crap pepe crap

we do not need to sing the song of dead 'heroes' to own patriotism.

it is not a badge of vanity and false pride.

so trite.

hail the glorified.
hail the overrated.

hail the epitome of the filipino.

the epitome of the filipino who wished to be something else.
something he would never become.

hail pepe.

one pepe is quite enough, thank you.

but who is pepe?

have a safe and productive rizal day.

A lesson in emphasis, not in punctuation:

A lesson in emphasis, not in punctuation:

WHO are you
who ARE you
who are YOU

nests

What is a family? What is a home?
When the lamps are already dimmed. Diffused.
The pillars already cracked. Powerless.
And the doves have all flown away from the nest.
Some enslaved. Others perished…
Tell me…
What is a family?

hither

HITHER. WHERE TEARS COME UNBIDDEN WHEN UNNEEDED. THE SAME TEARS DESERT YOU WHEN YOU DO. SLEEP THE NIGHT. SLEEP THE SORROW. THE LONELY SINGS NO LULLABIES. . . LET ME BID YOU A DREAMLESS SLUMBER…

bare threads

Ask me how a barethreaded tapestry feels, for I can tell you. Frayed at the edges, you are all unraveled and raw. To feel that the very ground you walk, stand on is no longer stable and solid. For it is crumbling away and its dust, treacherous. You have nothing, no one to lean on. They are just figments of your insecurities. Your sanity merely an illusion. And the only thing that is left for you to do… is breathe.
The air not even yours, just lent to you.
3 juillet 2008 21:32:01

SALVATION

SALVATION

break the world

in screaming glory.

Shout ye triumphant sons

And daughters

Of flawed wombs and negligible seeds

Pray

That we may all reach salvation

Tepid and apostate

Cry

In fury. in pain. in love. in the dying.

And scream in glory for the breaking of the world.

Then await

Him

Who shall come to rule and reign

At the breaking of the world

LIFE IS A PLAID

LIFE IS A PLAID

life is a plaid

the patterns at once seemingly

simple and complex

our loves our sorrows our glory and shame

all compartmentalized into blocks of

dulling color

the parallelism in our collective existence

echoed in each row

and column of woven

thread

fabricated singularity

our paths cross but we never

stay

still

life is a plaid

the patterns at once

interestingly lackluster

like as we know it

…or know of it


who would dare unravel our

shared knit

to enlighten us

and break the world

break the world

LISTLESS

LISTLESS

Write a song pen a
Poem
Pass it
On
Burn
It off.

Or bury it deep
Within
In the impregnated nullity of the life we are familiar with
We shrug nonchalantly
To pathetically endeavor, attempt at filling in
The eternal void. Constant hollowness. We identify
We say, with each other our lips claim
As our eyes elope with our hearts
And chase after all
And every insignificant fragile
Little thing…

So write a song pen a poem pass it on burn it off then bury it deep within

SUMMER’S FOLLY

SUMMER’S FOLLY

Summer fades, and autumn summons
You are my folly

The winds are silent
As they rush by
Grim

Uncaring

You are my folly

My ruin

Summer fades, and autumn summons

The moon takes flight
Without a glance
In solitude

The cup has emptied
And the hearth burns low
The shadows stilled

You are my downfall

Summer fades, and autumn summons
You are my folly

OF KING AND TEMPLE

OF KING AND TEMPLE

My temple is shabby.

Yet I am King.

For the world Is. Is Broken.

My Temple is Shabby. My walls cracked.

My pillars fickle, my roof weary.

My font is parched.

My torch is sapped. Soused.

My altar is drained and desecrated

The soul that dwells within is shattered.


Yet I shine with a light that is yet undimmed.

And my spirit is at once listless and grave.

So…

For I am King.

Lean on my pillars, seek shelter beneath my roof, drink from my font, warm by my fire.

Worship at my altar.



Though my temple is shabby,

I am king.

Kismet

Kismet
(ode to serendipitous jeepney rides)

a silver globule.

the drop of sweat traced a sheer
tenuous path down her vulnerable throat.

as she swallowed what modest moisture was present
in her gullet.

it was sacrilegious. this damned
and damnable heat.

and the substandard metal of the galvanized vehicle
did not make matters better.

she fanned his face with a fin of bony fingers.
blue veins like cyanotic threads embroidered
her parchment skin. speckled by the relentless
years.

the visage of each, generously covered by sticky sheen.

the army of modern motorized monsters drudged along
the continuously narrowing cheaply paved roads.

this ride.
in a vessel of progressive and desperately pragmatic manufacture.
brands to the mind that you are
in the

here and now

of a very philippine context
(if the heat had not already done so).

you moved your thigh. well. attempted to do so.
our living corpses crushed together like
woven chain mail. bobbing with the ride. Subconsciously
cursing the tropicality of things

an expression of solid discomfort cemented in our countenances

you sniffed. as the dirty sniveling infant next to you
commenced with a caterwauling concerto.

my neck stiffened, fanned by the dry breath of
the fatigued civil servant beside me.
i ignored him. a concession to the fact
that we do not really need
any drama at this part of our days.

the old madam regaled her comadre
with such ribald anecdotes. how very risqué.
proving a relatively grand source of

entertainment to her fellow passengers.
the mother at the corner covered her
eager son’s ears. But the dame was oblivious.

resplendent in hot pink tights and vinyl nails
lips garish with cheap smearing rouge. a shocker.

i make an attempt. at spacing out. my temples throb.

congestion is Hell.

now him with the
bags of bananas bound
for some market of where
i do not really care to know
right now,

sparked a conversation with
our dear driver – el capitan
of our sun blessed (or sun cursed) sojourn

on how much the rising costs
of internationally tradable goods
have affected the lives of such simple folks as we
the veritable salt of the perishing earth.

how, they pose the question, can unfortunate juan
survive nowadays?

as if the urban noise wasn’t enough
and the trip too long enough

to endeavor to make your brain reason an answer.

the caterwauling babe had paused. his tremolo
now fading into a whimper.
the audience was most unwelcoming.
ungrateful philistines.

or perchance the dust and smoke exhaled from
the proboscises of the uncaring automobiles are to blame?

and the clamor of the denizens (human and mechanical)
of these urban veins and arteries are desensitizing. proof of subsistence is
commensurate to
the level of the racket one produces.

but to whom are we proving this? ourselves perhaps?

how many rides
like this

does one need to find out
that he needs to live?
and not just merely exist.

can we hear ourselves still?
and can one still find oneself embracing
a truth in the absolute crowd of contemporary

circumstance?

dear gray wall:

dear gray wall:

it has been
relentlessly
humid and scorching these past few days.
of course. you know. you who have no chance to seek respite from the
sun’s arrogance. the sun
has burned away all our fragile

hopes – such nervous little things.
perhaps they burrowed underneath the ground.
nestling in the cool sod.

but i do go on. pardon. patient
eavesdropper to my dreams – suppressed yearning at the core.
my fleeting youth deserts me for what perhaps

you know.


your
dour silence consoles me
still.
constant companion of restless slumber
buttress of a leg, lover of a shoulder you
prop me up in more ways…

so many more ways
in distracted pondering the pads of
my fingers wander across your concrete face.
rough solace it tendered.

tell me

is it easier to live life as
life was lived by those
who went before
me…us?

Or would it be cowardice to believe
In the synchronicity of common experience?

you

you.

you know who you are.

you know what you did.

yet i forgive you.

still.

i pray for your happiness.

and success.

i pray that the karma you sowed.

you would not reap.

what do you gain from your games?

i forgive you.

yet i never forget.

^

let me breathe... you bind me with a fate i do not yearn for... yet accept without yielding...i grow... yet i stagnate...

guro. alab. alabok.

guro.
saan ka patungo?

kung ang baga ng iyong alab ay upos na.

at ang bukal ng iyong dunong ay simot na.

at ang gatas ng iyong kalinga ngayo'y abo at alabok na lamang.

kapwa guro.

ang mga sulok ng iyong silid aralan ay mga tuyong talulot na hindi nakakarinig sa iyong mga dasal.

mahal ka pa rin ba ng iyong yeso at pisara?

padayon..

BITTER BLISS – the anniversary

“live in my house…I’ll be your shelter…just pay me back…with one thousand kisses…”

Teach me how to write. The story of us. The unassuming shrug I make when you laugh at my jokes. Your light (socially undetectable) pat at my shoulder as storms gathers betwixt my brows. Of small gestures we do. To say that we have each other. To say to the world and affirm to ourselves, that yes, we are alive and for some freakish jest of fate we have found each other.

Teach me how to write. Nay, to give birth. To a symphony, a poem, an epic, or a text message. To how much better it is to exist, survive (despite the jadedness) when I have you. Of the sleepless (oh divine cliché) nights as my clammy hands clasp the phone as you whisper your goodnights in gigglish delight. And then we finally do say goodbye, and I realize that I have been holding my breath the entire time. You were always a skip or two ahead. Taunting with unsolicited mirth and seduction (of which you were unaware of).

Teach me how to write. Of the first day we met. Of how nervous you were. Of what a wreck I was. Both trying to be so suave yet stealing little side glances at each other, then hiding our smiles beneath the redness of our faces when we get caught by the other.

Teach me how to write. Of that first kiss. In the gathering gloom. Tender and sweet. As the old trees gathered close to hide our temporary sentimental paradise. Tender and sweet. Not hurried, just as we intended it to be. Of the way you clasped my hand as you closed your eyes, and the way you trembled when I held you close. You snuggled deeply into my chest and listened to the beat of my heart. Still the way strangers stared scandalized, oh but we were oblivious. They passed.

Teach me how to write. Of the tears I held back when you grew cold. The bitter taste it left in my tongue as you conveniently forgot to call or send a message. Of the tiny sharp pinpricks at the heart when you drifted away. The way you can freeze with a nonchalant hello and a noncommittal ‘uh huh’.

Teach me how to write. Of the day you finally got around to saying farewell. A part of me already knew it was coming – yet I just did not want it to happen. You said I wasn’t listening. I was. I just plainly didn’t know how to prove it. You said I was asking too much. I probably was. I just wanted to keep sustaining what little we have. Yet you faded.

Teach me how to write. Of the reality that I failed. Failed to keep you with me. Failed to show you how much. How much more…

Teach me how to write. The story of me. Without you.

Waiting

Waiting
(Of dust motes – glimmering in sunlight’s apathetic bliss.)


Waiting.

This endless waiting

I hate.

Not knowing

If one can. Or cannot.

Or how,

In infinitesimally minute thought flickers,

Can someone just – quite unabashedly and grotesquely commonplace – pass the time?


Waiting.

Perpetually waiting.

For what really, one is behooved to have an answer. For whom?

For him? He is … well…not here. Gone.

For pastures not necessarily greener.


As I tell myself that I AM.

In the here and now of layered sub contexts of my own creation (rationalize, I say necessarily).

Though I know I fail grandiosely.

Tell me how can I?

Or cannot?

Then I’ll pass the time. Unabashedly and grotesquely commonplace.

While I wait…

freak out...yawn

it's my freaking birthday today. apparently i just turned 24.

i hate birthdays...they're so lame. lolz

where

where have my words gone?

brother.

have you seen them?

did you feel them?

as they shied from the light

and withered to dust and ashes

in the barren core of my being,

did you grieve for them?

like i have

in a once upon a time

without the happily ever after.

my words are dead.

and with them

my selfhood.

grieve for them for me please.

for this dusk in life prevents

the hollow me to do so.

in this once upon a time

without a happily ever after.

i miss you.

i miss you... bad.

don't leave me hanging...

goodbye II

i will sing for you.

if you let me.

i will sing for you.

though my tongue knows not the words.

and my heart is numb.

you are at a loss. your adieu but a mumble.

i will sing for you. of the endless dawn. of flights of fancy. occupying our distressed embarrassment. to hide the fact that we are dancing in circles.

of the eternal dusk. in the dim light we keep. unspoken promises. doubts and dreams.

i will sing for you. for i will teach my tongue and force my heart. to utter the words and hum the notes. meaningless now.

you eye the horizon. my song fades...

goodbye I

i will dance for you.

if you let me.

i will dance for you.

no rite of spring. for spring has passed. and it has failed us.

in the tension of my body, allow yourself to witness summer.

its heat and passion leashed and grim,.

i will gesture you an autumn. frail and grave.

in the dying light we come alive.

in the autumn of rebirth.

i sigh a winter.

its mourning silent and circumspect.

like a badge worn with pride.

in an exclamation to the living world. yes. i know what living is.

what loving is.

i will dance for you. in the dying light. with bated breath.

farewell.

les masques...

i absentmindedly sat in front of It.

with a hint of a slouch (just ever so slightly...).

i was conditioning myself for another escape. another respite from the banalities of a dull life.

but a conundrum was reopened for me.

It was talking to me about masks.

Oh, i said. i know about masks. they are indispensable.

Yes. It said.


for how can you deceive the world to believe that you are happy

...or excited.

...or interesting...and interested.

one should always have his mask ready. a mask for this...or for that.

a mask to wear when the crudity of life begets too many braids and braids of lies and

tear drops. salty. bitter. and in rarity, sweet.

a mask to wear for the gravity of the moment.

It was talking to me of masks...i concurred.

Then anOther begged to disagree.

the Other posed a question...with all innocence (that appealed to one's better sensibilities...and curiosity of course).

it talked to me of a way of to render masks useless.

but this way was harder...

for it asks to have one teach his own face to become the mask.

there is truth in artifice. apparently.

you? where are your masks?

...fuck.

learn.

learn.

learn to say goodbye.

learn to accept that it is not because it was not meant to be.

he just doesn't want it. want you.

the small slices at the heart-core, that eats away at your vitality.

would one stab be more merciful?

...fuck.

avril

it is april... and i believe we are supposed to fly kites...

but the wind is dead...

for the wind is the bearer of our dreams.

yet we no longer dream.

alas.

the wind is dead.

and we can no longer fly kites.


c'est avril... et je crois que nous sommes censés voler des cerfs-volants...

mais le vent est mort...

pour le vent est le porteur de nos rêves.

pourtant nous ne rêvons plus.

hélas.

le vent est mort.

et nous pouvons plus ne voler des cerfs-volants.


C'est avril... et je crois que nous sommes supposés pour voler des cerf-volants...

Mais le vent est mort...

Pour le vent est le porteur de nos rêves.

Pourtant nous aucun rêve plus long.

Hélas.

Le vent est mort.

Et nous ne pouvons plus les cerf-volants de mouche.

vert

vida

'maybe love is just a requiem for the soul'

- nerina paillot, learning to breathe

id est II

and i paused.

i know you were no longer there...

yet your presence lingers like smoke after a great fire.


suffocating my consciousness.


my heart-ear yearns to hear your footfall,

yet am deafened by the silence...


the skin on my body, lips, tingle with your touch,

your feel that is perpetual and constant.


my body molds to your form in sleep.


were you really there in the first place?

or were your words and my memories a dream?


a cruel trick played by the subconscious.



illusory.



a last attempt at making it known to you that i exist.


but do i really?

mortal childhood

in childhood, we learn to be vindictive. to love and hate.

to love

to hate.

and hate more.

to pretend to forgive and not show that we never forget.

to fear,
to cry,

to lie.

to lie and pretend.

to hurt and be hurt.

to lose and never find ourselves.

id est I

One yearns to return to a time when One had the chance to be with Him, to prove himself worthy of Him. but One cannot deal with the fact that He was out of his league. and that His world can turn without him. but One still clings to memories, or whatever little he has, had... paltry, fragile things... One is a pathetic fool...and the real world is unforgiving. but One is happy and content that He is happy and content.

quagmire...

my quagmire... is just that. a personal quagmire - the burden of being yourself when you don't know why or how. everybody has one... or two. you should get one. makes people understand the gravity of being human. especially if you wallow in your muck...

cheers | salut

ave mundi.

ave mundi.

i rise.

naked yet whole.

for now...

robes made of sin,
embroidered with lies.
i wrap myself...

in solitude we are taught that we are not alone...

celebrate the inherent hypocrisy in the fabric of our lives...

weave.

vivat. vivat. vivat.

kites.

do u believe in kites?

vivid.

dancing through the cloud curtains.
mocking the firmament.

they say kites are Man's hopes.
vignettes of vainglorious self deception...

lashed to the Great Mother,
yet reaching, defiant, to the highest abodes of the gods...

men hope, kites fly...

i don't play with kites.

shut

i close myself from light.
light that brings shafts of cruel hope that pierces without mercy.

the walls are true allies. they make you numb and welcome the calm dark.

i let myself fall into the bosom of the Earth.
in the Moon's eclipse, the Earth talks to me of shadows and shades.
in the Great Mother's decay i recover myself.

i am given back what is denied me.
i will take back what has been taken.



await my awakening.

woe to heathens...

...

friend, there is something about us and when midnight has already passed. no, not dawn. just when the new day is yet unheralded. this time blesses us with vulnerability and doubts. precious fear that keeps us grounded. it gives us back our dreams, affirms our potential. shows us a glimpse of the future...

noir

of black roses.
attractive as death.
the senses succumb.
seduction's finite finality.
there is beauty in lies.
of black butterflies...

shall we sin again?

x

friends, FRIENDS, friends, and 'friends' are thorns, yes, and are immaterial.

Pain is The Truest Friend. it is a constant. a given. a blessing.

we do not have friends, and thus should not trust anyone.

we only have Pain, and thus should only trust Pain. . .

it is the only thing that can seep through our beloved walls...

lovely isn't it?

and i sigh...

you... i know you yet i do not recognize.
i sense you yet i am numb.
i hate you.
i love you.

i am you.


you... are a familiar stranger.
a dreammate.
morning's birdsong.


the light of your eyes are fell.

the lies in your lips are truth.
truer than any passable reality.

your wounds are everfresh...

their stench, sweet and cloying.
clinging to my consciousness.

your smile that fools no one and everyone.
your smile that never quite reach your eyes...

then you break into a semblance of a laugh.
hollow and fading.

you are broken.
yet you endure.

i am you.

here's to crap. love and loving in 2007

the first said he wasn't ready. stabbing me with such exquisite pain, it's waves rushing through the sensual borders of my being. reduced me to questionable worthlessness. summed me up with a phrase - i didn't even deserve a sentence.

the second i hurt. no excuses. except for not believing in a subjective emotion. he was a breath of fresh air. perhaps my system had already grown accustomed to the pollutions of man. move on, i said. he had other ideas.

the third. played a game. he enjoyed masochistically. allowed it to wash over him. apparently he hurts too. or something to that effect.

no more.


here's to crap.

decay is bliss

decay is bliss... sounds like garbage mouthed off by some goth poser... produce of a wannabe...a reject. burdened by metaphor.

but decay is bliss.

let it wash over you.
i said.
the compost of your life.
yes, the one that was lent to you.
...let me correct myself...
the one that was rented to you.

pay it. heavily.
with such a great and suffocating price.
of course, while you dig your vast pit... your imagined abyss...
multitasking for a true denizen of the piscean age.

then when you bend your broken back again, he pushes you.
you try to grasp a hold in between your pathetic sobs.
pathetic.

you ungraciously fall.
yet... she was there... she knows you... of you.
in her silence you found what was missing in his silence.

she held you long. yet you did not resent it.
in her damp mustiness, you met your self... and your self... and your self.

and on her bosom you were able to stand up again.

another year... fuck.

down with saccharine optimism... down with socially dictated hoping.

there's light at the end of the tunnel as long as someone paid the electric bill, or changed the bulb, or just even turn the freaking switch on.

walk through a crowd, singular and collective, and lose yourself...welcome to the age of aquarius... or is it pisces? not really sure.

humans like asking other humans, "how are you? are you okay?" knowing full well everybody else has shit to deal with in their lives... so, no, i'm not okay. lolz

fuck, 52 more weeks....

jaded. par excellence.