A glutton for devotion,
is what I would say of myself.
Reserved only for singular reverence.
Chainlink fence around portrait perimeter.
Love lies lusciously
where the marvelous maple
lets leaves lay in the autumn.
Core, contained in a thick cluster of
counterculture conscience.
Averse to all wealth, save
the cornucopia held
within my sternum.
Jul 30, 2025
Jul 30, 2025 at 10:45 AM UTC
As rough and as difficult
life may well be
it's still so deeply beautiful
down in the
philippines
The beauty of the village
might not be apparent
at first glance.
What deters at first
might be the killing
and the nature of a life
dictated by chance.
But once you start accepting,
adapting and reflecting,
you'll notice that it's just
the island way of living.
Nurture nature's native nest,
share what yield the fields have held,
food to feed for feeling folk,
care about your neighbors health.
Live in tune with natures wrath
but don't exceed her measure
stick to filipino paths,
thus warmth and generosity
will provide you with pleasure.
Red Horse Strong for everyone,
Tuba, Tanduay and San Miguel.
Menthols, **** and beetlenut,
you just have to treat us well.
Sabong's not for the soft,
it's difficult to watch.
Roosters duel over
who avoids the cooking ***
blades fly through the air
and blood adorns
the sand with spots.
The winner stays a champion,
the loser's in a plastic bag, granting us that evenings dinner
and we've just made our money back.
Wet markets aplenty,
with fish you've never seen before.
Smells of seasalt, blood and gore,
mix to form a memory,
akin to sobering melody.
Watch out for the Aswang
and do not break a mirror.
Keep the deadbolt shut at night,
to avoid unpleasant surprises.
The ocean's at your doorstep
and so are the bananas
and the coconuts.
Skinny teens disguised with bandanas,
strapped, riding through the village.
Don't worry they're just cousins,
standing vigil, chasing cops.
Fistfight near the fish ponds,
neither one backs down.
Tilapia watch eagerly
for who'll sink to the ground.
Their brother came by earlier
selling pastries with his friend.
Buy three each for everyone,
your total's fifty cents.
Everywhere there's laughter,
music, sun and food.
Really nothing better
than the filipino mood.
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 10:00 AM UTC
Yeah, I've moved around
for a whole while. Lost
a lot of myself, lost sight
of the goal, wasn't quite
sure what the goal could
even be about. "Something
this excruciating can't
be worth the pain", I thought.
And most of it wasn't, but
some of it meant everything,
sometimes longer and
sometimes just for
a pretty little while.
Wonderful people gave me
wonderful mementos. I
keep all of them, even
if the memory hurts.
And yeah, I lost a lot of furniture
and I lost a lot of instruments
and I lost a lot of friends
but I've never lost a gift.
Everybody's still out there
one way or the other and
they were kind enough to share
some part of themselves
with me. I'm thankful.
They're proof that we live and
they're proof that we love.
Even if some don't anymore and
even if we don't anymore.
I've let go of all of it.
But not of the presents
and not of the memories.
Thank you.
Jul 27, 2025
Jul 27, 2025 at 8:12 PM UTC
It's running through
my whole body. Every
little strand of sinew
and every piece of
cartilage can feel it.
What's wrapping
my body is cold,
dry and famished,
craving wrapping.
Cigarette ash linens,
it's sticky at the bottom
of a cup on the ground.
Bats in barren caves yet
warmer than in my grotto.
Jul 27, 2025
Jul 27, 2025 at 7:32 PM UTC
Black widow crawling up black vines,
expedition to your collarbones.
Crown of thorns pressed
against barbed wire
but neither of us bleeds.
Widows web resting
inbetween the lilies
adorning your hips.
If you glance southward,
a stabbed jester is crying,
bleeding out onto the meadow
surrounded by red wildflowers,
while the sun is shining bright
and the birds vanish into the clouds.
He's been like that for a while, I
doubt he'll ever stop. Or die.
"But don't worry!" he says,
"It's okay, it didn't hurt".
Black widow crawling up white flesh,
along the moths and butterflies,
across the imps and critters
landing just below the
tribal sigils planted
atop the hill.
Black widow is
squirming and writhing,
the two of you dancing in
splendid synchronicity. Flamenco,
with that reddened, swollen shell of yours
which I so deeply revere for its elegance.
In this tender moment,
the stars are immortal and
the moon faintly shrouds
the city in bone-white rays
of tragic incandescence.
Black widow retreats to its web and
the moths and butterflies have
gone to sleep now.
Rest easy, sweet
Hedone
Jul 27, 2025
Jul 27, 2025 at 4:36 PM UTC
Much thought, that I've invested
into the disposal of my fleshy, mangled hull.
Exquisite cadaver, worn and tested,
infested with maggots, fattening themselves
on marrow, digging through my skull.
Take your pick upon my passing,
most I've shared my plans with.
All you who know what to do,
though it might be a minute.
Those plans were made in dire times,
expectant of winter's end in a blink.
Strap my sack of bloated meat to
a float, equipped with fireworks and gunpowder.
Light the fuse, send me to sea, make it rain.
Feed the fish, marvel at macabre shower
of total annihilation and colors of
bliss, rainbows and proud refuge in
endless abstract nothing.
Grind my bones into dust, feed the earth,
grow your plants and inhale my essence.
Satiate your curiosity, save a finger,
fry it in canola oil and do tell
what I taste like
once you're down here with me.
Pick a painting on my skin,
it's yours for the taking.
Frame it, jar it, keep me around.
For the curious occasion that
I rise from the ground
and observe some patches missing.
Stuff me with wool, embalm my cadaver,
set me up in grizzly stance.
Whatever you do, don't mourn me.
I've seen the nature of this world,
enough for seven lifetimes.
Mourn the fact that
we lost one more degenerate
but don't mourn me out of love.
If you feel so inclined then
mourn me out of spite
and take a clue from Thomas,
same as I decided
to rage and not give in.
My plans have changed, I'd
like to stay around. But
should the void ever find me,
read this poem out
and take your pick
upon my passing.
Make my exit
strange, massive, morbid
and wonderfully loud.
Jul 27, 2025
Jul 27, 2025 at 12:51 PM UTC
Focused but with ease I sit
in a spring-cushioned
armchair coated in
soft leather, dyed
a rich bordeaux.
Cigarette in one hand,
Negroni in the other,
Joint prêt sur la table.
The Ouroboros woman lay
across from me on the
méridienne.
Our eyes not breaking sight,
we're opposite anchors.
Pegs pulling
piano wire.
As the smooth tapestry
of her milky skin is caressed
by one wondrous instrument affixed
upon her slender forearm,
with extensions most
sensual, the other
one implores
herself in
glorious
fervour.
Joie de vivre,
as close as you
can get, at least.
A tenebrous passion.
As thunderous as brief.
Adieux mon cœur,
ma jolie,
Élise.
Jul 27, 2025
Jul 27, 2025 at 9:58 AM UTC