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straight from scratch paper.
i have been orgasmically imaginative at night time.
somewhere, i have found the muse and you are all invited to
name him. Latvian names would be OK.
(btw- my former officemates rock. they love singgit)
enigma filmed by: thresca
This is not love but here we are: infants’ section of the mall. At this very place, I found memories of Mama, her pedicure and the manner she hums while she crochets. The lady at the counter had yuletide lipstick. This is not love but we belong to one house. You felt my stomach and I had this rare feeling that I only get when I listen to Icelandic music. We never visited the doctor, both of us do not believe in ultrasound just as much as we champion disbelief in the existence of Uranus and the food pyramid. Most days, we think alike. Rarely, we argue. And if we do, it does not end until one cries on the floor beside his or her vomit and pair of soiled socks.
I could have gone somewhere else that day 10th of December 2009. I could have worn lace on top of my brassiere or have ordered cucumber slush instead of latte. Perhaps, it’s because of any of them that made me noticeable to you. We made love hours after you noticed my pair of marionette shoes. We agreed we were soul mates and by all means we must not let each other go. We liked kissing on roofs of post offices and outside courier centers. We shared this fantasy of long distance love though we were together (almost) daily.
It was love. It was even an instant gratification I never had before. Never had I have it for food, for digital photo frames, nor the latest hippie dress on ebay. It was beyond romantic love, a kind that I had, not in my heart but in my stomach. The way I get too acidic when I talked to my Literature teacher about poetry and Dante. It was the way my tummy ached when Lito, a friend who buried a bullet on his head told me that one day, we’d watch the rain on the surface of Batanes. It was the fireflies in my digestion when I was just a minute away from sharing a long city walk with Leo. I loved you. Once, I meant the entirety of your faith and filth.
The doctor looked like an architect. He looked at you in such a way that you’re like having this testosterone conversation with your Uncle (and you always felt like this little boy in front of a whore). You cringed in anticipation. I went out pale and ambivalent.
“No pregnancy.”
.
unsay pasabot ani tin?
Posted by dan at December 13, 2009, 7:18 pm
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she likes seashore naps and the view of everything from the bus window. she likes tiny moments and the small spaces between faces when people talk.
sometimes, she wakes up to that odd feeling of being a fallen leaf, an old tree, an azotea or a waitress somewhere-- talking to a taxicab driver about that random song on the radio.
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and this. a proof that:
how you see LIFE is how
you actually see YOUR self.
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maddening spurt:
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“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!”
-Jack Kerouac-
Tin,
Everytime I am here, I am reminded of my love for words, first and foremost before pictures.
Your words inspire to take my time to sit down with a mug of coffee and allow ink to stain my fingers…
How I wish I have the time but I am happy that your words remind me to take some time off in the future…
I still have many entries to read… Let me take my time…
Posted by CWW at December 12, 2009, 11:33 pm