Broken Record (love on repeat)

You named me again,*
as with my mum,
my health flickered;
light a new name and
a child will flourish.

Like the shadow of a dreaming carp,*
I float to the kitchen;
it’s breakfast in Hong Kong.
eight hours to an evening feast;
here, at two am, I nibble cheese and hummus.

When my aunt visits you, she
invites you to eat delicious buns, and
just for a moment, your eyes open;
far away in another hospital bed,
I am not fixed, but I know what the pieces do.

This January, you forgot which
epic drama episode you’d seen,
asked your eldest to play “Oblivion” on repeat;
when I was five, you sent you voice on tape,
telling a story of an elephant and an ant.

Today, more than three decades later, I record:
“Hello Grandma, it’s me – the name you gave me,
I really hope you get well soon!
Here are fifteen kisses; xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx..”;*
with extra – in case one gets lost in the post.






There was/is a Chinese tradition that if a child suffers from health issues, the parents rename and give them a luckier name.

Recently made a fish for a performance. It’s now in the living room hanging out with the religious icons. Carp is a lucky Chinese symbol.

Idea for performing the xx in the piece:

  •  Rather than making kiss / mwah noises for the kisses, make small / visibly sized square-ish pieces of paper with kisses (e.g in red/ multicoloured crayon).
  • Or make the squares or stars (or hearts – maybe that’s a bit cheesy) from multicoloured paper.
  • Drop them on the stage in a rhythmical manner
  • In silence.
  • Or while striking a glass tumbler or mug with a teaspoon like a message sound.


Probably grammatically incorrect but looks like a sideways emoticon of a playful look, with speech marks for my hair, blowing a kiss.

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With Trump’s “invasion” of Britain, I am moved to more deliberately enact resistance by being me and being alive. Specifically, endeavouring to be more open (saying what I think, eg with tact if necessary!), honest, communicative, organised, and be an amazing listener and patiently conspire with myself and my fellow creative collaborators far and wide, to produce work that inspires, uplifts and challenges and grow as individuals and communities.

Thanks be to Trump (for absolutely nothing!) And may the evaporation of toxic masculine colossal embryonic privilege; and the replacement of ignorance, corruption and laziness with actual peace-keeping, humanity-growing, unifying diversity-embracing minds for important jobs be REAL THINGS, REAL SOON.

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Put your heart on the line

Put your heart on the line.
That’s where it belongs.

Washed at X o’clock and up to dry.
Fret not, the birds are busy singing.

Does it drip or flow – red, black, gold?
A swim of goggled lost purposes!

On the garden wall with a melody,
Surrounded by fruits and vines.

If a cat gets too close, clouds just
Mumble and the sky will curl her tail.

Did you forget?! Our line fell weeks ago!
Heart floats freely on a glowing breeze.


Prosaic stuff:

With a small interaction difficulty over, I felt freed up to become more light-hearted and talk about our never-ending laundry saga.

We had a tree (referred to in previous stories) cut down because it was dead and therefore hazardous as bits of it could fall off, and down went the washing line. Since then, we’ve been very busy but hopefully will get a new pole and line up soon!

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A Tear Fell From my Heart (Idea for a film)

A tear fell from my heart.
It was then a puddle on the street,
which became an expanse of ocean.

I looked up at my toe,
Because I was stuck on the ceiling,
My wings remained cemented to the ground.

The zest of one small map pin,
Whistled through the boiling dust,
Punctures the spherical jaws of gravity.

Giant tongue slurps lazily,
From golden gutters, eyeing
The fruit of the scene.








Sometimes I get too bossy and irritate and upset my friends. Then I feel sad and even terrible for having done this. But of course I’m having a rough week too having had major surgery and recovering but trying to do way too much.

I am thinking it’s not just my personality but the way I was parented and a way of communicating (style/ language/ energy) and trying to work on being an amazing listener.

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Happened, a silver lining

Thought it was the end,
gave away my books,
threw out my artwork (again).

Well then, a miracle,
the first of many.

One small shiver of light..
a drop of sound grows..
in the shadow of broken time.

You had a dream that we
were all in a plane crash,
but Jacob from Casualty saved us,
so long as we thanked each one
of his extraordinary muscles.

My skin cries, peace.. at last.





It’s not the fault of our wonderful NHS that it takes 2 years for someone with PTSD or CPTSD to get to see a psychologist. The day you got the letter and told me, it was extraordinary and also bittersweet.

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The enormity of the futility
is a quicksand erasing
every echo of worthwhileness.

Sometimes, falling through to
the crossfire of another storm..
We spiral in patterns. We live in traps.

Hello, my error! How wide is oblivion,
stalely invisible a road to clarity?

Stumbles of scribbled paths.
Tear my glance from paucity.

If all appearances are illusions..
Why not walk a sweeter way?

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Panic Panics

A “fake love poem” by which I mean using a rhetoric of passion/ infatuation to write about mental health. This is written from the perspective of panic personified “as a lover”.


We kissed. You fell.

It was just a navy puddle, swaying on an autumn afternoon.

You stepped into my mind.

A bell trap of bored ghosts.

A kitchen of melting pans.

A temple of chaos.


Blood rush took you further away and around.

Swooping down like a thirsty silver bird, the rain came and broke the mirror scattering liquid you left me for the golden trees over there.

I couldn’t quite see you…

I cannot even catch the scent.

Exhausted, I sleep in circles.


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