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-

 

taghul

02/28/11

*

 

(one of those few songs closest to my soul)

 

*

 

There can be a lot of

 complaints she wants to hear from him

 like the chaos and death in Libya, the second-hand pain that every person

 gets because life, can be sad like that – it can be more unhealthy for the

 heart like second-hand smoke for the lungs.

 She can swear about the opposing principles she shares with her mother:

salary versus honorarium

 stability versus passion

 rich husband versus same wavelength

 everyone is practical, be one versus build your own life, who cares

 

 but he reminds her of so many good honest things

 that her right breast is bigger than the left –

 when touched gently and touched

 in the dark. That his legs are like reminders of trembling trees:

 

they are like people, it’s just that they have a different way of departing.

 

 

The dogs were barking, everyone’s asleep

 there’s a pubescent looking at media-warped meaning of beautiful and

 of hot and of making love,

 

there’s a lonely sea out there, somewhere, sweeping the stars,

 there’s an old man writing a new song about

 his younger days, during summers, during his circumcision

 in a far-flung barrio which made him felt like home, like no other.

 there is a 7-year old boy who dreams of Japanese eyes, who loves

 multiple choice types of quizzes only.

 

 

The dogs are barking.

 

She has raging hormones.

He has longing.

She has wits.

 He has sunsets.

 

 

bora sunset

 

 

*

Posted by modernpatadyong at 11:44:00 | permalink

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