Posts Tagged betrayal


I haven’t seen how the wilting
Made you chase rivers and the savage
Churning of the waters on your body

Made you sob loud enough
To wake the dormant depths of other rivers

The mountain today is silent
All its mournful serenade are muted

everytime the stories you weaved
Are graceful as the flooding that took
Houses crops and dreaming of mud people

Stories of moon falling like fruits
Breaking like eggs and revealing the suns
You stole when you became nameless
In regions where everything dry
Is a celebration of abundance

Today in the savagery of your nakedness
In your honesty the crevices where
All those forcibly lost are found
Tagged named and are lost again

I felt them again
Like how it was back then
When wilting and greening
Is felt not seen.


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Appropriating Redemption.

What I’m saying here is not, I agree, poetry,   
as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,   
under unbearable duress and only with the hope   
that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.
-Ars Poetica, Czeslaw Milosz

October 18

It was exactly on a day like this when you came down from the sky. The clouds were grey, with a hint of orange, and some streaks of blue. There were pocket storms all over you, there were small circles for thunder, lightning, torrid rains, and raging winds. Your body is littered with leaves, broken branches of unknown trees. On your feet is a swollen river.  Your knees assumed landslides, between your legs a typhoon slowly gathers strength, and gave havoc immediately above your hips.  Strangely you hand summoned a different season, winter in an unprecedented coldness.

I’m trying to re-imagine you. Your hair brown as a river, with curls like open-sea-waves has metallic yellow ribbon, with a real yellow butterfly roosting on it, desperately seeking  succulence. Your hair like rain, fell down until a few inches below your shoulder. The bag you carry on your back carried your burden in return. You told me the half-moon under your eyes were not borne from lunacy, sleeplessness has its own way of claiming your body,  that’s why that moon, you say, is in constant eclipse.

I looked down on your palm, it looked like it has been ravaged by wars, the lines were scarred, it has wounds, it doesn’t close easily, and is wet with tears. Your palm looked like a different continent altogether, forced to surrender, a broken republic.

February 16

I heard your heart caved-in.

You went to the bathroom, and cleaned the floor like you always do, i’m sure you were smirking in front of the mirror after seeing those little green molds silently starting a colony.

I’ve been away for 7 years. In those years i am always in some places that most of the times i didn’t bother to share. I almost died in one of the hospitals in an island across where you’ve been, those were psychedelic days, in high experiment, as if my budget is limitless as the string that held the kite back from reaching the blue above.

I’ve been communing with the sea, but never told you of the secrets i gathered from hermit crabs, from fireflies inhabiting mangrove nations. The wind has its own evening secrets, when the waters glow, the air around assembles to impregnate the churning below.

I never told you what happened when i went up there where guns grew wings.  Time moved around in slow-motion, in mud-pace. I spoke of the trees, one night  my voice rustled like thousand leaves, and trembled as if i’m a coconut tree about to give-up the bulging greens and oranges up my bosom. Sometimes i croaked like the frog under the rain, demanding reforms for the land that i’ve been skipping. Above, in that place, the earth becomes liquid under my feet.

I ate lamb stew i found under the stairs of your dreams.

Did i tell about my moving closer to piers of different countries? How i just shook my hand like a preacher, and moved my eyes to wink, to get my fair share of love near train stations, airports, and movie houses?

I didn’t get the chance to tell all of these, because i can’t be still. The familiar became unfamiliar.

I saw you again surrounded by loss, tubes going in and out of your mouth, machines musically disturbing beside you, and i touch your hands, your feet, your shoulder, and your forehead. You never opened your eyes again, nor your mouth, and something in me choked.

Then the coldness came.

Then i silently recalled our stories together as if they are photographs, slowly flipping through pages, from black and white to colors.

Pa, i spoke to you.

My breathing clots on my chest.

The secret of the Great Stories is that they have no secrets. The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably.

-Arundhati Roy

Listen to me.

Who have been walking with their shoes, bloodied and soiled by the faith of redemption. Who plunged themselves to the labels of excesses, and cry in silent for the hunger you felt is more than what is being sold in street corners.

Didn’t you lament on romances that got wasted by love in the vegetable kingdoms, where rats infests to feed their young somewhere hidden in the stench of the sewers.

Didn’t you talked about silence, and threw every single watches you own to the roof of houses you passed by every night you got yourself in one of those situations, that getting drunk is not just because of alcohol but by the smell of bodies charging against each other?  swear that you will submit to the eternity of time. Aren’t you noisy with this kind of silence? and your songs are gibberish.

Aren’t your knees became callous because you kneel in every chance there’s a cathedral in your mind and in every body else’s mind, and then you get shoved from behind, because all of these are prescribed by the preachers in glossy suits, and gel elated hairs.


I am with you if you’ll jump up from the 10th floor of your dreaming and fall splendidly voiceless.

I am with you when you murder the language that will creep from the shadows of your wants.

I am with you when you berate the tv for misleading us with cartoon shows and write speeches to flood newsrooms of naked skeletons.

I will be with you when we will shove down our poetics to the throats and asses of those who have been wielding their names as if they own every mad house of the cities that we’ve been to.

This is where i will settle, in my dreams where i saw you with skinny legions, with eyes stretched back as far as china, and breathe-in, deep like it’s an unending well, without the bonanzas of wealth.

We will settle here, and we will kiss until we are drown in our own embrace, under the Technicolor evening, we will walk around and name every nameless, we will knock on their doors and sleep on their beds.

Soon we will fade in discontent.

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Rain Dancers Wear the Colors of Bruises.

After several days of contempt the clouds finally revealed its watery secrets.

I haven’t been musing for a long time, fates have been conspiring to prevent me from taking note of how people in real life interacts. Gestures have become mere gestures, it doesn’t have motives, it doesn’t have history.  I don’t even know what a specific color  a person is wearing represents.

Today it came back in deluge. rain makers are done.

A garden suddenly appeared before me, it has all sort of flowers, vines, and spices. The aroma stings my eyes and made me think of heaven. At the center is the chico tree of my youth, it is where i curved myself when breathing becomes heavy in anticipation of a juvenile meet-up, while the rain etched it’s tattoo on my back, like maps of lost treasures, overlapping each other trying to misled those who are on a long and short hunt.

I will then start to unlock meanings, and i will create new meanings from situations, events, and conversations.  I will also share naming the world in half, one for me – a continent founded on rivers, where houses will rise on books, stories as stilts, and one for your dreaming and drifting one that has wheels on it and  a pedal attached to it so you can roam around with the world you will name, when and where ever you want. Our world will be translated over and over.

This creature

Has hairs of summer

With delicate sorrow on her eyes

And communed in songs

To those that inhabit the underground


Bursting from nowhere like a sudden river, the tortured nights before me will stop, i will not grind my teeth to sleep, and i will not be as reckless as evenings induced in rhum, brandy, and all that’s bitter sweet. I will looked at my toes, and delight on the mud under my nails – i’ve been trailing foot paths without my slippers i only want comfort negotiated between my feet and the earth. I will linger in the sensation between my fingers every time they are about to clasp your frail hands. You should know your palm has lines that measures distance in touch.

I will murmur degrees of colors

To harvest the offerings

Of the street clinched

In our fists

It will snake like roads

To where dreams are relocated

Between our eyes.


Our quarrel is abundant as our questions that we would want to ask each other.  example our coming together is a conspiracy of the universe – our vocabularies are subservient to the wishes of the stars.

These are protracted speculations,  that cannot be settled anytime we are eternally distant and dislocated.

Last week i let go of my possessions, i let go of stories hidden between book pages. i concealed fragrances, and stench in papers and neatly placed them in my collection of fictions and intellectual ranting of dead poets, disturbed intellectuals, the cynical geniuses, brillian junkies and the freaks.

Las week i let go of myself, in whim. then i center a storm in this country that i also call my own.

Tomorrow, we will call on those who were absent, those who have been pushed to forgetfulness. We will remind them that after all that our revisionism is nothing but ordinary, of orders going against the tyranny of comfort.

To end this, i will slowly fold the envelope where you hide letters, i will delete numbers, i will clear my browser history. i will forget, how one evening i saw you surrendering laughter to strangers, as you whistle by the stairs, and click and click and click.

i will write on papers and send them out slowly.

I will take flight and fall like stones from the sky when i am old.

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Dreams and other Burning Constellations

let me stand next to your fire

I have one only one burning desire,

Let me stand next to your fire.

-Jimi Hendrix-

I will start this blog exactly the way i want it, at this state that i am into.

In unsuspecting places, things that are not supposed to be there suddenly reminds you without notice, it’s everywhere,  it’s on top of the table over the left corner of where i’m standing, or that statue that stands five feet away from me, or this pen that i am holding, or that dress, a fugitive dress that a lot of authorities and ordinary beings have been looking for, because it  is supposed to be thrown behind bars, as it is cruel and sadistic.

The absence, as what we knew of them, suddenly makes her presence felt.

Without notice also, we are suddenly transported to the valley of remembering where reminder is plenty, here you can faintly touch memories, you can faintly smell them, and taste them, you can even faintly see them.  They flow as rivers, and they hop like bunnies, they wriggle like leaves when toyed by the wind, grew as grasses, and brown as rotten fruits.  In this world people are exiles.

In this sort of place, people just tend to be alone, they are selfish with their own memories, they don’t even glance at each other. They eat on their own and keep joys to their own selves, They are people contented with their past.

In this world, people are uncaring of what is happening and what will happen, they laugh at long ago jokes repeated over and over.  In this world  rain is eternal for they are the memories of the valley.  In this world all that happened happens again, in private. However, it is only momentary, it ends in an hour. The length is not usually that long, it started with 15 minutes, a lot of people were apprehensive at first, they were afraid, because they don’t know how to deal with how they were before, they’re confused,  they don’t know what to do, where to begin and other necessary assumed mannerisms. It  went well for a few months until people suddenly succumbed to greed, they want more. There were protests all over, demonstrations of different gravity, because revisiting memories is not an option that time, they were impositions, they are dictates. After a few months into the protest the valley agreed to the demands of exiles.

What will happen to the world we momentarily left? Or what is actually happening right now to the world we unwillingly left?

I’ve heard it has sent out a party to hunt us, all of them were looking for us.  There’s pandemonium in the city, they want us back. They don’t ride cars anymore, they don’t eat fat, they don’t smile and they no longer have love. The world is sad as it is right now.

This world has been sad for a long time, even before we left them. This world resents it’s own presence, the people resent each other,  they kill, they rob, and steal not just possessions, but feeling as well.

The world whom we left, is, also better without us, it doesn’t need additional noises, it doesn’t need more sadness.

I’m not an exile i’ll tell you why, because i hover in-between worlds.

A lot of things can be a reminder, i see them as  something that occurs naturally, for most of them they are guilt, for me they are pleasures.

I don’t belong to any of the worlds. when i am confused where to settle, i only send postcards.

For now, let me just sing the melody of the void, in crescendo.

The Sun is the star at the center of the Solar System. It is almost perfectlyspherical and consists of hot plasma interwoven with magnetic fields.[10][11] It has a diameter of about 1,392,000 km, about 109 times that of Earth, and its mass (about 2×1030 kilograms, 330,000 times that of Earth) accounts for about 99.86% of the total mass of the Solar System.[12] Chemically, about three quarters of the Sun’s mass consists of hydrogen, while the rest is mostlyhelium. Less than 2% consists of heavier elements, including oxygencarbon,neoniron, and others.[13]

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Our Days of Nimbus

to where?

I am not done yet.

Inside me is like a room with dark drapes drawn across a bright day, it’s a sealed place where creatures who crawl, and fly cannot enter. In the middle is a coffee table, with books half consumed by fire, litters the left edge, then there’s a pencil over papers crowded with scribbles and other manuscripts. There’s supposed to be an ashtray not to catch what is left from cigarettes but to contain the ashes of burnt leftover love.

On the left is a small wardrobe, five steps from the coffee table a red rug starts to lead you to where my clothes are being kept, in snaking diagonal formation is a sentence “here meals are rehearsed from your memory”. You’ll just have to acquaint yourself to seeing things in the dark and you’ll see shirts, long sleeves, jeans, socks, under wears, pants, slippers, bags, bed sheets, towels, notebooks, pens, shoes, pillow cases, and to the delight of the gloomy-weather-worshipper is a sun block, mascara, tanning lotion, and lip balms – sometimes these are essential, who would know the ozone would want to open itself bigger and bigger?  Tacked on the wardrobe is the list of things that are sent out for laundry, and some little instructions how to wash them. Standing on top encased in glass is a battery powered latex  laser sword with an instruction “for alien invasion only”. Think, but don’t think too much, i don’t want you to get any idea, how things started and how it will move from here.

Perpendicular to this is a little bed, big enough to accommodate strangers that are lost,  this may be a quaint room but it still needs company. The sheets covering my bed is soft, with pillows that allows you to bury your head every night when dreams are too much to contain, when you grind your teeth, and talk before going deeper to dreamscapes.

Littering around my room are luggage; all sort of cases, and mountain bags, you know i can leave anytime i want. On the ceiling are lizards, made me think that they are couples, i always think of them as collectors of stories that happened inside my room. The stories might be too much for them, as yesterday i found a third one, and another spider on the corner. They need to have more and more allies, now they need cobwebs to capture despair that the lovely reptiles failed to catch. They capture dreams and re-dreamed them.

Outside is a veranda overlooking the river village, and where the river village looked back. the veranda made of wood creaks in protest every time i’m out to survey possible escape routes. A few meters below, before reaching the river is a minefield of sadness, you can see wilting flowers, dead animals among them, soiled clothes sticking out of the earth, a punctured tire, rotting boats, a broken tv, a spectacle, a wig, a colony of rats, the stench of decay, and a butterfly. it came to me one night and settled in my stomach, that every time we converse and every time i hear your stilettos echoing in the alley outside my door, the butterfly would convulse inside and i am reduced to worldlessness in your presence, everything in me crumbled like a poorly baked chiffon cake.

i saw you and then i think of delayed breakfast, fried eggs, toast cut in neat little squares, salt and pepper, cinnamon,  coffee with milk and brown sugar, delectable morning, and i think of hunger, because i am of the world that doesn’t have words for everything, my mouth doesn’t open to received gifts of nourishment, the joys of nibbling your crisp laughter, the glory of tasting the saltiness of your sweat, and the earth on your body. the high-heels calling my attention, the feet, the map before reaching the knees, and the hem of your dress, a curtain call for archers to bend their body, and words to keep the hollow of your form. That tiny curving nails set to abolish the repetition of verses coming from all direction, that tender arm is capable of doing all that is violent, tearing all that intrudes your territory, sending to martyrdom thirst and hunger, the vagabond distraction becoming still. You open roads against the shadow.

Directly under my bed is a secret passageway, where exit is the only thing allowed.


The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.
-Czeslaw Milosz

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