They had run out
of your favourite ice cream,

so I put my heart
in an empty tub
and handed you that instead.

I watch you attack
with a vicious spoon,
trying your best
to eat in even layers.

You said
that it tasted like strawberries,
but could use some sugar –
“It’s a little bitter.”

That came as no surprise.


How to Steal the Sun

I fashioned her a heartstring harness
and asked her to jump
and she did –
into the beds
of prettier men.

I asked her once more.
and she did –
but this time,
onto a plane,
unravelling the gossamer
as it flew.

But I remember –

how she had
the sun,
as if it were some shiny fruit,
caressing it,
showed me
that it didn’t have to burn;

it was poignant
and fleeting –
like her smell,
which had refused to stain my sheets
and clothes.

She left,
to love me tomorrow,

and when she did,

I forgot –
how tomorrow would come around,
with the sun
sitting snug in her back pocket?


Ode to the Frenchman and the Stranger called Culture

I would like
to go out
to dance;
to drink;
to love;
to live.

But people are mean
and the bottles in my
are kind
and easy to
I prefer their company.

Because between the
unsightly buttcracks
and clothes so
tight they explain
why this generation
walks around
with a perpetual hard-on,

And the simple nature
of screw tops
on white wine bottles,
the choice is a simple one.

Humanity is an egotistical
It doesn’t need
my faith to thrive.

Now while Facebook
busies itself
with domesticated tiger cubs,
babies dying across the wrong borders
and gluten-free, low-calorie cupcakes,

I’ll pay homage to the dead
and pour myself
a glass.

Don’t worry,
I’ll leave one for you, too.


Love Letter to a Groupie

where did we get lost –
was it somewhere in between
the champagne
in paper cups
and taxi drivers
asleep at the wheel,


In the forevers promised
and cups of tea
left cooling
in the morning dew.

Because I lost you,
amidst the wailing
and women,
whose voices
were louder than yours;

And you lost me
when you decided
that inside your head
was a better place
to live.

I’ll see you again,
whether on your own stage,
your face plastered onto their hearts,
or strapped
to white sheets
that smell too clean.

But before then,
write me,
and I’ll judge the letter’s
by the tear-stained ink.


Top-Shelf Booze

I saw a piece of ground today
that reminded me
of you.

And I felt the rage,

But being angry at you
is like being angry
at empty air.

So I grab a bottle
and collect it,
saving it to drink
later, when I catch myself,

Because too often
do I watch people with pieces
of you,
if I can put them together.

The bottles are kind,
if but full of hard curves
and even harder

Although I can’t melt into them
the same way I did
with you.

And they break,
more often than you used to.

I can put them back together, though,
with the sticky messes
you left behind –

It’s a perverse form of kintsugi*,
but it does the job.

*The Japanese art of repairing pottery with gold and/or silver.