*
pure love does not shatter.
(the kind that you hold on to even if it leaves you dead and with no self-worth is just something you have mistaken, fermented by years, magnified by romanticism)
been there. i don’t wanna go back.
.
*
)
my three year-old brother
(turning 4 on january)
threw a blank face on me
asked me why his classmate’s
mountains were brown
when they were supposed to be green.
(
do you clap your hands
when your corrupt
mayor delivers his
ako-ang-pinakamaayo-nga-alkalde-sa-bilat-ng-earth
speeches?
^”you know, he’s the son of atty/dr/supt./…”
oh really?
“you know he paints and plays kawayan intsruments”
ah ok. nice.
“you know he does freelance jobs like:…”
pila sweldo ay?
#
our view of the sky depends on where we are seated
for the mais vendor from the bus window,
it’s my dangled hand, 10 pesos
tagbak terminal, iloilo
|
when was the last time you fell
in-love with a stranger, fell out of love
with your future wife?
_
the skycrapers cannot save our sinking temper,
the more we lose sight of the sky,
we go gaga over surgery,
instant noodles and
dildos.
=
of all your actions,
i die into crumbs of amber
when
1. you cover me with a blanket because im drunk
2. you do not let go of my hand even when we’re asleep
am i too romantic dear, or i have to quit smelling
an old unused refrigerator
in our kitchen? (haha)
~
sometimes, it is tough to write
pure erotic poetry
when you are truly
in-love.
<
enlighten me,
you do something that can build the young
but you don’t even know that it’s infedility
which breaks many of their homes.
>
blow jobs are not nasty
if you make him feel that
the texture of his piece of flesh
suits the tender breathing from your lips.
+
walking down an idle road,
i thank beggars for reminding me
that i never wanted to live
my life on alms.
/
you are loved.
you are the greatest event is someone’s life.
you are needed.
sleep well because dreams
do come true.
.
*
waking up
alone in the bus
is like recollecting all those you loved
as those places you wanted to go.
like strangers who appear in your dreams
but you have never met in real life.
like the very first morning you have to choose
between staying for the years or breaking free
with days of unfathomed happiness.
like crying in the cinema as you sit next to
people who come in pairs, their fingers wandering in the dark.
like making new memories in a place you used to fear
because it was owned by somebody else.
like packing your clothes after a long vacation
and sliding back to normal routinary days.
like reading old love letters that you cannot understand
anymore. after a year.
like folding blankets and singing songs you could not finish,
unfolding scratch papers were you used to write formulas
if in case cheating is the best way out.
like sleeping right next to someone who does not talk
but who touches you as if you got the most delicate skin.
like a death of a long-lost classmate and your black and white yearbook,
like teachers who are still teachers until today,
husbands and wives separated by financial warfare and sexual incompatibility.
like a 6-minute drizzle before your flight to somewhere unknown,
like falling in line to receive your first or last salary,
like calling someone in muffles because you have to let go that way,
like the smell of firecrackers the morning after New Year’s eve,
like confessing about a new love to your boyfriend and all he could give is a hug.
like working all day in the office and going home without a sense of purpose,
like drinking a lot of alcohol but eating more pain, not forgetting.
like loving endlessly without requiring too much time and too much presence.
like looking back and finding out that you are someone better this time around.
like remembering people who never stripped off your real essence.
like slapping a face. like your first dose of fellatio. like bra straps pulled by a lover.
like a world that talks about too much love but does it too seldom.
like failing and summing up your scars in one name.
like
clinging on to uncertainties
because you believe that
we do not know what we really want
until we find it.
one day.
.
*
if life is a weekend, still, i am going to spend it this way
with a frustrated priest. even if it takes me a wrong bus route, circumroadtripping negros,
10 hours by bus, an hour by sea. this was supposed to be my vengeance. but there, i got my stomach bloated
with the best-tasting food, my sleeves misted with sea-sprays, dipped my face to the depths of the earth, felt
at home with abaca and kawayan, forgot speed by walking full of laughter, conversed with the freefalling
water and the hums of the trees, got caffeinated listening to strings of new vice, celebrated music at the
rooftop, combed the city streets with a single bag, his bongo and thousands of little stories and goofiness.
oh and Dumaguete’s governor did some ramp model stint. and oh oh a vehicle owned by an official almost caused us to stumble down from the scooter. and oh oh oh i think Sigbin must learn how to draw and paint fish because haha. basta.
.
*
something raw from the strings but i ache to share.
for rain and david.
this is a story about leaves, about leaving– her bare toes. sun-kissed shoulders. bra.
it’s like when you found out monsters weren’t real but every night you still woke up screaming.
this is a story about the ideology of socialism
and the aching lips to lick utopia from the soil.
it’s like when a past that flickered, dead, drags your suitcase
asks you to “stay” but the door swings open, by it self.
this is a story about crying facing the bed instead of people,
because she believes to be pitied is not to be loved.
it’s like when a mother asks you “why did you leave them there?”
and you wanted to tell her about the sunsets but she hangs up.
this is a story about walking the road to nowhere
and that it feels good sometimes to get off the bus and forget home.
it’s like telling someone “fuck me hard” just to evade falling. so hard.
this is a story about countries and why do we have to cross them
and why at times, we have to adore the sunset because the other island is a memory.
it’s like when you were four and you cried because you bruised your knees
and when you’re twenty-four you begin to cry about a girl who does not want you to wear condom.
this is a story about people and why blankets are made
and how we have to leave sheets on the floor, when we cry. we fumble. we sin.
we make love.
*
swear, i am going to ink the lyrics and my heart down for this.
pinalanggang aryan. ♥
.
*
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.
*
---
---
and this. a proof that:
how you see LIFE is how
you actually see YOUR self.
*
*
***
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-
