe ‘Me’, was in the late 90s. But that was it. No further explanation, or plan, or treatment, or anything. Just a wave of the psychological hand as I was ushered out the door with the recommendation that I take anti-depression medication. I argued vehemently that I wasn’t ‘depressed’ per se, but having to figure this shit out was wearing Me the fuck out; is that the same thing as a ‘Depressive Episode’? I think Not.

I dodged the system there after. I threw myself into motherhood and studying and working. By 2006 I had nearly completed my studies and was moving into a new job.

By 2008 I was getting physically sick. I couldn’t hold food down; I was covered in an irritating rash; my hair was falling out; my head was always sore; my heart was always racing; my stomach was always turning. A raft of medical tests showed up nuddah. Instead the ‘professionals’ prescribed antidepressants; which I didn’t take. Again citing that I wasn’t ‘unhappy’, but I was losing weight faster than I could keep it on: and, oh by the way – “can y’all fuckers help Me or not?”

By 2010 I was medically discharged from my job and shit was declining rapidly. I couldn’t walk, couldn’t hold a conversation, couldn’t drive, couldn’t make sense of much. The ‘professionals’, once again, prescribed antidepressants; the kick ass, make yah dribble, kind. Along with a few other strains of pharmacology – just for good measure. This time, I didn’t argue. I took them.

By 2013 I couldn’t leave the house. I still couldn’t drive. I was fat. I was tired. I was drained. I was broke.

So we did what any normal human would do, and we moved to the beach.

From then till now I have had an ongoing battle with ACC, to get assistance. Any assistance. The last assessment was done in August of this year; 3 years after asking for the initial one; 8 years after the one I should have had in 2009; one year after making a long ass complaint with ACC and them apologising for ‘the delay’.

In May of this year, I knew the battle with them was wearing Me thin (not literally – I wish!). The infrequent interaction with them and the long delays in between were adding to the anxiety and making me feel ‘sicker’, which was actually impeding any progress I had made from 2013 to the present.

But: Theres always a But –

I persisted with them. Believing they were my only resource or course of action. I thought I needed more money; more counselling; more help – of which I was actually entitled too, but felt like I was begging for. I really just wanted my life back and I wanted them to assist;  just a tinsy winsy little bit!

But gnawing away in my gutt, was a very clear voice:

“Girlfriend … They can’t give You what You need”.

I could feel the unbalance settling in as the father issue got thrown in there. But I persisted. With the father and with ACC. Because that’s what I do.

So on a particularly bleak ‘soldier on, even though I am nearly worn the fuck out’ day, I was trolling through my Twitter feed, and stumbled upon the Podcast of one very righteous drag queen who goes by the name of LaQuisha. Her Podcast was aptly named for my very situation: “Breaking Up With The NZ Mental Health System”.

Within the first 5 minutes, I had big girl tears in my eyes.

Sometimes … just sometimes … there is huge relief in knowing your not alone in something … that you’re not the first person to experience whats going on around you.

I felt relieved. She described her struggle; similar to what I was currently having with ‘the system’. She likened their neglect as similar to what she had experienced as a young person and within her family of origin. And I had a lightbulb moment.

I could see it falling into place. The father issues … the resounding silence … the blaming … the abuse.

I got it. Hallelu-Jah, I finally got it.

Or so I thought.

So Me and my newly enlightened self, wrote a quick post about it, so I wouldn’t forget and because that’s what I do. I saved the podcast for later perusal and thusly celebrated my Aha Moment.

The End.

That was 5 months ago.

And that’s right. I forgot everything I had just learned and I got further weighted down. Actually, I continued to let myself be weighted down. I analysed the fuck out of all sides of the issues, both ACC and father. I flipped it, responded to it, dropped the anti-anxiety meds, I talked it out, cried it out, blogged some more and then some more; I raged, I painted, I tried to remember the good things, I listened to soothing music, I tried more photography … oh, and I minimised and minimised the fuck out of everything. And yesterday, as I was on another rampant minimising mission, and was deleting shit off my computer, I came across – that’s right:

LaQuisha’s Saved Podcast.

A little surprised it was sitting there, just looking at Me, I decided to re-listen to it. And Yes, that’s right; 5 minutes in, and I was in big girl tears. A-Gain. So I paused LaQuisha – made Me a very delicious coffee – and came back to gaze at the screen for a just a little while longer, before un-pausing and re-listening.

Yes, that shit dawned on Me long and hard for quite an embarrassing length of time.

I had the answers to my conundrum 5 months ago, and for whatever fucked up, deep-seated psychologically mind numbing reason – I freudian-ly, chose to ignore it. I knew 5 months ago what I should do. What I already knew in my gutt, instinctually, 5 months before that. That there was No help in the system for Me and that my father and his bullshit, needed to Get Gone.

So I am now on a break up with ACC. I figure I need them like I need a hole in the head. I’ve done the assessment and gotten sweet fuck all from them. Will I get anything else out of them? Not without applying a shit tonne of pressure. And I do not have the energy for that, and actually, I don’t want to waste anymore of my time and precious resources on hitting my head against the proverbial brick wall. In the new year I may apply for more EMDR if I feel I need it; but that will be done on My terms.

Am I breaking up with my father? Definitely. I’ve deleted him completely from my life – Again. I don’t need his bullshit. And I never needed anything he had to offer; which was next to nothing anyway.

I’m now talking with my Mama about getting my name changed back to my maternal family name. We’re going to take a trip up the River, where our tipuna came from, to find the burial sites of my Great Grandmother and Great Great Grandmother.

The thought of that stirs my spirit.

This is about finding where I belong. Who I belong too. Who loved Me long before I was born. That is where My healing is at and that is where my strength lies.

It’s not in what I’ve lost, or what I haven’t got, or what I can’t get. It’s in what ‘else’ I am, what else I can be and what else is waiting for Me.