I scratch the scabs

crack them open

once twice thrice

to remind myself

how great it hurts


there’s no drought—

beneath the dull cracked earth

a red river runs


I learnt to like

the lavish rouge so alike

your crimson lips

on a Friday night


I learnt to love

the budding rose that grows

slowly from the deathly white


I smell it at full bloom

like a wine taster

sniffing swirling

the crude ironic stench of my



but the glass will never be half full

for the bastard sitting alone at a table for two


The Blobbing Fish.

Currently trying to put together a short story collection, which is why the blog’s been so inactive recently. hopefully this will make up for it 🙂