Haiku: Sensual

Hermaphrodite
His brief on his toes
Wondering what he’s holding –
A nest or a bird?


Prostitutes
Friendly neon lights,
Friendlier lords of midnight.
Unfriendly bed thrusts.


The Unprotected
Flesh-only loving –
Mimick heavens from the start
Then hell afterwards.


Bedscenes
Covers uncovers
Skins of mostly selfish acts
Four-cornered romance


Bombshell Movies
Enlarged obsession
Pictured odors of desire
Too bad, they are flat


Plastic Surgeries
Just like black to white.
Resulting from anxiety
Plus all that money!

Uhm... Cheesy, again...

Hey, here's a silly knife...
I'll let you hold this
as if you are ready to stab me
the moment I step my other feet near you.
I am more than willing to see my blood.

Oops... Don't wink for a while.
Cherish this opportunity.
Cherish this moment that you have the knife,
that I am in front of you,
that you now have the power to mutilate any part of my body...

My tongue? Maybe because I talk too much.
My eyes? Maybe because I often tease you for your constant pimples.
My hand? Maybe because I am too intimate...

for you.

A cheesy poem: Best Friends

I was once far away, for a mile or two,
And I never thought I could get close to you…
But days did pass and so the moonlight blues,
Now we’re the best of friends, me and you.

Each joyful smile and each painful sorrow
Seems only remembering, that we’ll all soon go…
Each day we shared and each night together
Will leave then, but the memories left… never.

The secrets you hid well, though barricades appeared,
I sometimes was intolerable, still you remained here…
You prepared your shoulder, and said you won’t leave
“Why?” I asked, and you just replied, “I’m a friend.”

Those cheesy words I hear from you
Like “Please my best pal just let me hug you…”
It elates me… my heart… and my soul!
I was once far away, now I’m here right beside you.

Amplifier

Applause.
The drums are with me. (The guitars are in place.)
All hail.
The drums will wake me. (The guitars will fill the space.)

Cigars, cigars... (Liquors, liquors...)
Hazy smoke from cigars-(Hypnotic scent of liquors-)
Let darkness collide (Let darkness not exist)
With us in particular. (To those who are now not fearful.)

Shuffling of prism lights, (White lights bedazzle,)
As the stage valiantly resides... (As the stage continues to baffle...)
My life is like this; it is amplified
By light, by limelight. (By light, by spotlights.)

Good Friends?!

F If I could just count the times that I laughed hard,
O Or all the mornings I woke up with a smile...
U You're the one next to all the happiness that I had.
R Our four years never in mess and I’m glad.

D The greatest friends I had now in my life...
I I don't know how they came, but I wish they'll never leave.
A A soft shoulder to cry on, a heart to warm with...
M Embrace each day that I was with you, for eternity.
O On each trial, you were by my side,
N And though wounds were stabbed, and nothing's left behind.
D The only thing I wished unto Thee-
S Is to be... with all of you, the dear friends of mine!

Dedicated to all my classmates of Batch-2005, Rosario Institute.

Today's List

Today’s List
(August 20, 2007 – Cavite City)

Wake up at 9:30am.
Realize that Brownie decided to leave.
Realize that it is sometimes hard to refresh yourself up.
Take another 2-hour, dodgem ride.
Remind yourself that your superiors won’t miss you.
Find your dream for ‘excuse’ closed & broken.
See yourself giving others money.
Notice that your feet start to shape oddly.

Find another dream broken.
Give others more money.
Realize that siestas are sometimes hard to do.
Give others more money.
Remind yourself that invisibility is often synonymous to death.
Stare at anywhere blankly to get an instant eye-sore.

Find that befriending non-existence is bad.
Find that you yourself are alone in your own existence – it is worse.
Meet thieves that will tell you that you are selfish.
Meet more thieves along the way home.
Meet your door at 11:30pm.
Learn that Whitey followed little Brownie.
Eat alone.
Believe that tomorrow is not like today.
Sleep.

Another incomplete thought...

I see a butterfly
Red and Yellow in the sky.
I hope that you'd see it, too
I hope that I'd see you.

Argh! I can't complete this poem!

Alligator, alligator
Bite off my horns and tail
So that I could pray to my Creator
To forgive my world betrayal.


Well, I may or may not declare it as a finished work already.

A poem that gave me my first short popularity

A Confession
(Another Thug’s Prayer)

Dear God,

I know You have given me 9 lives,
and a gun to protect each of it.
But I already failed about 8 times,
as my trigger could have its last hit.
I confess, I killed as many as
700 minus 34;
Now the devil, as my end arrives
will let me lay, slumber, die on the floor.
Hail Holy God, He who I have forsaken.
He detached my strings, as He takes over my DEATH.
I’m real, yet my soul longs for an ethereal sonnet,
I keyed the 7th piece, as I am weakened…
Hail His Son, who wears my favorite shirt!
He sung my riddle created from a curse…
I hid my gun under my dirty bed skirts
to protect me as I doze off from my troubles…
Yes, I still have the last shot on my gun
to draw away all the pain that I have.
I’m now burning in the kingdom of all the undone…
For I struggled to diminish His orders to none!
I confess, forgive me for I have sinned,
I know You though I didn’t mind your reign!
And now You’re damn afraid to let me live,
coz’ I left your secrets that are deep!
I kill, and I steal dreams,
And give those to my brothers and vocals… my band.
Songs they say could be against Him –
Songs of hatred? Songs of detest and shit?
My empty valor says I must mark my word,
as well as my pen, my gun, as I hold…
I was taught to preach all the dirty words
to cleanse my spirit hungry of gold!
Glory be to the Father and to His Son
For it is Their beginning that led my dawn.
They killed my shadow, and their cops bust me on.
And now I pray unto Thee, here in my room:
Pitch black, so no one would find me here;
Tranquil must be, so no one would feel my fear;
Locked, so no more evil be tempted to dare –
Dare to take away my gun as I kneel!
So dear God, as I end my little prayer,
will You save a thug from this world’s betrayal?

Title: High School GR

This is a song, I just removed the chords for aesthetic purposes.

High School GR

Friday night of February,
I saw your eyes so calm
You filled me with your love so tender
Against that pale moonlight, but

Oh, they’ve been watching over you tonight
Watching over you and your...
The Devils play the devil’s way again
I know there’s something going wrong, going wrong tonight, oh

Twelve at midnight, it’s heating up
You were nowhere (so as they’re pack)
My sense turned twisted, I felt numbed
I don’t know why but I feel like eyed and

Oh, they’ve been watching over you tonight
Watching over you and your...
Their car drove out of sight, and
At my rage I knew there’s something wrong, something wrong tonight

Blinding morning after that night
I woke up with a sip of coffee delight
I still fear something went wrong, oh God
I read the news and on page nine
“STUDENT: Raped, stabbed and died”
My restlessness heightened
The blame just pointed to me
Oh dear Valentine, did you help her lie and die?
She is a beauty queen, not a bitch, you forlorn
And fuck, she’s colder than ice, colder than ice
I can’t even wipe away those last tears in her eyes.

You’re so cold, I can’t even look at you
You’ll be forever sleeping
It ain’t nice, I can’t even say I love you, you’re gone now,

Finally lost in dreamland.

One of my essays (does it look like one?)

Learning from Miseries

The nights of early October are weird. Few classes, no activities, no companions, no money. Well, I actually never cared, not until the day I found myself thinking deeply while standing in front of jeepneys marching from Dalahican to PN or San Antonio, buses blowing their horns in might, and different faces of worried people. Something in them just hit me hard to make me ask, “wala pala talaga akong kasama.”
It was my saddest face for that month. In fact, I already wrote a poem that shows my sorrow of being left alone on one of that month’s first nights. That thought I inscribed in the poem is something special. It brags about my – now broken – insensitivity to loneliness. I went home teary, and in deep thoughts.
My capability to do complex things alone makes going back to my house easy. I am born with that personality. I love the fact that I am a certified LONER. I love being naïve. I even love to keep my hurting away from other’s knowledge. These reasons made me find it odd when I cried about that one-time loneliness. Perhaps, it is my other emotional characteristic: my love of nostalgia.
People around me know, at least, my good memory skill. It is so good that I can manage to remember events that happened to me even in my pa-dede days. I always remember them. And remembering such stuff “always” gives me a problem or two, especially on my relationship with others. I am NOSTALGIC. I am afraid that my often-reminiscent attitude would give me more problems in the future.
After thinking a little more, I suddenly realized that the combination of frequent reminiscence and being used to loneliness is troublesome. I am right: it is an epic conflict for my case.
It is painful when your friends (congratulations to me for finding the real definition of friendship) leave you when you are finally attached to them. I found loneliness sorrowful. And its pain kills.

***

I arrived home from school. I know it was not late at night.
Our house’s main door is locked. I stayed calm (as always) and quietly entered the house via its back gate. I asked my mother why our door was shut that way. She replied that thieves and robbers are at large nowadays. Okay, I got the point. I asked her again “why lock it three times?” – the main knob, and two other locks are fastened tightly.
She did not return an answer. It was just fine to me… until I reached my room, finally taking in that its door was also locked, while its key was left beside my bed. I grumbled. I told my mother that there are no reasons in locking up my room, but she insisted that it was because of the roaming thieves and robbers, including all of our squatting neighbors. I then told her that it is okay for me if those people enter my room (because I know that there is nothing to rob in my room on the first place), and she replied that my reason is senseless.
Abruptly, my thoughts were filled with hate – hate with insecurities. I was maddened by the reason on why our house’s main door, and even my own room, is tightly locked, considering the time I arrived and my rights for that sweet and easy entrance to our house. Her distrust to anybody limits ease and comfort, even in our relationship as a family.
How I wish she could know that her disbelief makes other people hate her.
From that, I learned that INSECURITY is synonymous not only to lack of confidence, but also to lack of trust to others.

***

This is life. Problems and conflicts are not always happening at random. They also happen based on how you deal with your personal thoughts, happenings, and decisions. Sometimes, the conflicts reside in your own over-/incapability to manage emotions and assumptions.
Refrain from learning to think one-sided, to promote being judgmental, and to decide selfishly. Balancing things out is as important as your life. Take a deep breath, and plunge into the reality of living in accordance with others.

Old Poems, Old Poems... Ikuze!

Some poems; from the collection 'Stories of Sadness'.


Stories of Sadness

#1. The Trader

The quick thumps made me realize
He is breaking down,
Little by little –
As opposed to those footsteps
Of his supposed audience –
On a rattan chair.

He must have thought
Of fortune as plenty as Dinorado,

However, he is a Chinese;
And Chinese don’t eat rice
That much.

He had no ornate of
Cats, Buddha’s, and dragons
– He is allergic to them,

But he is a Chinese;
And Chinese believe in
Luck, charms, and curses.


#2. Fire Exit

Half between five
and
six,
I was, on that same old stairway,
Adoring your air.

You were standing against some kettle-like people –
You were waiting for the next rocket bus –
You were radio-free and mob-less, as usual –

Half between six
and
seven,
I strummed some of my frustrating romances.
I love your air,
though you’ll be far, always.

#3. Superstitions

Money for me
or
Felines are lucky.

I hate you for
your voodoos,
your love of malt, and
your bowed composure.

Knock on wood
and
Karma.

I hate
your yellowtail,
your Encantadia, and
your fallacies.

But that last night,
I turned her photo upside-down
As a few droplets,
With the music of literal hunger,
Silently raced on my eyes.

Farewell, another lonely soul.

(To Arnold Galicia's mom, and to all mothers. October 1, 2007)

Welcome my wordy side!

Another Mrs. Smith?

I am not used to lighting cigars here at my own bedroom, not, until mother died. Cigars make me calm in ways I do not know. I treat it as a bosom friend. It is my only companion. I love it so much; I do not mind if it KILLS me or what for this lit cigar reminds me of my mother.
Oh mother… she was my opposite in many ways. She hates smoking. She used to throw at me anything that she holds in her hands whenever she catches me lighting up one. I remember one time, when she caught me smoking while I was in bed, she quickly drew dad’s Mako Knife (made from hi-technology stainless steel alloy blade carefully crafted for maximum cutting performance…) from under her cooking apron and threw it straight – not to me, but to the pillow near my right.
SPLAT! Bull’s eye! A shooter indeed! She hit the pillow with so much precision that the pillow went half-mutilated. She shocked me, terribly. I theorized then, was mother a former secret agent, just like Mrs. Smith from that movie Mr. and Mrs. Smith? What am I thinking? Gee… I will never know.
She is four days dead already. She died from a heart disease.
Yes, dead. Heck, I cannot keep recalling another trait of her – whenever she can help, she will help. She carried that trait even now that she passed out. Proof is that on the very same day she died; she requested our doctor to donate some two or three of her body organs to the hospital near here. I can hardly recall what organs she donated except for her eyes, because of her line, “Hey, find the one who will get my eyes, and befriend him for he will look for you the way I do, always”.
What was she saying? I could not really comprehend. I am slow at picking up things like this. One of mother’s weird thoughts, perhaps. A riddle or something, I cannot tell. I cannot even say it was a joke (why would someone give a joke before he dies?).
“How in the world will I find that one?” I thought deeply, “Mom is making me confused, again.”
I took a deep breath, with the cigar’s burning sensation, and closed my eyes. My last cigarette is done.
I jumped out from bed and put on a tidy shirt. I will buy a cigarette pack at Tita Anne’s stall. However, it is a very, very sunny day today. Very sunny indeed, that it makes me lazy, even to move. But, I must go out, anyways.
“Good morning Tita Anne,” I greeted with a smile, “a sweaty day, isn’t it?”
“Good morning Wiwit,” Tita Anne, the stall’s owner, cashier, closer, opener, etc., replied, “yes, too hot indeed.”
“Stop calling me Wiwit you old age!”
“Your head is as hot as the sun, young boy.”
“Just stop. I’m going to buy cigarettes. And… young boys… never light cigarettes.”
“Whatever… Wiwit.”
“You! Be thankful you’re old!”
I left the old woman and went straight to the cigarettes/liquors section that is close to the snacks stall, beside an AC unit.
“Lights without a drink”, I thought, “won’t be fun.”
I made up my mind. I bought two blue-sealed cigar packs, and a bottle of Mucho. I picked some foil of peanuts at the snacks stall.
“Nothing can dissolve a crappy feeling but a couple of nice drinks and some lights stuck in my mouth,” I concluded quietly, “now, this heat is going to be down the line.”
I picked up some more peanuts. Suddenly, a girl, I think of my age, bumped me hard. The girl is somewhat familiar to me, I just cannot recognize when or where did I know her – maybe because of how she stared.
I told her I am sorry. We both regained our composure. I looked at her with a grin. She returned a sight.
“What… are… those?” she replied, innocently.
“What…?” I answered with a puzzled thought, “are there dirt in my face?”
“I… err… don’t know if there’s dirt… eh,” she continued, “What… are you… holding?”
“Huh?” I am perplexed. Early this morning, mother gave me this kind of maze, now this girl.
“Are those… peanuts?”
“Yup.”
“Those? What… are…?”
“What? Lady, if you are up to something, don’t involve me, OK?” I interrupted, “Today is so hot that it makes my mood bad. You wouldn’t want to be hurt, do you?”
“Well… I’m not…”
I picked up some junkies, “here, have these, go waste your time with these.”
“P… I… A…,” the girl looked at me, “this must be my fav… P… Piattos!”
“Silly bitch…” I whispered as I left her in that section and went to the cashier’s counter, “Hey old one, who IS SHE?”
“She’s Anne,” The woman replied merrily, “she seems to like you.”
“ANNE? Another crazy Anne, eh,” I laughingly answered back, “Like me? Are you dog-bitten or what?”
“Shut up. Their family transferred here just yesterday.”
“Just… yesterday?”
“Yes, just yesterday. Four days after her operation.”
“What operation…?” I curiously asked, “Why is she like that? Four days?”
“SHE USED TO BE BLIND.”
Then, my tears started falling.