siya

 

*

Photobucket

 

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.

 

*


 ---

 poetry as visual art

 powets do kick ass

 iPud (ako, too)

---

 

 

 

 

 

Photobucket

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and this. a proof that:

how you see LIFE is how

you actually see YOUR self.


 

*

Photobucket

*



 

 

***

 

maddening spurt:

----------------------

 

 “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-

 

subo

10/27/10

*

there is something about the gloomy, damp and drizzly weather that makes me like it. ..a kind of melancholy that makes me write a little bit more than the usual. just let the world unroll its curtain…then… you are alone in the cinema.

 

 

 

HADLUK

fear for her used to be the geography of wrinkles
sunken cheeks and old camisoles, unbuttoned but
ugly.
that the day shall come:

 

there will be a few people at her funeral:
her husband and a room full of strangers
for free coffee and some late night tete-a-tete

 

“she wrote offbeat poetry, she believed in altruism but she never
wanted to have single births. adopted all the stray dogs
down town. collected terra cotta teapots”

 

—

 

the husband,
stood in front of everyone, dunked both hands
into his pockets and, in his foghorn voice,
announced

 

“she asked for cremation but today
i am failing her”

 

fear for him is, and will always be:
things that do not rot
because they remind him of short-cuts,
cowardice and

 

embers that are maddening-sad

 

beautiful.

 

 

 

SALUM

 

you
picked
a
piece
of
sea shell
and
listened
to the hymn of the waters.
you did that
every time you felt like sleeping
but obviously, couldn’t

you
stood
near the window and just
listened to the melancholic air
that surrounded the small city
with the same thoughts:

if you walk in a small town
where the population of people is just half the
number of bicycles,

1)will you ever find your missing piece…
2)a pair of second-hand red boots
3)and the formula to bidding farewell to gravity?

the shell slipped away slowly
from your moist palm, the phone
rang a fourth time.

“helloooo. in the mid-day, do you also think of us and the ocean?”
“i called to tell you that in two days time, the world will end.”

then, you told your brother for the nth time,
“i think there is nothing wrong with your dream
of becoming a fisherman since you were a boy.
our parents are dead now, no one will get disappointed with you.
just go and please stop making random depressing
phone calls.”

you took off your shirt,
dove straight to your blue bed
as if it was the same sea you used to go to
as naked siblings.

skinny, salty and bronze against the

Cerulean
skies.

 

 

*

Posted by modernpatadyong at 14:48:00 | permalink

Previous Comments

I have already found my pair of second-hand red boots. At least, I got that right. I smiled.

I fear for things that rot. For things beautiful and precious to be devoured into something ugly and smelling, something foul.

I find comfort in ashes. Somehow, it is home.

Because I am selfish, I fear most for when my hands are gnarled and wooden-like, trapped in a memory of a lifetime of togetherness, would still form the other half of a hand that’s too fragile to say no to the bidding of death.

Posted by Dee at October 27, 2010, 8:26 pm

i wish you write my epitaph. please. =)

Posted by chichi at October 28, 2010, 7:34 am