Saturday, 5 November 2016

The train that never comes

Bottle up, bottle up
all your guts and
all your pretty dreams
Put on hold
your now.

An abandoned train station
that I pass by every day
stares into me.
Like me, it lies
in stagnation
until eventual

The train tracks are littered
I cross them,
looking left, right
for a train to come
But never have I seen one
until eventual

"Sleep is for the dead" they say
Good, at least there's that
Sleep sleep sleep
Stagnation stagnation stagnation
All frantic movements ceased
This bubble will know no bullet.
Hug the bottle
and sleep sleep sleep, so peacefully.

The way home is always painful.
Sometimes at 2 am
Your knees are your best friends.

Darkness. Light. Death. Sleep sleep sleep. Darkness. Light.
Darkness. Light. Death. Sleep sleep sleep. Darkness. Light.
Darkness. Light. Death. Sleep sleep sleep. Darkness. Light.

Turn the keys.
Hello, darkness
you were never my friend.
Why don't you get the fuck out?

How much of yourself is yourself?
How much have you been othered?
You wanted to escape
but you are good for nothing
You can't even stand up for your own damn self.
You good for nothing.
You deceiver.
You are a lie.

Darkness. Light. Death. Sleep sleep sleep. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness.


"Think for yourself you know what you need in this life
See for yourself and feel your soul come alive tonight
Here in the moment we share
Trembling between the worlds we stare
out at starlight enshrined, veiled like diamonds in..

...time can be the answer, take a chance, lose it all
It's a simple mistake to make
To create love and to fall
So rise and be your master you don't need to be a slave
of memory ensnared in a web, in a cage."
-- A Simple Mistake, Anathema

(c) Na Kim

Wednesday, 3 August 2016

There is a day that is (never) coming.

He trapped me here.
I'm merely a time bomb now.
The TNT strapped to my heart detonates in


Where is the bang?
Or does dynamite decay as well?
Impervious as I am,
you can all see the smile
but you fail to see the maggots
cradling the detonation
Rot has taken over.
I do not speak.
I do not bleed salt.
My face is a blank slate.

He trapped me here

One day I will. One day I will. One day I will.

That one day that I've been consoling myself with for ages
That one day that just doesn't come
No matter how I count the days
No matter how much I twist the notions of time
And no matter how much I try to fill my belly with butterflies
In the end, they're all moths, drawn to the light
that kills them in the end.

I cannot wait to go home
Away from this place
Qway from this toxicity
Toxic city
Toxic streets
Toxic people.

Beware of living in my chest,
I have become cyanide
I have become someone I am not
I cannot recognize myself.

But I can hear the violin playing from afar.
I can smell the pine trees.
I can hear their joyful laughter
I feel a faint touch of warmth on my cheek
From where your kiss burnt me.

Home is out there,
Waiting for me to auto-destruct
And be reborn again.



Friday, 29 July 2016


Maybe I've been lying to myself about being okay.
I mean, maybe I am really happy. But maybe I am happy without being okay and I'm just trying so hard to be happy that I didn't notice that I'm not fine.
So many things around me are out of my control. I hate them. But I face them pacifically. Calmly. I still don't understand from where this calm attitude stems. Am I so numb, so impervious that I automatically shut down any violent reaction ?
Maybe that's been my problem all along.
Believing my Zen attitude is appropriate for every situation.
Is it ?
I don't know.
I'm confused. I have a headache. A clump in my throat. And I am not feeling fine.
Maybe it's selfish, yeah. They say I should be grateful for the life I have.
But I don't have to have cancer to have my pain acknowledged.
I just want to go away. Leave, far from here. This is not a home. It will never be.

Lately, I've had my tears flowing easily. I'm surprised: I haven't cried on my deceased mother's birthday. Yet, now the tears fight their way through so easily. Now I feel so suffocated that I don't bear the thought of staying alone in my room, talking to nobody. I, who loves her regular bit of alone-time. I don't turn off the Internet. I'm afraid of turning off the music. I look outside the window and yearn to go out. But I stay inside. On my own.

Where is the strength I used to pride myself in ?
Where is the sunshine that you've all told me radiated from me?
It's a cloud-stricken sky in there and I don't know how to blow into my chest and make it right.

"Home is where all your attempts to escape cease."

Tuesday, 24 May 2016

I wrote this last night when he tugged at my heartstrings (One of Many Poems to Come)

Bang bang
You shot me down

Kill me more, darling.
Under your touch,
Vivaldi's Four Seasons pierce my veins
Play me, play me
Like the fiddle you enchanted me with
On that spring day in April
When even butterflies came to listen to us
Play me, play me
Like the Blood Violin you dream of
Play me, play me
Like all those melodies in that magical head of yours

Bang Bang

Kill me more.
I crave this sweet little death,
The songs that escape your lips at 2 am
I crave to hide in your hair
To put you to sleep
and wake up at 4 am
to your face bathed in starlight,
how lucky I am to see you like this.

Bang Bang

Plane Crashes
all in my heart
because of you.

Inject yourself into my system
Be the syringe
Be the scalpel
the knife
my death
my perdition
drag me down to the nine circles of hell.

I have come to lead you to the
other shore; into eternal darkness; into fire and into ice.

I burn for you,
in you,
immolate me
burn me
I am your Lilith.
waltz with me
tha dance of the devil

I am your Blood Violin.
Play me, play me
until I'm molten steel
until I am but embers.

Monday, 23 May 2016

I wrote this eight weeks ago when I killed the past (The Last Poem Wasted on You)

but lustful,
your hands grazed me
and I
– fool that I am –
bloomed under your touch.

Spirals and whirls cloud our skies now.
What wouldn't I give
to give you eyes
without bleeding pupils.

Extinguished, anguished, relinquished
I shed nothing
I will walk into the chaos
but my free spirit will guide me
Please proceed,
your indifference is a mere scratch.

(c) Jean-Francois Painchaud

Friday, 20 May 2016

Memento Vitae I

With your beard in my neck,
supernovas in my belly
and constellations of your fingertips
across my bodyscape,
the storms of life
seem like a gentle breeze.

Swept away into the lugubrious part of the woods
A tenor resounds, echoes, a voice so strong
The evenstar calls me
and I find my way back
to the clearing.
The sunlight crashes through the leafwork onto your face
I found my way back
to you,
my tenor.

 Laer lín matha faeren.

When night falls and the elves sing
and the fireflies swarm around us
Our feet are anchored to the grass
Our hearts to each other
and our heads reach Orion.

My evenstar,
Your anchor never rusts
Your arms are my haven
I set sail into you
This is my home.

Never estranged, never misplaced
We sing the song of the elves
We sleep on the grass
Petrichor, hedgehogs and moonlight
This is my home.

Meleth nín
You are my home.

Meleth nín
Le melithon anuir.

Friday, 13 May 2016

Of Vengeful Mermaids, Venice and a Rising Sea: Interview with Angela Rega, author of "The Return of Melusine"

A morbidly beautiful tale of strong-willed mermaids, a journey towards finding oneself and a crumbling city

Angela Rega
On May 1st, the anthology Fae Visions of the Meditarranean, edited by Valeria Vitale and Djibril al-Ayad, was published by Publishing. I am excited to share with you an interview I conducted with one of my fellow authors, Angela Rega. Angela's story "The Return of Melusine" is the exciting tale of a mermaid's struggle to acknowledge her true nature and make the right choices. The name choice for Angela's protagonist is a very interesting one: Melusine is actually a figure of European folklore. She is a feminine spirit of fresh water in a spring or river and is usually depicted as a serpent or fish from the waist down.  In this interview, we will delve more into the author's world and also understand where her inspiration springs from.

Angela Rega is a belly dancing school librarian with a passion for folklore, fairy tales and furry creatures. She was raised in a multi-lingual household where nobody finished a sentence in the same language and still struggles with syntax. She keeps a small website here:

What inflamed your passion for writing ?

Angela: As a child I spent more time with my grandmother than anyone else and she was an avid storyteller. There was a story for every experience, every lesson and for entertainment. Everything was a narrative.
Later on, I discovered the written word. I had an amazing teacher in primary school who read us The Hobbit and The Egypt Game and I was hooked. Reading stories became an escape. Then writing them I realised I could create my own getaways or explorations. I can’t imagine not writing now.

What fascinates you about fantastic, mythic and folklore fiction?

Angela: Magic. Wonder. Discovery. Possibility. Metamorphosis. These are evident in the fantastic, the mythic and the folkloric. I think to be able to escape into these stories knowing I will experience one or all of these elements excites me.  If stories were a fluid body of water, the mythic and folkloric serve as a well from which I draw from.
 "Reading stories became an escape. Then writing them I realised I could create my own getaways or explorations. I can’t imagine not writing now."

Artwork by Justin Gedak
What inspired you to write your story?

Angela: My parents were migrants from Sicily and Southern Italy. I grew up with a reverence for the sea and the mythic that it contains. My grandmother told me stories of the Cyclops of Acitrezza and the mermaids of the Straits of Messina. These tales are old and can be traced back as early as Homer’s The Odyssey.
In my twenties I visited Venice and fell in love with this sinking water city. Completely. In. Love. I read about the Doges of Venice who, once a year would take a trip in a gilded barge to the open sea and there they would toss a wedding ring into the ocean to symbolise the marriage of the city to the sea. I thought…what if…what if….there were mermaids collecting the rings and now with the Doges long gone and Venice sinking they were waiting to claim the water city as their own?
On a deeper level, it is a story about identity and duality and in particular how these translate in relationships.  Mermaid stories often have this theme present. How much of ourselves do we give? How much is too much? Can you deny your true nature? This is why stories of sirens have always fascinated me. It is something I think we can all struggle with – there is a bit of mer creature in all of us.
"On a deeper level, it is a story about identity and duality and in particular how these translate in relationships.  Mermaid stories often have this theme present. How much of ourselves do we give?" 

Was there a specific song, album or artist that helped you with your writing process?

Angela: I love listening to music – particularly while I’m writing. I love writing to ambient music by artists such as Steve Roach and Brian Eno and I also like listening to cello and violin or the operatic sounds of Callas and Tebaldi – my two favourite opera singers.

If you could meet any author, alive or dead, which one would you choose and why ? 

Angela: Argh! Just one? I cannot limit myself to one…maybe two…no…let’s settle for three because I have enough room for four chairs around my small table in my Lilliputian apartment. If I could meet any author alive or dead they would be: Italo Calvino, Haruki Muraki and Jeanette Winterson.

 "If stories were a fluid body of water, the mythic and folkloric serve as a well from which I draw from."

Fae Visions of the Meditarranean is available in both print and electronic formats. Here are some useful links if you want to purchase the book or if you're simply interested in following updates from the Future Fire Press:
Future Fire Press Blog


Publishers Weekly Review 

Saturday, 2 April 2016


When shooting stars fall
We celebrate the death of light
With a fingertip raised towards the sky
Or a wish upon the lips.
When the light died in your eyes
I celebrated it
By pouring oil
Into my flame.

I swore my light would never be extinguished.

Thursday, 25 February 2016

Nocturnal Streams of Unconsciousness IV

Astray, ablaze, aloof
We wander the earth
The twists of this world coiled around our indecisiveness
curling up in the crevices of doubt and wanderlust
Between our ribs perches a hunger
While our brains only feed us the distilled
Quaff from the poison, bitter soul
and die a thousand deaths
Young soul, you are a phoenix
and cyanide is nothing against
the pair of wings that rip through your back
Beautiful soul, the doors of the stars are ajar
Now go and burn yourself to death.

Les ombres valsent autour de nous à jamais.

Reach for the starry gates
Again, memento mori.
Swing swing swing yourself up into the fragments of time
and reach for the explosives in the air
for the goosebumps on her skin
for the orgasms in the atoms of the universe
let the black holes devour you
and come back with bruises and scars
that Gaïa will lick
and you will heal and enchant and enthrall
Memento mori.
Go and burn yourself to death
You are made to set yourself ablaze
Smoke seeping through your lungs
and ashes on your tongue
Memento mori.
Go and immolate yourself,
burn burn burn,

Image credit: