His fingernails are covered in dirt,
their black edges resemble black
moons black wings of Death’s-head
hawkmoths and black birds.

30 November 2018

  in a cabin above the irksome sea where the electric heater thaws us we make pancakes for lunch pasta for dinner we play at domesticity we watch a movie we disagree vehemently the night appoints us fools you tell me you love me let’s retire these ugly games and go to bed

24 October 2018

winter’s drain
in sophie’s skin
hands soaked
in summers knowledge

Two poems: Ionian cup 570-550 BCE and Life of Art

I sit reading for so long that my legs tingle
with guilt, and the arms of the chair
become my arms. For a moment
I feel the stiffness in your back.

morning sun

Kiss her shoulders with peach lipstick on, remind the skin
to soften. On the new day that we have here, the sun
comes out more often.


The way it starts is the way it ends and I kiss you like the worst I’ve ever had is a paper cut. I dream of asking you out for coffee, watch the flowers grow in real time. You live above me so I stick stars on the ceiling. I’m hoping that they’ll help you sleep better.


I found a tube
Half used and congealed in the cap.
I wore it overnight on the pimples I keep picking.

My Chinese name is my middle name when I’m in Melbourne

我很感激我的父母for gracing
me with an English name, unlike some
peers who had to live by Rui Qi, Xian Yu.

in utero waste

in these crumpled bricks of homes
holding whips of thoughts in domes
passed by ten thousand garden gnomes
fear is crawling in my bones

new york poems

no more than drowned apostles,
or burnt moths.
you are simply a colour
i can never touch again.

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