These are the few poems I managed to write about the very intense and sometimes violent relationship I had with a woman called Miki who I met on my first solo trip to Japan, some years ago now.
I really liked Miki, but as with Hannah, the relationship was always going to end badly.

I hope you enjoy these poems.



i learned enough Japanese
in 3 weeks to tell her
as we kiss
she had given me crabs
she got from some one night fuck
a day or so before i met her
[i will get you some crab soap]
she laughed

day two
first time in Tokyo downtown Shinjuku
and Shibuya
casual goth and everyday loli
hitting Rockwest and Loop 2-chome dives
it’s decadence like any black painted
gay industrial bar in Berlin or Rotterdam
there’s always girls everywhere
same here
this Hito-jin latex leather
steel tip booted wrapped bodice
rubber certain of just how to fit
against Miki skin
to say she looked bored under-estimated the level
of contempt and disdain she eyed us with
or sneered under frown
she was delicious cool doing exactly that
black red menace thing
avoiding anything stereo-type Nihonjin

ok so, Naoko, an old friend, took me to this gay bar
walls painted with daubs of high tone luminescent
club trash art mixed with squid fish and child cat faces
over-stylised symbolism
insulting anyone who could speak
or write the language
so ok, this Miki ..
pillar-box red hair and fuck you eyes
fakaku mouth calls to Naoko
nodding her head down
over a glass of white something with ice
Naoko motions to me to join them
“ok, she is gay like us,
only girl girl you know, kaiawasu. cunt-grinder.
sou desu sou ka, rezubian”
she grins stupidly.
“ok, but i’m not really looking, just
drinking, Naoko”
Miki looks so my type
Harajuku lolita steampunk annoyed at everything
especially me
so obviously European

the next thing
would be to ask what she is drinking
[i drink white]
perfect English and Russian vodka
with sweetened soy milk
and buy her another to start
the pretence of an intro
but Naoko does that anyway
this Miki looks at her
[baka kusottare]
then at me looks past us
bored resigned
we made this contact
so ok,
Naoko between us her mouth moving
English into Japanese
and back with ease
Miki: [baka – idiot]
[i speak English, you can
stop, ok, so .. you dance?]

“sure i dance..”
can’t stop looking
at her body move
or notice
i’m nearly a foot
taller than she is

second day in Tokyo,
Shinjuku downtown
on the metro train
speeding to Higashi-Koenji
to Miki’s apartment
above a second-hand store
that sells anything worth selling


Strawberry Panic


i believe in little gods
who gather at doors and windows
looking in
waiting for a gap in
each entrance, a portal
festooned with trinkets and
amulets offering safe
passage or luck on the journey
while filtering out all the
empty shades and ghoulish
echoes living between
fibres of wood and glass,
the doorstep is always
too high a climb for weak
grey on a naked porch
drowned in cups of sweet milk
and the strawberry panic of
one girl’s lips kissing another
kissing you
while boiling water in a pot
for miso soup
just like your Mother made
before she became a shadow
somewhere in downtown Hakata
where she forgot to breathe
leaving you with nothing but
amulets and trinkets to ease
your passage from girl to woman.
i stay open for you, mushi-shi


blessed by gate wardens
the little smoke-shaped
Shinto gods
who live in every nook and cranny
of your apartment with us,
who wrote these words and never asked
for anything except a rainy night
and raw Saké to get drunk on
while watching us tangle legs
under a blanket of trinkets and
amulets i don’t think you knew
were there

your miso was good ..
the best i’ve tasted


Fire Horse


you want my pubic hair
in the picture
growing up out of the v of
my thighs
black and white
against the peeling grime
of a window, half-cracked
staggered brown light
and lens flare
manhandling the
camera as you click
check focus, shutter speed
and mutter curses.

“don’t fucking smile”
the accent causing
me to shiver when
i hear you speak.

“kore wa nan desu ka”
[what is that?]
i point to a box on the floor.
mu tea, she says.
just tea, i think
– strong and bitter

that’s you,
strong and bitter –
ohayo gozaimasu
[good morning]
angry jap girl

we only drink tea
or beer. mostly beer
and vodka.

Miki skirts the periphery
of kitchen chaos
looking for a bowl to stew
the mu in.

“your kitchen
is a shit hole”

“fuck you..

sore ga..
[i guess]

the rest of the apartment is
untidy and warm
lived-in, musty-smelling
filled with books, magazines
piles of print photographs
and cameras everywhere –
all old slr types
all Nikon
and into the bedroom
black enclosure with
a hot-pink sliding door
old tatami mat flooring
and our double futon
some naked girl photos
stuck up by pins
and more cameras –
one wall part burned and scraped
with gouged doodles
ideas and violence
painting outside of formula
and the lines
scrawled amphetamine poetry
screaming off at angles and
particle bombardment on plaster
crushed lines into broken endings
indecipherable icons bleed into caricatures
of self-idiot drunk face
imploding self-consciousness
a wildfire of red hair
and monster frame

she microwaves
dehydrated noodles for dinner
and buys me a plastic octopus
key-chain as a love token
it’s really her only way of showing
i don’t mind, long as Miki looks at me
photographs me naked
drying my hair
moving under her
those days when i look
out on the street below
in black and white,
needles empty in the ashtray

or when she left me after
we both took a half tab of acid
dressed up in bootstrap leather
ankle length bat skin coats
blackened eyes
and pagan hair
joining the underworld parade
and me about to puke over Harajuku bridge
as all the other disenchanted peacocks
strut past opening
their black beaks
to catch the rain
as Miki abandons me in full trip
to take more pictures
of my eyes streaming
in desperation.
fucking bitch

but, whatever.

i neatly write
the hiragana for
suki… suki desu
[i love you]
in my notebook




the vip invites
guide us
to an underground
bondage club
under the literate porn
of Akihabara
in a vast cellar
below an enclosed

it was black

some things i do for money
some things i do for free

we press into flesh
plastic high thighs
steel-tipped knuckles
dropped buckle studs
diamond claw panther suit
easing the definition of
passive restriction
binding the moon
in my hair

red against the rage
button a second skin
latex surface dexterous
on a powder frame
centre stage
Miki blushed fire
and took my hand

i followed
always knew
i would walk
on your luminous
[fuck you]
don’t ever stop​

ever. don’t. ever. don’t
we are synthetic
it goes like this ..

pink home-made pills
and dance kissing
J-Girls as they slip by
.. curious eyes
scan my white face
and black lips
in the neon underlight
polished skirt
lifted for a feel
of dry ice on skin
a near miss
stutter in the mouth
roll on your tongue
one curved line
perfect intersection
wet mouth and hand
in transition between
fast and slow light
admiring what i chose
to forget

the black
doesn’t last past sunrise
and i watch
the 8am commuters
on the metro line
burn through her gaze
on the way home
her home
not mine
not tomorrow






Point the Antenna to Proxima Centurai


These six poems are the total of all I could write about Miki and my time with her.
It was as painful as it was cathartic to revisit Miki in these poems, but I doubt I will ever write another Miki poem.
If I do, I will post it here.