“Nothing was ever created or emerged to live in isolation”
-Tukaki Waititi



The collective consciousness is singing. 

The monarchy is crumbling. 

The coloniser is quivering. 

Something is coming. 

We were forced here

Made to forget the magic of our bloodline

But lies passed down are slowly being buried by shifting sands. 

The house they built around us might have stayed standing if only they had paid heed to how the land below pushed and pulled at all foundations. 

Colonised hearts and capitalised minds

We’re hollowing 

Shuffling in queue towards your stinking promise of gold and fulfilment 

Call us something else

We ain’t here for the pity and we certainly ain’t here for your terrible performance

Hands on your shirt like I got 5 on it

Rip your shit up

Look at the whites of my eyes

let me show you

Darting between whites and their wives

Elected officials and tough pills

The temple of your false prophets and promises is crumbling. 

Look at the whites of your lies

Let them show you

The windows of this house are already shattered and glass litters your “sacred” ground. 

Altar of subliminal hatred

The one you erected for all things “other” had escaped judgement day until now. 

Visions of unison and violence 

Like venison still blue

Like visions of hurting you

Mountains of spies 

The whites with their knives 

And the burning cross 

of Oranga Tamariki 

of DHBs and Harcourts

of School Journals and only learning 1-10 with colours 

of debt collectors and Stuff commenters


Spare me the anthem, Lizzie, 

it sounds better faux peace lily anyway

Your system is shaking 

Institutional shackles rattling 

false gods make way for Old Gods

And the ill laid foundations of your house are cracking under our enlightenment. 

Broken windows have always foretold

The felling of empires. 

Why are you shaking? 

White teeth are rattling

You fear our seeing, our knowing 

We take the power back one bricked window at a time

While you claw to every rent payment and orderly voting line

It’s failing

Like an elderly heart, your empathy is waning

Screwed up and spat out by the gods you worship and it’s our fault

Our fault you’re loosing footing on the ladders of 

Multiple Property

Probable Prosperity

Governmental Supremacy

Fiscal sensibility

The bell tolls for the rung you’re on intermittently 

You put price tags on indigenous mauri

“White Spirituality” at its finest

Yoga as a fitness trope

“Maybe you should meditate bro” 

“Are your chakras even lined up?” 

You stole a crystal from third eye

To open your third eye

But self awareness skipped you 

You stole a rock because 

“Fuck capitalism man.” 

A thief, thieving from thieves. 

Listening to stolen songs

With stolen rocks on wrists and fingers,

Who had to dig through the dirt for the wealth around your neck? 

Do we sound angry?

Step down with your bruised ego. 

This rage is my birthright. 

It’s the rage of Papatūānuku, who’s body you’ve raped without thought, who’s children you’ve stolen, who’s tears you’ve poisoned. 

It’s the grief of my Tūpuna, calling out from Te Pō, who watched their people become vilified, who saw the “civilisation” you brought, who fought to keep you at bay, but still you came. 

It’s the pain of my kuia, who was beaten as a child for singing in the language her bones were built from. 

This is the rage we were sung from. Fuelled by the whenua you are standing on. We haven’t always been angry. We have always been here.

And if you did not see, or did not know, 

You will know now. 

The collective consciousness is singing. 

Heralded by the death of your queen. 

The age of the Taniwha is here.

By Marshall Rankin & Lyss Ander