On Office Jargon

Eggs in a basket,

Ducks in a row,

Frightening the horses –

Why so many animaux?



A salty brand of loneliness;

the whirr of an aeroplane

piercing through the night,

giving sound to the sky.

Our demises, our deaths

somewhere further down the line.

Salt getting caught,

in the teeth

on the tongue.


Being Gay

img_1995-1I’ve never really hated myself for being gay

The times when I have hated myself

were for my narcissism, my self-absorbtion

(hello WordPress),

my self-destructiveness,

my angry outbursts at people who I love.


Is that a sign of societal progress?

That I can have a complex, three-dimensional, and in some key ways

flawed personality,

and hate on parts of that

rather than fixate on the fact I’m gay?


Lol…. the ‘fact I’m gay’. That’s a phrase that could probably be

unpacked another time.






A tree blossoms pink in this mild December, on a street in Southwark, lined with victorian townhouses, converted into flats.

December’s a strange time for blossom.

Among the milling throngs of Oxford Street,  fake snow brushed my cheek, disseminated from  above the entrance of the flagship Topshop. A woman who passed looked up at its source, her face illuminated in passive delight.

December’s the right time for fake snow, I guess.


Poor Woodstock Children

I sat on a bench along a footpath that shoots out eastward between meadows from University Park. Clearheaded from running, I felt elated by endorphins, the sepia autumn sunlight, and pride at having recently become a graduate student at the University of Oxford.

Then, a woman and her son – a chubby boy of around eleven or so – came walking along the path.

“They were poor Woodstock children!” the boy whispered theatrically.

“What are you saying?” the mother replied, flustered, possibly embarrassed by my presence and not wishing for a stranger to judge her by her son’s nascent snobbery.

A few seconds’ later, two Labradors came bounding along, followed by two women. One of the dogs panted toward me, and began sniffing enthusiastically around my groin. Thankfully, one of the women then called it away, smiling to show her embarrassment at her dog’s wandering nose.

Getting up, I walked in the direction from which they had come. Toward me came two young girls, also of around eleven. One was small and blonde, the other was larger, with black hair in cornrows that cascaded down to braids.

“Keep running mate,” the latter said, sarcastically.

I attempted an expression that conveyed disapproval yet also wry amusement at her remark. I then broke back into a run and kept going along the long, straight path, where the trees provided coolness yet obscured the view of meadows on either side.



The parties, the kebabs,
the late night chats
in corridors, in halls,
with unadorned walls.

The confidantes, the friends
I’ll never meet again.
The growing, its pains,
the drugs and drinking games.

The laughter, the drama,
the election with Obama.
The marches and the demos,
now all photos,