Come February,
lanterns hang
in bursts of neon red and orange,
when smiles smear surreptitiously
and faces gawk in contempt.

The room stretches longer,
and shadows blush a shade darker.
I gird myself in the sheets waiting,
for the cut that follows the fall.
The stench of tobacco and phlegm lingers droopy,
a pebble daggling on a thin thread by the uvula.
I imagine myself turning blue,
lungs wrung, like tablecloths over a parched sink,
knees wobbly, like drunkards disorientated.
But I know better.

Come February,
the sun still sets
fist-planting on our faces,
in shades of scarlet and gold,
the subtle hints of goodbyes.


I was never a good man.
But I am merely one,
of flesh and cheap wine.
I choke back a word,
because my mouth is full of splinters,
and the air is flammable,
and my veins are gasoline.
I need a light,
I need a light.

“If it’s important, don’t let go”, she said.
“I won’t”, I promised.
Not because love triumphs,
but because years do.




It’s hot in here. 

My soul, I mean. 

I’m suffocating.


I stand in a puddle

Of sweat, tears and excretion.

It smells of rain and overdue cigarettes.


My heart grimace. 

As fumes strangle, 

As he reappears.

I’m suffocating. 

I’m suffocating. 


To halt, or to start over
1,492 km away.
The question lingers
like an overdue cigarette.

Memories breed anguish
who greets like old friend.
A shake of hands, a pat on the back –
A dishevelled hair.

To move, or to stay
3 floors apart.
The pain clings
like stench on fabric.

Conversations beget affection
affection begets addiction.
Alcohol-induced palpitations
spur capricious midnight texts.

To chase, or to walk away
5 months down.
My brittle heart beats,
The infatuation remains.

carpe diem

we are struggling souls,
trying to salvage what we can and
cannot, meeting deadlines and
exceeding expectations.
and it is only in the silent of the night,
the wee hours of the morning,
can we, truly,
be alive.

days numbered 

​your days are numbered from
the day you were born,
and each breathe you take may
well be your last.
your only salvation,

is to cherish
those who existed and inked
their shadows onto
your pathetic, minuscule life

Santa needs a new body

this body i am wearing
is no body of mine
it is wrinkled and tearing
it is not quite fine.

this body i am wearing 
has veins clogged with mercury
a heart i’m sure is failing
and in need of surgery.

this body has holes
in places hidden from sight
holes that turned into woes
like a stalker in the night.

this body had its youth
from the bloke it once belonged
too bad he was a sleuth
snooping on my prized lawn.

this body was sturdy
and quite unrelenting
too bad i’m equally burly
and gave him quite the beating.

this body had served 
for centuries through the nights
across the clouds I swerved
to catch the city lights.

this body had dove
a million times down 
and emerged above
safe and sound.

this body is old
and in need of change
so the search for a new soul
has now begun.


the relationship between the two of us
summarises to dull dinners where
ordinary content equates to great conversations,
followed by champagne popping that
we toast to all the empty promises
we know we will make, and eventually
a refuge in each other’s body
where we let our souls dance to the city lights.