Perhaps another tomorrow, then, huh?

I come back with the tide, mud in my belly and bulging eyes.

You walk past and the blood shoots out of the rotting heart,

black blood; dragging my face through the drying sand

i catch up, and you gather my limbs and stick them back,

carry me gently to edge of the mud; pour me out.


This resurrection has turned obscene

Perhaps tomorrow the wave will forget

an eye, or perhaps my entire head.

Satanic Jesus, let me die!



Goosebumps and shivers and dry lips, my wind – Goodbye.

Sheltered by mountains of ice, I die. I die. I die.

Oh dear old darkness!


He whispers in the dead of night and I cling to a dead breath

but it’s gone

Stupid eyes can’t hold dying shadows anymore.


Sink your teeth in hot flesh heavy until his fire dies

and the night unwraps it deadly grasp of your dying eyes.





Til’ death

He tried to whisper to her, and she could see that it was a struggle. She gestured him to be quiet, and stroked his hair gently, tears pouring down her face..
The rock she has leaned on for so many years; the man she has adored, loved and cared for her entire life, was slowly fading away right in front of her. And she was powerless. All the tears,the pleading and the prayers could not stop him dying, could not stop her heart breaking.

How could she be without him? How could she wake up tomorrow and not see him reading that paper in his chair, sipping his coffee too damn loud, calling her ‘Adi’.. Oh, how she hated when he called her ‘Adi’! Who would she shout at? Who would she tell off?
He coughed loudly and she thought How selfish I am! How he’s suffering!
She rested her head on his shoulder and tightened the hold on his arm. Please don’t die! she whispered.


He was weeping too and she kissed the tears carefully, knowing that it wasn’t death he cried for, but leaving her; it was her being alone that he was thinking of too. Her, walking around the house like a mad woman, not knowing which song to sing to face the pain. He knew her all to well.. she would sing that ballad about the lonely bird and she would cry, stirring the pots of soups and stews, filling the glasses of all the people who will have come to the wake. She would smile at them too, and tell funny stories about their life together. She’ll be strong, she’ll be…