Night Sea Yearning

Paisley rocks, flowered stones blossomed in your eyes
You told me to follow your chartered constellations, but
I was only led to distant, crustacean shores. Here,
Your words wash against me, foaming gangrene seaweed in your wake.

My ears, curled with the same canals of a conch that
Remembers the ocean’s voice to sing in memoriam —
So will I cup my ears, to hear your voice once more
These murmuring sirens, calling you from an alien shore.

You are still cetacean, impenetrable like evergreen
On cerulean coasts, bewildered and bent but never broken.
While I wait, I will sail your tessellate, undulating mind
So I can navigate you like tides of my turquoise night sea.

Apologies for my prolonged absence. In the past month I had to deal with a seismic shift in my life, including completing a university degree, moving houses and going away for a family vacation. But now that these tectonic plates have calmed down, posts will resume regularly. 


Drowning Fish in Bell Jars

Everyone has their own Bell Jar, said Sylvia (or did she) 
While hers roasted in an oven, incinerating
The Mad Girl’s Love Song, never sung again (I think I made you up inside my head) 

If god considered what he made in seven days (does he exist?)
He’d see an ocean of fish trapped in oxygen jars
Drowning and undrowning in unique suffering  (No one understands my pain) 

It was Pandora’s fault. She held the first jar
That birthed the jars trapping all, without even
The semblance of hope that they can shatter (Your pithos became our prison, we think)

Struggling beneath frosted glass, we fail to see
Other jars and other suffering, but if we simply
Strained beyond our own fragility, maybe this

Veneer will fall away to reveal we were never alone, and never need to be.
(But I am alone in my feelings, surely?)

From my Wayward Island

Sometime in the last decade, I gave birth to this island.
Vaguely Hebridean, relentlessly aloof 

Erupting from the travails of a mangled spirit
Thirty thousand miles from any other land —
A subterranean volcano spilling its guts
To a primordial ocean that cares not
Whether its passion bleeds or ossifies.

Marooned sailors struggled on my barren shores
Only to wither from exposure and hunger, for
If I could sustain life, my own would not be
A carrion of bleached bones and rigor mortis
Already picked clean by ravenous seabirds.

If you ask for a map of my unchartered terrain
You will only find the nocturnal ramblings of a madman
He is lost in convoluted obsidian caves, eyes glazed over;
Years of wandering the omnipresent dark taught him:
The only solace in life is the embrace of one’s own arms.

I am unanchored, my spine floats from my nerves
It juts out as a crooked mountain range from North
To South, mapping the constellations of my rivers
Frothing with the crimson promise of life and love, only to
Pool in a mooncrested bay near the bottom of my heart.

There you will find the Blue Elm Tree:
Maybe I am the girl who lies in the water
Maybe I am the man waiting in the nook
I would tell you, trust me I would
If only I remembered how to (feel).

For the Nice Guy

You have found her — Aphrodite
She fills your desert to the brim
A sea is formed within, for her
You’d do anything.

Cast your nets out every dawn
To fish for what she desires
She’s in the distance, perfect; lithe
In your loins she ignites a fire.

Hoist the sails on your boat
As the currents bring you closer
I have mapped constellations for us, you scream
I will give you what you require.

But she does not see your wayward boat
Nor the abundance of your sacrifice
To her your offerings are but a
Sprinkling of rain upon a precipice.

Days and months of drifting lead you
Nowhere near her heart
You realise that your sea is just
A sea of unrequited love.

You seethe, you writhe, you toss your waves
Working up a tempest
It is simply unfair for you to love
While she remains untouched in the slightest.

But if you put down your telescope, you will find
She is not your Aphrodite
You have spent so long at sea that
You forgot where the land is.

If you continue on this sea, you will
Drain it dry with your parched fantasy
But if you disembark from this futile trip
Maybe, just maybe

She will be waiting for you on an island.


Time is a canvas upon which we create lashings of muddied colours that we try to call life. 

‘Look at this,’ he said and tapped her with his foot. ‘Scientists believe that the traditional five senses are an outdated way of viewing human senses. Other senses include thermoception, being able to sense heat and cold, and chronoception, being able to tell the passage of time.’

He scrolled his iPad on the bed beside her. He liked to read to her sometimes, before they slept.

‘Mm’ She didn’t turn to him. ‘Turn off the lamp. I want to sleep.’

‘You mess up my senses because time always flies when I’m with you.’ He pinched the flab on her arm.
She butted him with her heel.

She didn’t see him smile, but could sense it. The way the air changes from the corners of his mouth. He flicked the switch and sidled against her, skin against skin, and put his arm around her shoulder.

After a while she could hear his soft wheezing. It was the trip before the fall. He would be snoring soon.

She disengaged herself from his arm and wriggled to her side of the bed. She turned to her left, then lay on her back. Eventually she turned around to stare at him. Against the grey light seeping through the blinds, his profile was soft, handsome even. Long drooping lashes, thin lips.

‘Hain, are you awake?’ she whispered.
He half-snorted, and the snort became his first snore. She turned around again and closed her eyes. There was a dull buzzing in her left ear that wouldn’t be silenced. She could feel the springs in the mattress pressing against her back. The more she tried not to think about it, the more they dug into her.

Some time later, she found herself staring at the ceiling. Hain’s snoring had taken up all the air in their bedroom. It was a stifling restfulness that suffocated her.

She got up and went to the fridge to pour herself a glass of milk. But when she shuffled there, she forgot what she came for. The fridge gaped at her while she stared into its empty belly.

A yellowed, plastic clock hung on their kitchen wall. It was already in the apartment when they moved in, and even after the battery ran flat they forgot to take it down. It was always 2:45 in the kitchen. Sometimes the longest hand would suddenly flicker to life and attempt to move forward, as if remembering its duty to actuate the flow of time.

Perhaps if she had the ability to tell time, her body would allow her to sleep. But time wormed around as an agonizing, static continuum – refusing to flow forward, impossible to wind back. She turned on the TV and tipped a bowl of cornflakes, without milk. The white noise comforted her, saved her from suffocating.

She sat there for so long that when she stirred herself to check the clock, it was still 2.45. But the grey light in the room was no longer from the TV. Outside, dawn began to break. She remembered watching the sun rise many times in her life, but never in her memory had it been so bleak and drained of colour.

As she parted the blinds to watch the lifeless dawn begin, she remembered she had pills in the bedroom. Hain had bought them for her two weeks ago when she had passed out just outside their door. Fatigue, he thought.

If only he knew that she saw him outside his office that evening, intertwined with another.

The buzzing in her left ear had migrated to her entire cranium. She stumbled back in the bedroom to look for the pills or to get back into bed, she couldn’t remember.

Hain had sprawled out across their bed. His right leg was on her side, his left arm falling off the edge. In the new light she couldn’t recognize him anymore. His face was suddenly garish against the white light. A streak of dried saliva cut across his face and his mouth gaped open, lopsided.

She couldn’t believe it. Married to him for seven years, mother of his two sons. Oh, she resented him, but in a way she could never tell anyone, not even herself. She took the pills, one by one, swallowing without water. If time was static, then oblivion was the only solution.

In the brightening room, she raised her hand above his face. She grinned. The buzzing in her head had stopped.

‘Hain, wake up. Wake up. Wake up now!’ She slapped him, once, then twice. ‘Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!’

Let the darkness swallow me too

Herbario Street, being terminal, was the reason Sam and Shelley decided to settle in. Their flat was sequestered against a grey wall lined with industrial bins. Someone had sprayed SKIMPED onto the boarded windows.

Sam turned to her, flaming blue hair framed against the incandescent streetlight.
‘This is perfect’, and kissed her.


Ms Turner is always late for class. Once she burst in twenty minutes late completely high and rocking out to ‘We Will Rock You’. 

While Ms Turner has rare moments of clarity, she rambles a lot. I don’t want to hear another lecture about her cat Mr Sniffles or her mother.

I wish she would give out assessments on time and not make up homework on the spot. 

Ms Turner could benefit from some time in rehab.

When Shelley woke up, alone, at the end of Hebario Street, her first thought was to call a taxi and never return. The university board had insinuated similar sentiments in her performance review.

“As a decorated scholar in the study and dissection of Surrealist Cinema, your contribution to the field has received accolades from numerous foundations and societies, an achievement this university holds in high regard. As a teacher of these studies, many students have voiced concerns about your mental health and competency. Based on student feedback and community concerns, the board recommends an extended paid leave to evaluate your direction and academic scholarship. We wish you the best of luck in these endeavours.”

She got out of bed slowly, feeling the stiffness in her knees. Someone was pounding at the door, an urgent, knuckle on wood pounding. Shelley received frequent harassment from bored teenagers. They all wanted a  glimpse of her lined face to confirm their suspicion – a lone woman, living alone at the edge of sanity a forgotten street.

The pounding stopped. She reached under the bed and tried to pull out a pair of pants. It resisted her tug and dragged out a moth-eaten box, kicking up an effluvium of dust. After her coughing subsided she held up the sordid remains of the box and peered into it. She spied cockroach droppings inside and let it slip from her fingers. The rotting paper gave way and spilled out its contents.

An empty cologne bottle. A passport, her passport, half eaten by moths. Her throat tightened.

Sometimes, in passing, she would look at herself in the mirror and find traces of Sam still etched on her face. The cobalt gleam in Sam’s eyes. The sharp jaw line that moved in to whisper I love…

She would look closer but only find the semblance of youth. An ordered decay. In the bathroom light her skin had the greyish pallor of dead trout. Tell-tale signs of fatigue dragged out sunken lines at the edge of her eyes. No matter how well she moisturized, there was a perennial ring of dry skin around her chin, flaking like dandruff onto her clothes. The other day, she found an angry varicose vein on her neck. She was horrified by the discovery, but more bemused. It looked like she wore her jugular on her skin, available for all – human or vampire – to examine or dig into, if they chose.

Maybe she never really believed that Sam had left. The Starina Theatre was a five minute walk from their flat and was their Saturday ritual. Shelley used to turn off her phone to prevent students contacting her and they would hold each other in the theatre all day. Even in the dark, Shelley could see waterlogged wallpaper that the owners refused to repair. It smelled damp and mouldy and the seats were faded red relics. Veterans acquainted with vomit, cigarette burns and even a few gunshots. But the tickets were cheap, and the darkness swallowed their essence in forgotten silent films. Endless loops of black and white celluloid driven to obsolescence by the advent of digital.

Now she preferred to stay in. She came across a short film in the (now-defunct) DVD store, borrowed it, and never returned. Sometimes without her realising, the DVD would be playing in loops on her laptop.

A man found out he had the ability to talk to fish one day while strolling on the beach. His newfound powers rescued him from the ennui of his life, but soon inundated him with the misery of a thousand fish facing their mortality by overfishing and pollution. To manage this depression, he bought a goldfish from a local pet store and kept it in his room.

He had long conversations with the goldfish every morning, then every mealtime, then almost every waking moment. He took the goldfish to the park and showed it what most goldfish could only dream of seeing. But he was careless and left the goldfish on the park bench while taking a leak. The man heard the goldfish scream, but it was too late. As the goldfish gasped for breath beneath glass shards, the man held it in his hands, listening to its dying breath. The man cried, hoping his tears could resuscitate the fish, but realised its futility and raised the goldfish to his lips.
And faded to the last title card: Let the darkness swallow me too, so I may be with you.

In an inexplicable way, the film touched her more than anything she had seen.

‘My god Shelley I know you’re in there, open the damn door!’ The vehement pounding at the door resumed with the shrill exclamation.

Shelley snapped, tripping over her pants. Which she now realised were only halfway up her thighs.
‘Open the damn door now or I’m kicking it down!’
She hobbled to the door, which did seem in danger of caving from the powerful blows.

Her hair was now a muddied green. They matched her eyes, which looked grey but often flashed green, cobalt and brown. She kept her hair at a length above her shoulders, emphasizing her long neck. Shelley felt a pang of jealousy that as she felt the burden of age, Sam still remained as radiant as the day she left.

‘Why don’t you answer your phone? Or check your email?’
She almost wanted to slam the door in Sam’s face. When starving orphans receive food from strangers, their first instinct is to hurl the food back at them. Longing begets a taut disbelief.

‘Hello? Are you there?’ Sam snapped her fingers in front of her face.
‘Oh uh,’ she looked at Sam, ‘My phone’s not charged I think.’

She also became aware, for the first time, of the rancid smell of cabbages and chemical waste. The industrial bins ten meters from the flat had not been visited by trucks for days.

Sam’s face relaxed, her lips settling into a grin. ‘I knew you still lived in this sordid thing. No one else could last here this long.’
And before she could stop her, Sam had pushed her way into the flat.

Shelley trailed behind Sam’s deliberate steps. She stopped in the kitchen and scrunched her nose.
‘When was the last time you washed anything in here?’ She picked up a teaspoon that had been sitting in a mug for a week, then dropped it with a clank.

Shelley felt mildly offended by this sudden intrusion. ‘What do you want?’
Sam sensed her tense shoulders, paused to study her face, then laughed her tinkling laugh.

‘Chillax Shel, I’m just here to get some things I left behind. Which you would know, if you bothered to check your phone or email.’ She stepped closer, brushing her arm.

‘What do you want,’ Shelley repeated and bumped into the kitchen sink while moving back.
‘I just want to see how you are,’ Sam paused, unaccustomed to this abrupt shift. ‘I missed you.’
‘After you just ran out?’
Sam sighed. ‘You threw a knife at me Shel, what was I supposed to do?’

The loose faucet dripped away their awkward silence.
‘A few days ago I was thinking about the time we rode to Mt Kirrinui,’ Sam’s eyes locked onto hers, ‘How we rode overnight and collapsed at dawn. Do you remember how dark it was? I was pretty sure we would end up dead riding like that. But thanks to you, we kept going. I was scared shitless of the dark but then the relief of dawn is something I’ll never forget. And the relief of seeing you in the first light, of having you.’

Shelley felt something within herself give way. ‘So what?’ she tried to maintain a calloused indifference in her voice, but it was chipping. Sam always had this effect on her and she knew it.

‘So…I’m going travelling again,’ Sam beamed, ‘and I need my passport.’
‘I think I remember where it was. I’ll go get it.’

Shelley retreated into their her bedroom, her chest contorting in vicious betrayal of her composure. She had tricked herself into believing that Sam was no longer a part of her. Lived for months in solitude, knowing it was what she was best at. But the truth was standing in her kitchen, stirring a part of her she thought had long ago perished like silent celluloid films.

She had to sit on her bedroom floor for a few minutes before she could find the courage to go back. It sounded like Sam was in no rush anyway, Shelley could hear the kettle whistle and dishes clanging.

The passport was on the floor where she had dropped it earlier, its edges ragged.

When she returned to the kitchen Sam was beginning to run hot water for the dishes.
‘Take me with you.’ Shelley said it so quietly Sam did not hear it the first time.
She pressed the passport onto Sam’s back and caressed her shoulders. Sam flinched a little but did not withdraw.
‘Take me with you,’ she whispered near her ear, ‘I’ve recently been given extended paid leave. I’ve missed you more than you know.’

Sam stopped the hot water. She turned around and took the passport. She gingerly moved Shelley’s hands away.

‘Shel, I’m getting married.’

Shelley froze. Something caught in her throat. Then she began to laugh. Of course. Of course you are.
She couldn’t stop herself. The laughter came in fits, ejecting parts of herself she knew she would never reclaim.

Sam became alarmed and reached for her phone. ‘Do you want me to call an ambulance?’

But Shelley was lost on the floor, holding her chest and stomach lest they burst, lest they expose another weakness in her mind. She felt light-headed and could vaguely sense Sam’s hands upon her. But the last thought she carried into unconsciousness found their way onto her lips. Let the darkness swallow me too, so I may be with you.