Droplets of conversation
Dripped into veins

Words resurfaced
Festering boils

(nothing a quack couldn’t cure)



hearing everything
and feeling no obligation to respond

feeling everything
and feeling no obligation to act

seeing everything
and feeling no obligation to take it in

All is possible
Nothing compelled

The door to another life

And she looked around for the door to another life

One of those soap adverts where
The mother smiles
The children are just naughty enough to be adorable
The husband ruffles hair instead of feathers
The dogs bark at the right side of the moon

She found a black door
painted red
its hinges cleverly hidden

Innocent laughter came from behind it/she could almost smell the freshly mowed grass

When she tried the door handle
(trying in vain to block the noise)
she only noticed the small print
because she stepped on a lego brick

Don’t fall through the rabbit hole – knock on wood

Victor’s happy ending

When Victor entered the afterlife, he kept on writing.

He wrote stories
with happy beginnings and happy endings
He wrote poems which oozed joy
He wrote television shows that were hard to watch
(too many belly laughs is exhausting)

He wrote to his grandparents to thank them
for all he learned from them
He wrote letters to his parents, explaining everything he felt
(he knew they wouldn’t read them anyway)

He wrote a love letter to himself
He answered it

Victor kept on writing
The love of his life
was also the love of his afterlife

After a comment yesterday that started with ‘poor Victor’, I realised he deserved some more words.


Victor was a boy who liked to write stories. He wrote everywhere he went. He wrote at school, during his lessons. He wrote in the bus. He wrote when he visited his parents.

Victor lived with his grandparents. He liked to show them his stories, and every once in a while they would read one of them. ‘That’s not much of a happy ending, is it?’is all his grandmother ever said. Grandfather corrected his spelling and grammar.

When Victor got older, he asked his parents to read his stories. They explained that they couldn’t digest words, only images. He asked his grandfather if his parents were illiterate. Grandfather said ‘no, they just don’t like to read’.

Victor never gave up. He wrote and wrote. His spelling and grammar became impeccable. Still his grandfather would only comment on alleged mistakes. Victor once asked him what difference grammar and spelling made to the quality of a story. Grandfather refused to look at him and yelled ‘you should know that by now’. Victor just wrote another story.

Grandmother kept wishing for happier endings. He once asked what that meant, a happy ending. She couldn’t explain it, she had only been taught how to complain.

Victor turned into a man who liked to write stories. He wrote poetry, he wrote prose. He even wrote television scripts for a while. His parents always admired the director.

Victor never got angry. He just wrote. His last story was about a young woman who murdered both her parents and her grand parents. ‘That’s not much of a happy ending, is it?’ his grandmother said. She never read his last words. He had chiselled them into the spotted marble himself.

‘I disagrie’

Dear God, please let me fail

Dear God, please let me fail
she prayed
for she was perfect
and she knew it
she even felt remorse
for feeling no pride

Dear God, please let me fail
she prayed
she was perfect, she knew it
she felt remorse
for feeling no pride

God granted her wish
and told her off
for avarice


The child didn’t understand their fascination for horror films
No matter how much blood was spilled
how loud the chains saws roared
how many dead walked
– its nightmares were far more scary

The child didn’t understand their fascination for love stories
All those misunderstandings
endless insecurities
plot twists
could not hide the fact that no one lives happily ever after

The child didn’t understand their fascination for manga
the senseless maiming and killing
the sexual violence
the torture
was never more brutal than normal/daily life abandonment