You are the sound that penetrates the darkness,

And the warm silence that precedes and follows,

You are the ringing of a telephone that falls upon

The ears of an elderly man, whose only company is

His isolation. You are the light that blinds and also

Guides the weary traveller, the headstrong hero.

You are the streaks of moonlight that my curtains

Cannot quite catch, flickering beautifully on the ceiling,

Disrupting my sleep. You are the cold gust of wind

On the most humid of days, the ice in my drink.

You are the body in my bed, and the emptiness that

It leaves behind. You are the smile on my lips and

The spring in my step.


30 second poetry

i was not empty, but now i am full

before it was not dark, but now it is bright,

yesterday the world was not silent, but now i hear,

and i wonder, fearfully, if when you are gone,

you will take this melodious brightness and

leave me in an emptiness that i have never known.

a drunken ramble

stop for a second, think, did you fuck up,

then, in the infinitely small moment of that second,

between us, between the lines, in the grey-matter

that hung for days, weeks and months, when we

spoke of lunch, dinner, but never what we needed

to speak the most, those things that burnt holes

in our pockets, our minds. did you fuck up,

then, when you needed to say what you

dare not think, or was it i, in my silence,

who broke the fragile peace that we had

come to know as love?

you are

You are the streetlight that flickers,
Once, twice, and then returns, for a while,
to a solid beam.
I am the bench that lovers carve into,
J.H for E.M; reminders of something that will probably end.
You are the green light that Gatsby saw, every night, and hoped.
I am the tree at the end of autumn, one last leaf;
soon to be bare and desolate.
You are the lost final piece of a puzzle,
so important in your singularity.
I am the hay that the needle is lost in.
You are the needle that wonders are forged with.


tonight i wanted to kill myself thinking

for some reason that the world did not

need me, knowing that without me it would

continue. i didn’t. instead i ran cold metal

across my skin and watched as pale beige

became vibrant red and weeped, knowing

that i hated it but loved the feeling.

tonight i fathomed, for a second, that nobody

misses me now and would not miss me again

if, heaven forbid, i should vanish or end, suddenly

beautiful and young. i cannot fathom, even now,

growing old and reminiscing on a past that was

probably not happy enough, nor extravagant.

tonight i wanted to kill myself but could not.

sunken ship

i can’t be your crutch when i cannot be my own.

i can’t heal your wounds when i cannot stop my own.

i can’t love you truly, for i cannot love myself.

i cannot be the saviour of your sinking ship

i, the ship already sunken.

It is always cold at Train Stations

It is always cold at train stations, I heard someone say today.

I felt, for a moment, the truth of their statement resonate, ironically,

in the racking chill of my bones and the laboring catch of my breath.

In England, at least, it is always cold at train stations; haunted with

The memory and threat of the man who jumps, with a bag over his head,

blind to his life and beauty he departs from. Was even he cold, then, in

Those final moments? When his legs worked, furiously, his breath

Shallower, weaker, in the final seconds before his form became flesh

And his flesh became putty. It is always cold at train stations, even

On the hottest summer day, you are chilled by travel; we are always

Lamenting our departure from somewhere, dreading our arrival or

the arrival of another, the other woman. It is always cold at train stations,

even on that day that you ran to me, sign clutched with my name blazoned

on cheap Woolworths cardboard. You said it was cheesy, but cheesy

is uncomfortable and funny and this was warm and amusing, touching

in some base, mortal way. But even then it was cold at the train station,

perhaps in forewarning of the heartbreak that could come. Did the

station know, in the power of it’s displacement, that soon we would

part like trains blasting past each other on well-kept tracks, a gush

of air and nothing more, leaving chill in our wake for those on the

platform. It is colder now, for me, at train stations cursed with the

tarnished memory of what was once only happiness, now bleak

and sorrowful. It is perhaps not so cold for you as for me, but

it is always cold at train stations.

An elegy on the Death of The Matriarch

It occurred to me, today, whilst in bed, that my mother did not wake,

Neither in melancholy, nor in weeping, in her burning bed. She did

not wake for my tears, but only her own; in the lamentation of the

sorrows of self. She was not a mourner of melody, nor felt she struck

by envious wrath of God. Instead, dearest mother of mine, did you sit

and wait for the howl of the pain of your own to guide your fleeting

feelings and sentiment. You would not howl for me, oh matriarch,

and yet I howl for you, Adonais for his mother; tragic introversion.

We will not be the first or last to love inversely, some things simply

bend and break, circle back and spiral to you, becoming who you are.

You will not howl for me, Melancholy Mother, you will not wake now.

But I will one day quench my fiery tears within my burning bed, and

One day will I rise, the motherless Adonais; clear of sprite in the lust

Of death.


Consider her there, structured

gracefully, hardly comfortable,

legs hooked over another, sculpted; toes

pointed – her ballet lessons had

taught her that as a young girl,

head tilted, spine straight. There was

no place for her here, for that youthful

innocence. This was a place without memory,

even her name had been changed,

for her safety, to erase personality, to

superimpose physicality.


Even the slight tilt in her neck was

deliberate, framed exactly for aesthetics sake;

to show her weakness, girl triumphed by

even gravity. It was a game made of

more than passive languor, her toes,

fingers and lips had places, marks to hit;

the voice of a middle school music teacher

clanged in her head to hit her light,

and so she did.


A statue was not emotive enough to describe

the girl, grown woman, who made

herself a covetous prize, beauty

products applied with the steady hand her

sixth year art teacher had given her.

“Every mistake can be corrected,” she had

told her, but that was no longer true, any

mistake here could be deadly, finite.


It began as it always had, slowly at first,

testing the limits, toes in a water whose

depth was unknown. “Lay back and think

of England” her history tutor had once

recited, joking convivially of the beliefs

of past. To the statue, though, this was not

a history, nor could she think of England,

only herself; laid down- even now, back

straight, toes pointed.


After that it was always quick to end,

a shuffle of fabric and the same words of

thanks, awkward silence,  cleared throat.

Her flesh, seconds ago so warm, was now

stone again; a statue- composed and still.

Now, though, her face was smudged and

her back was slumped. This was no place for

that girl, that youthful innocence, but

she prevailed; head dipped, a few more cracks

in her stone flesh than before.