I miss my
satanic mills
and grey towers
twinkling the
light of a thousand

the feeling of
running and forgetting
where you’re going

and that being OK
cos running was all
you’ve ever wanted anyway

for Hong Kong



I wish I
could go back
to that forgotten

patch of forest
we remember so
well where we’d

sneak away at
night to spin
threads of naïve

lyrics over broken
guitar strings and
shit wine our

burning fireflies flittering
with the world

in them like
the cackling fire
made from stolen

grocery store cardboard
and still-wet twigs
small but so bright


just a memory of a very special place

it smells like its about to snow

its hard to write back

when it smells

like its about to snow


the scent of our could haves

and would haves heavy

like tea fumes in your room


masking post it notes

your memory mosaic

that we slept below


i’m afraid

to let the ink flow

beacuse tears would follow


i guess


i just want you to smell

the snow

beautiful and cold


The Blobbing Fish.