love terrorists


the dried
thistle in
my room

shudders brittle
beautiful like the
winter’s night

on that bridge—
our bridge a moment

where we made
ticking time bombs
of memories

I feared the
countdown like a
shit terrorist

but it imploded into
a core of
frozen breaths and

midnight kisses
and made me feel

between the
real and the



so here we are again
staring at the

blowing misty dragons
through our flaring

frolicking in the air
clumsy and passionate
like two virgins

fumbling steam
and our fingers

remain apart
The Blobbing Fish.

a ghost came to visit II

a ghost came again–
bolder this time
like it knows it can

pop in
in a manganese
breeze without being

seen this time
i was nice and
didn’t fool around

with chocolates and
omelettes, asked
‘why are you here’

i saw a diamond like
floating in the air

‘sorry but
you’d want to be here’
it cried no more
the only complain

i could make
is my ice cold

then it started
to talk using
my voice in

my head it didn’t stop for
and we talked

about one lost
glove two
too-soon grown

teens waltzing
alone in the
bomb-ruins of their

home three freshly
freed prisoners

they’re free
cault must be laughing)

and i realized
tears tearing
through time

my cold silence in
everywhere where
change was frozen

and time didn’t
know how to

the ghost left
and i just wanted someone there
to warm my fucking bed

The Blobbing Fish.
Scroll down to see the previous part of the poem! 🙂 

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.

falling (for)

falling (for)

falling is like

do it once and
it’s a reason to cry
do it a thousand times and its Fine

have fallen
like the shower of autumn leaves
singing as they
paint their mosaic
of scattered shadows

The Blobbing Fish.

Midnight Prayer

when I close my eyes
to pretend to sleep I see

(I think)

my teak wood table
scuttle and weep
‘free, free, to the forest!’
and it would amble
(with a bit of rust)
amongst the trees and
whisper with the rustling leaves

my books would join in on the fun
covers flapping—a flock of swallows

the moonlight, bored of being pale
(or s’ennuyer, as it would say)
flooded back into the sun
and was welcomed as a son

the coffee complained that it was stale
and amoebaed its way out of the mug
leaving a brown and sluggish trail
on the poor old woolen rug
who, tendrils quivering, curled itself up
muttering things that didn’t matter much
and my soul;

to praying priests
(‘they might be pretending’)

(‘the players are faking’)

(‘their divorce you regret


back to the room


grinding the parched sound
my throat;

and I wake up
run to the fridge
and drink old blood-
red wine
sour cold smooth
and oh so fucking good.

Elegy for a Lamy (fountain pen)

People will chide and whisper
‘it’s just a pen, he can do better’


just a pen that
wrote and unwrote
two love stories breathing
life into its letters
histories and
bad poetry

freezed with me in a
foreign park your dark blood
weaving warm words

your magic fountain traced
truths (I hope) and
lies (sometimes)

and now I hold
your broken frame your
blood black like lack of all

and I guess this is the end
of our stories and the one’s
you’ve written; writing

with the next pen feels like
rebound sex but I guess
sooner or later I’ll learn to love
this goddamn Parker

The Blobbing Fish.
A Lamy fountain pen that I had for quite some time died today and I wrote this straight afterwards with a replacement Parker. Weird, but hopefully interesting. 





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 🙂 

I hope this is truth



I hope this is truth

Today very good day. Today I finish map.

Map hang on my wall in my bedroom. Above bed I sleep. Dei to make me look sophisticated. Sophisticated is word that is sophisticated. I found sophisticated in book about vocabulary. Dei to also remind me of past.

I am dik si driver. Read dik si. It is how we name taxi.

I like dei to. Dei to how we name map, I have mine for 10 years. I am dik si driver for 16, from 1997.

Today I take 3 people in my dik si, they help me finish map.

I wait at Admiralty for people every day, usually lot of people at Admiralty. In afternoon 3 people come into my dik si.

Out of 3 people 2 have golden hair. We call golden hair people gwai lo. The third person look local.

I ask them “where do you want to go?” I always ask passenger before they tell me where they want to go. People think I polite, but I do it because if I ask them first, taking them to destination is me do them favour, but if they tell me with me no ask then they order me, which I don’t like.

In past I no take order from anyone. In past I am stock trader have lots of money but eat hang seng zi so, DOW and other stock for breakfast. But everything lost in 1997. Wife, building, money, go away. My parents found me new wife, but I don’t think my lo po really like me. Everything else never come back. Aiya suen la no talk about it. Talk about it make me sad.

In past I travel everywhere. New York, London, Milan, Cape Town, Berlin, Paris, Morocco. But no proof. Never buy anything because working when travel.

This is why I drive dik si, and why I have dei to above bed. I meet many gwai lo when driving dik si and they help me finish map.

Today the local tell me they go to Ocean Park. Maybe he help take gwai lo around.

I ask them “where you two leng nui from?” leng nui mean ‘beautiful girl’, but we use it for stranger too.


“Montana, USA!”

I was so happy I nearly jump.

“I been to Italy! Florence, Rome, Venezia, Bella bella! Food so good! Pisa tower! O SOLE MIO! Long time ago!”

The gwai lo smiled. They believe easily. But I think what I said is truth.

The local smile as well but in different way. “Hai geh, hai geh”. It mean ‘ok, ok’ but in way that make me think he don’t believe.

But I think what I said is truth. I want them to believe, so I say “I been to Montana too! Many mountains! But no sea like Hong Kong!”

The gwai lo smile again. The meter beep and I sad. It remind me of what this is really about.

“Here is some Post-it note and a pen! Please write something and sign where you are from!”

I hand them Post-it note and pen, and they look surprised, but they write on it. The local looks out of window.

We nearly arrive at Ocean Park. I ask them “Do you like Hong Kong? Like travel?”

“Yes! I really like travelling! I think Hong Kong is a beautiful place!” The gwai lo nod too much. I drive faster.

The meter beep again. We are there. I tell them “Have a nice day” and they smile. I think I said truth.

They leave, they smile too much. I want to tell them I think I said truth, I want to thank them, but they leave and leave me with silent meter.

I drive back home. I could find more passenger and make money but dei to more important.

I come back to my small flat. No need for big flat because only me and my lo po live here. My lo po ask me “Why so early ah lo gong?” I tell her “Today great day I finish map!” She look at me like I am too happy. She follow me to my room as I put Post-its onto dei to. There is already Post-it on Italy but no Post-it on Montana.

Now there is Post-it on everywhere I was in before. Now I have proof and I can believe myself.

My lo po look and say “Aiya sor lo it no matter lah” and hug me. I hope hug is as true as Post-its on dei to.

This is the first time I’ve tried writing like this– hope you like it. Hopefully the chinglish doesn’t get in the way. 

komfortkabine stopover

I always say I’ve technically been to a country if I’ve transferred there before. I do this because most people think transferring at an airport doesn’t count as visiting a country. “Yes I’ve transferred at Tokyo” “But you didn’t leave the airport!” “Well I’ve been to the US… I transferred at Detroit” “That doesn’t even count as the US!”


Sure, airports might not give you the authentic experience that passing out in a shisha bar in Budapest would (that’s another story). But in a way they’re the essence of how a city or a country wants to be seen by the average traveller.


Apart from that, the airport terminal is a heaven for people watching— put a large number of tired and bored strangers together in a claustrophobic box where you can get charged for your mere existence, someone’s going to crack. Which is why yours truly doesn’t mind the 8 hour stopover, as long as it’s in a major airport with a healthy flow of fidgety people; I’ll be content to perch in a secluded corner and judge every one of them while I’m pretending to be asleep, which, incidentally, is really easy if you have Asian eyes.


You can always count on a certain type of people to be at the airport— the kind that would not only complain, but actually do something about their complaint. I’m not that kind of person. Shoot at me and I’ll probably complain about the caliber of the bullet and remain standing. Tackling you to the ground won’t even come up on my mental to-do list.


These people would write a strongly worded email to a cooking show if they thought the host got the idea of al dente wrong. These people, unlike me, aren’t scared shitless about publicizing their opinions. And that makes me jealous, which is enough reason for me to hate them.  


Case in point, when I was going through luggage control in Frankfurt, I noticed a commotion at the other end of the room. I couldn’t resist the urge to eavesdrop, so I shuffled towards the surface counter, pretending that I had problems with putting on my belt.


I could tell at first glance that the man was one of those people. Clean shaven, slightly pudgy, middle aged, with slick tufts of greying hair sprouting from his head as if someone decided to use weeds in an avant garde flower arrangement and— the most telling feature— trousers that didn’t really reach his shoes, exposing his checkered socks.

Judging from the expressions of people working at the service counter, they hadn’t marked him out as one of those people yet. Inexperience killed many a career. They were deceived by his ostensibly harmless look, the triviality of his complaint, the calm tone of his voice and his soft English accent.


“I specifically told the luggage handler not the open this bag, but he ignored me!” He gestured at a slim, black Agnes B. travel bag. Some would call it ‘man bag’. An imaginary gavel sounded in my head.

“I’m sorry sir, but what can we do for you now?” Funny how German sounds harsh, but English spoken in a German accent sounds like finely strained milk tea and almost has a placating effect. Unfortunately, this doesn’t seem to work on the man.

“I don’t think you understand, I specifically told him not to open this bag! I demand he be made responsible!”


That’s how they complain. They insist that no, you can never understand their plight, and in virtue of that, you should just shut up and do as they say.


The woman at the service counter did not do this. Worse, she looked slightly bemused, which was all the man needed.


“Do you think this is amusing? I want to speak to the manager! This won’t go unnoticed…”


I moved away, not wanting to attract too much attention by lingering around for too long. In my mind I was already fantasizing about what could possibly be in this mysterious bag of his. Since I already made up my mind to hate him, I let my imagination roam free as to what kind of incriminating demon he could have stored up inside that slim, Agnes B. travel bag.


Maybe it was the ashes of his late mistress; maybe it was an embarrassing latex costume; maybe it was the severed hand of a Starbucks barista who put too much chocolate powder in his morning latte. The possibilities were endless.


It was at this point that I knew I had to find out what was in that bag, or else I wouldn’t be able to put my mind to rest on the 11 hour flight back to Hong Kong.


So I started to search for him. I tried to look as innocuous as possible, stopping at a bookstore and pretending to flip through that week’s Foreign Affairs— if I had to be a farce, I might as well be a sophisticated one.


I couldn’t find him anywhere, and since he couldn’t possibly have gone to another terminal in the last 5 minutes, I concluded that he must be in one of the four toilets in that part of the terminal.


And so I went into every one of them. Toilets say a lot about a country— at the very least, it shows how they want to be perceived. The average tourist might not bat an eyelid at the plethora of souvenir shops packed in the terminal like a cheap bazar, but there’s a good chance that they’ll use one of the toilets.


The toilets in Frankfurt felt clinical. Everything from the urinals to the walls had a dull matte steel finish; the mirror was the only reflective surface there and it made me feel extraordinarily self-conscious. I was about to leave the second toilet when I noticed a small sign that read Komfortkabine. The English translation was etched right beneath it— Comfort Cabin.


Since I’ve seen vending machines selling condoms and sex toys in other German toilets (see Munich airport), I wondered if the Komfortkabine was a tongue-in-cheek euphemism. I didn’t want to be seen going into it just in case it was for that kind of purpose, which was why I checked to see if the toilet was empty before going into said ‘cabin’.

It was no different from any other toilet, except that it had about twice the amount of free space. Maybe ‘comfort’ just meant a bit of breathing space in a cramped terminal.


When I left the toilet I saw a crouched figure on the ground outside— it was the man squatted over the Agnes b. bag, scribbling furiously on something. As I came closer I saw that he was writing on a complaint form, his thin, cursive doctor-esque handwriting snaking over the small piece of paper like his silent temper. The words flowed out of the allocated box, and onto the other side of the paper. I edged closer, craning my neck to see what was inside the bag.


I guess I could have asked him bluntly about the contents of his bag, but how do you start such a conversation? “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help noticing that you don’t want people to know what’s inside that bag of yours. Would you mind telling me what’s inside?” He might be the kind of person to do that, but I wasn’t— so there I was, circling him like a hyena stalking a larger prey for the first time.

He shifted his stance, and for a brief moment, I caught a glimpse of the contents of the bag— stacks of paper. Just stacks of paper.


He must have smelt my disappointment. His pen stopped scratching and he looked up, noticing me for the first time.


“What do you want?” It sounded more like a bark than a question.


“Nothing” I said it almost like an accusation. He looked slightly taken aback. I turned and left in a huff.


He had failed my expectations. Nothing, no matter how dishonourable or disgusting it was, that is written on paper could be incriminating enough, could justify my hatred towards the man, because both the written word and pictures are reflections, mere echoes of what had happened. Neither can provide the immediacy to justify my increasing hatred towards this man. And without that, I can only turn my hate towards myself; according to my watch, I had four more hours to do just that.


I stormed back into one of the toilets, and gratefully entered the Komfortkabin, relishing the extra empty space, gladly filling it with the scent of my spite.