Velvet spikes, the medium’s circular
Like a carousel for all the ordinary lives.
I spent a man’s life time
less than two decades.
The Erotes are laughing above
the picture frames in my room;
they know that I’m a poor man,
wasting away while joining the
non-believer’s lament,
forever cursed and immortalized
in stone,
in memories
and in
violent behaviors. . .

And so I accepted my fate;
and these smokes
I have been smoking,
are all just for you.

your smile has always been one of the things i wonder. .
there's a lot of things i could say to describe it,
and. . .

there's a thousand reasons why but i only need one....!

it matters and i'm afraid of the truth,
that if i conjure it,

.....it wouldn't be the same for you belong to the past.

The fan has collected
its share of dust.
The curtains that has been waving
from the wind seemed
to have stop.
The basket is filled
with ***** clothes
of a week and a half.
The pack of cigarettes I bought
three days ago is now hollow empty.
The ***** plates on the
kitchen sink
will serve as a refuge for the
cockroaches tonight.
The food I ate a couple of
hours ago is gone to *****.
And here comes the 'line'
that should punch the readers
for whatever reason it is
they are reading this:
I am a poet, not an
entertainer.

You are not like this.
It is what the world wants
you to be.
Are you angry?
Are you upset?
Do you extinguish your demons
with your cigarette breaks?
Do you hate everything?
Does the matter itself
brings you closer to the end?
Does the fire in your head
breaks your spirit little by
little every time you
think you've been fooled
all along?
Stand.
Don't take a step.
Let the train have its
way.
You are made for this,
flesh by flesh.
Your finish is grace.
Afraid?
Fear embodies you.
You don't know fear anymore.
You don't have to care.
The world does not care.
A recluse is better than
a narcissist in every way.
It's the world.
It's not this poem.
It's not what you think.
Every body is burning
and you are one of the few
with the thin skin
who feels it, expresses it,
molded by it.
Bukowski knows this
and he doesn't want me
to repeat it for him
but he's dead and I guess
I will be too.
It burns.

Hum. Hum. Hum. Hum.
Hum. Hum. Hum. Hum.
Notice the notion.
Hum. Hum. Hum. Hum.
Hum. Hum. Hum. Hum.
Faster.
Hum.. Hum.. Hum.. Hum..
Do you celebrate such occasions?
Linger into the presence of your
long lost friends and different
hidden enemies?
Hum.

What do you want?
Stay on focused.
Your attention is driving you crazy.
If only you’d close your eyes amidst
that notion..
hum! hum! hum!

It’s all in your head.
Hum.. hUm.. huM..
Carve your way back.
Your growing gnarls everywhere.
It’s grotesque but that’s alright.
hum!
You developed the early signs
of decay.. humMMmmMMmm

BREAK!
Inhale like a hero about to
unleash his full potential
against a formidable fiend!

Exhale! Like the last of
your power is beyond the
rites of your will!

REST. . .

Admire your heroes:

Bukowski finished beyond
comprehension.

Mercury came to ‘em all!

Nobody does
The DDT
like
Jake “The Snake” Roberts.

You’re not special.
You’re no different.
You’re not the protagonist.
It’s just a first person complex.
Your life is not a Salinger novel.

but

don’t die before your fears.
die suddenly.
die unexpectedly.

in this room
where i had spent a lot of
mental suffering and
arguements with myself
about what better decisions
i could've made
if only i had been
wiser,
i'm having vague
negative thoughts
of ending my life
quickly without any
pain.
i stopped
for a moment
and asked myself
if this is were all my doings.
i don't know.
i can't feel myself making
any sense.
it's something that dies
in you.

there are no blue birds here from where I’m from
only small brown birds, flocks of ‘em
recon a fat schoolmate from years ago got one for
a pet with a string on its neck
makes me wonder how to get one
when one is so hard to catch
with tiny hands; tiny feet; tiny knees;
tiny shoulders; tiny ankles; tiny head
now they’re all grown
I still never got the chance to capture one
and cage it until it cries in despair
hoping for a chance that it may
turn blue as blue as my room
brown bird, whenever I see one
I stare at it like I too can be so elusive
so isolated but free in an elusive but
vulnerable way

I never saw him again, the small brown bird
with a string on its neck nor the fat schoolmate

the burning sensation on my feet
inside my socks on a radiant day
is a sign that hell truly is a
sole-inch away.

the bums are the birds
their pecks as ***** palms
and our change
are the crumbs.

the mall is a one massive arcade
inside of it are the machines
we play;
one works with one or two credits
and the others works for dozens.
the rich gets to play at ease
but the poor plays with
dual frustration, be it with
the old or new games
and no matter how many
times the poor wins,
the devil always prevails.

the road is a desert and its hellish
drivers are the vultures
and the travelers doesn't have a clue.

your ride home
is a short film,
narrated by the houses,
streets and different
churches from
religious cults

and the home is
where the tragic
takes a rest
and your eyes,
a projector.

"we can't do
anything with bare our hands."

What is your special secret you’ve been hiding for years
To a world that is filled with rumors and hate?
Who is that person to correct us all?
Now that God appears in different tastes and genres?

Desperate for expression,
I just wanted the world to stop.
The opinions.
The gossips in office hallways about the new hot employee.
The politically righteous students who just won’t stop
proving their pointless point over a preserved dead body
buried in a branded graveyard.
That guy who wants everyone to think of himself
as if he’s cool so he just doesn’t care but he needs
everyone to stay thinking about him being cool always.
The thought of I’m too pretentious and that my
thoughts and poems are *******.
That person who shoves it in my face that she
is in good hands now that she obtained
her license. (Little did she know that she
can’t brag anymore once she’s dead)
That person who has all the support she needs
when she’s expressing herself.
That co-worker, though a slacker as ****,
still gets to have a nice sum of increase.
That co-worker... ugh.. just stop.

I’m here.

My feet like anchor.
Constant.
Decaying.
Marching an endless march.
Forward is the only the direction.

My secret is I haven’t been honest for years.
The last time didn’t went so well.
I created enemies more than I keep friends.
I let an abuse gain its momentum
Until it’s too late.

For ****’s sake;
I’m sick and worn out.
People can’t really practice empathy
and learn its limitations.

This thought and that,
I’m stopping now.

brief introductions, skipping fining judgments and
unconsciously accepting regret some days later;
i should’ve known better. . .
anna is a narcissist.
jerome is a hipster.
kenneth (also a hipster) wants to be the alpha all the time
when it comes to movies.
anthony’s a poet, at least considers himself
to be one because he writes
and stupid girls loves his generic works.
marianne thinks of herself sharp and has
nothing to say but “cliche” on art pieces
that she doesn’t like, pretentious as ****.
just because kath graduated from one of the
well-known universities the world
has ever known, her opinions and
views about everything must be and should be golden.
olivia who seemed to be a kid at heart,
turns out to be a ****-loving ****** of all sorts.
jacob who’s good at playing guitar is a self-indulged
narcissist
and thinks that anyone who’s not as good as him
or plays in band like he does can’t join he
and friends’ “clique,”
like hell it would mean the world to me
to be a part of those phonies.
professor richards who teaches literature
disapproves of my favorite writers, also a phony.
benison is a bully with nuts for brains.
to hell with this, and i’m a pacifist who’s
judgmental.

man has flaws.
they don't function like
those seen in pop culture.

flawed by the thorns of life;
what you see with your eyes
before every hide is a shape
that isn't permanent
and the final form of it is death,
sealed in coffins
and sometimes ashes sealed in urns;

life is good.
life tells you to smoke away.
life shuts you as if
you're aware of its murders.

life is good to you
and you have friends.

life is not fair for
you don't have real ones.

life is good to you
and you don't starve.

life is not fair for
you don't get to
experience what you envy.

life is good to you
because you don't
worry and your
parents raised you well.

life is good to you
because Jesus' followers
made you feel you are saved.

life is not fair because Jesus
only stayed in your head
but not with the actualities.

life is not fair
and you complain
more than you give thanks
and you really couldn't
do something about it.

life is good,
narrowed down
by likes, reactions,
prayers,
condolences
and kind regards like
those inspiring videos
of man getting through all
hardships
that was made by people
lined up for handsome
amounts of payrolls.

life comes after life
after life
after life.

life is fair.
life is. .
innocent.

never wanting to be a part of it all,
he just stares at them as they
carry their own opinions
and force-shove it to each other’s faces

he thinks that it’s pointless
to even think about it.

stuck in his room, wasting away,
he also thinks that his
enemies are doing fine and all

he can’t care anymore
and what matters to him most
is going home after work
everyday.

he stopped claiming people
as his friends
for they don’t really act like one.

it gives him joy to see
people enjoy the simplest of
things without any
stains of narcissism like
that family he and his girlfriend
saw at the mall,
where the father and the mother
are making the most of
their sons’ 9th birthday.. .. ..

well..
he hates narcissists.
those self-indulged,
self-righteous
people of all sorts
who really don’t
contribute much.
to him they are just
another form of pollution. . .
(and if they get offended,
he doesn’t care much. they
can babble as much as they
please but yeah, to him they
don’t really matter because
they are narcissists)

but he loves music and poetry
and being alone.

he prefers to die young
and nobody cares about it
really.

Since when did the heavens get so cold to me?
I was once the night who soared through each
broken dreams and piece them back together
Into something all hearts wished to possess.

Yesterday the street was leading me
to the glowing
of the fallen humming birds;
I yield and hope that
may God breathe life once again
to those who had no choice but to regress.

I must continue.
The heavens does not stand with me
on this one.
Not this time.

I have to lift my cadaver
Higher than the clouds.
Self-motivation will never be enough.
I may fail with this one long leap.

Sleep is deadly.
Loneliness is silent.
My heart is on stealth.
The world observes.

I won't let you do that to me anymore.

My body and mind will always
stand against you
as
the heavens
and its disapproval
may end me soon.

In a tiny space in a room filled with sadness,
I hear you there holy light.
Loneliness isn’t that bad, just misinterpreted.
Of all the people I pass through as I walk each day,
Wherever I go, I never had a single thought
About being inside a crowded room other
Than elevators or small bar gigs.
So here is the thing:
A single note from any musical instrument
Could mean so much more than

The rest of its parts and yet,
We always ask for everyone to come
When we want them to.
.
Is it that hard to stop breathing for
A moment and see how it feels
Like to have something taken out of your life
And for that you have to keep moving on
And you have to function like you are some
Kind of a puzzle, complete with all its
Pieces.

Pieces.
These are the parts that should never
Go missing.
Any single one of them.

This is something you probably heard before
But chose to make no action
Just because no one really talks about it
And doing so would make you look or sound
Desperate or most likely
To be branded with terms
You don’t like being addressed with.

It’s not just depression, sadness, the broken or
the tragedy that lies beneath every story
untold.

It’s being aware that human hides don’t
Live that long and that everyone should
know.

There you have it.
You don’t hear it everyday.
But if you have any idea about what I mean
Then start making it today;
With the people such as your friends, relatives
And most likely people who are too
Or should I say, a little bit lost.

when you’re someone who’s keeping
someone
awake at night
remember that the apple won’t fall
and all that i forgot.

this mental state ain’t just an asset
but also a source of paranoia of all sorts.
you can pretend it’s not in yer (rrr) head
but it shows when your head
is clouded by beer or ******
or sober enough to start a fight with
reality.

how come it’s an asset?
many pretentious artists,
well i don’t know who is
but surely not all is as vibrant
as they seem to be.

wow!

the lines are awesome,
how about sharing it?

well. . .
I’m not so sure about this
but I think it’s not really
necessary to do so..

then why do you write these
scattered *******
that makes your reader
induce self-confusion
that also makes them think
that this is ******* and gay?

but, but they read it anyway.

well how do you know
someone or at least tell
that someone IS really reading this?

see?

you don’t exactly know how to
interpret that you and I
are

the

same.

The last part of happiness ends as a memory.

For all I know,
I don’t quite remember what
is considered a happy memory.
Is it those past trails when you
still don’t have any idea
of what happiness means
or is it sadness residing itself
as a tumor in your head
from your darkest
room nights?

Did we found something unnoticeable
from those people we meet
every day that made us
wrap our hide to the skin?

They tell you it is something you just don’t
tell people that easily
because people are the back
of their experiences and state
that you just don’t mess with
because you will be found out;

but a stifling conversation with yourself
inside that head
could make so much sense.
The majority refuses this
as a gift.

I stare at the people and their
intellect, their movements,
the inevitable fact that to
clash with them would be my demise.
I have an atom part of God’s senses
and all of it can be felt slightly
through isolation,
regression and weariness.

I am not capable of living like
this any longer as I live it one more
day after the other.

He keeps all the houses healthy
As he delivers the fruits block by block
And nobody asked who he was
And what he does in his free time.
All the neighbors knew is that
He never tells you anything
But a nudge on your door
That your fruits are there.
One stormy day,
The neighbors thought that he'll
Never get to deliver the fruits
For the weather doesn't seem
To come along with the golden era
Songs on a Sunday morning
But they were wrong,
He was there with his cart;
A little bit late than usual
But he knew he won't last long
Enough for he is dying of a sickness.
The clouds were getting dark
And it started with a drizzle
Then a harsh rain
And all the neighbors saw was a man
Outside the window with his cart
And all the fruits on it
Going straight to the first door
But the door wasn't opened
And it didn't bother him that much
As he left the first basket full of
Assorted fruits and he carried on
And on even though no one
Opened the door for him.
The streets start to flood and he
Was still there leaving fruits in front
Of each door but still no one
Opened the door for him
Until all the neighbors saw was
A flooded street from the top of
Their roofs from a rain that won't stop.
They were crying and screaming for help.
Nobody gave a **** about the
Man and his whereabouts
For the neighbors are just people
Trying to live in
Peace
and
Democracy.

This phase is the slowest phase a slow dance song
could pattern itself with.
Not all but those souls darkening inside every
rooms after work is religiously cursing
that this is not everything should be.
We have plans:

Heroically-precised plans of an idealist when
he’s drunk and has to wake up at six in the
next morning and turn himself back into
a realist so he wouldn’t be expecting
something great to come.
The best part of it was he is and he was
an idealist at some point, not too frequent and
not so often.
And tonight he didn’t make much difference to you,
to me and to those poor kids the government couldn’t
handle but he thinks about it sometimes; about the difference
between how “he can’t do it but thinks of doing it” and
“enormous profits can do it but doesn’t even bother
thinking about it.”

So averagely unreliable he can’t be good at something
anyone would appreciate or at least make money
out of but he’s still there and sometimes
he’s a she. Doesn’t make any difference whether
a he or a she but their lives are meaningful
as a party lover’s or a narcissist who breathes
through attention that will never be filled.
...

They climb walls too.
They watch.
They sometimes write their
butts off.
They live.
They matter.
They are your belittled fans.
They were beautiful cosmic beings of space,
humbled enough to place themselves
down here and forgetfully
regret it and they still live.
...

I don’t know. Maybe this phase is just
so disappointing, I try to make something
inspirational about it and yeah, I failed.

The best place for the
scarred is a nice
uncleaned room;
with it are the few
necessary things he'll
need to keep
himself going.

He could go on for
days without having
someone to speak with
and frankly he'd be
much better that way
than putting himself
out there where everyone
is sickening and annoying.

What could have caused
this way of seemingly
irrational thinking
doesn't need to be explained.

As long as there are
******* and phonies
trying to take down
one another, and others
getting dragged along
their crap,
the world will never
fulfill the rest of our lives.

I am wasting away. I am angry.
I am scarred. I have instabilities.
and this deformation I succumbed
into reflects how the world treated me.
the other day I was being idealistic but
tonight I address all my worries to
how I was brought up. . . God! It
feels so ******* good to put the
features you imbued upon my hide
in use! I got half, if not, close to a quarter
over the sum of it all. This me writing
is the spill of what you pour on me;
an excess of the limit of what I can process.
Like a swaying drunk on the pavement,
soon I'll be waiting for the audience's
middle-fingers directed to me and I'll be
fine with it like a madman with nothing to
lose.

Well, that's the last hit I could take
for the day. .

letters Y,U,I,G,H,J,B and N. . .
these are the letters on this keyboard I stare at
when I’m blank enough to start writing something.

I wanted so badly to know if I’m the only one who is
stuck with nothingness.
the only motion of the day where I can consider
myself living is when I get this space at night.

and those places. . .
there are places around where I live I stare
at when I get the chance and I
try to play previous scenarios
that doesn’t have much meaning to
me anymore. why do I bother?
but some of it are just
plain good to lose meaning;
those places
that I changed along with
not
the ones who changed me

like
that park near the river
my classmates and I used to
play on until our parents come
to pick us up

or
the places that are so clear to me
when I try to remember them,
but can’t quite remember
where and how to go there
for I was so young back then

well I guess that’s all for now.

if you're reading this now
       and you're breathing through your nose
that means
       you're alive and literate as well.
i originally wanted to write something
       angry but i just couldn't do it
like how i can't explain the weird
      spacing; see? just ignore me. thanks.
bye.

wearing blue uniforms in different patterns,
see-through embroidered shirts,
suits and ties

the lead force knows what we need
and what should be done;
the revolutionists and communists
or perhaps citizens beware

these elevated-angels can no longer be reached,
we’re down in the sewers, in the gutters

their leader is faceless, faceless faces
like shadows you can never win against
nor at least inflict harm to

they are everywhere monitoring us
in our private moments, the shadows
cast upon the light of our television sets
in our living room with its lights turned off,
the paranoia in the streets where cctvs
serves as a notion that someone is watching
us

observing our delayed bills, monthly salaries
and taxes along with our debts and its interests.
the short-sweet remedy is its scent from
the entertainment shows that has
strong amplified hypnotizing voice from
artists forcing us to accept all their opinions
are lawful and just

the guardians of the traffic roads
respawned by the motherlings and the all
time fathers of the unknown;
the producers of angry motorists and
robbers.
the bosses
the managers
the CEOs
the licensed practitioners

they all gain a part of the gift of their path
and no alternative force can stop them.
their vital strength also serves as
their fatal weakness
and they are glad that the cycle
is almost stable.

they all belong to a one big underground
family tree, bound to make humanity
suffer, taken away from the
essence and purpose of living

and

i’m here on a refuge, smoking every
inches of cigarettes i could light.
writing the words down like a ***
with a signage that says “the end is nigh”
and it would take a couple of decades
for it to take effect on them to
think that they should’ve listened

not
to
me

but
to

the truth.

how could you understand depression if the mere thought of it doesn't exist in this ******* country?

everyone talks about like it's light. like it's something you can claim easily for yourself and all the attention you'll get from it.
like it's something to talk about.

have you ever felt its spine chilling touch grab your head to the core?
it gives you something to worry even though it's not there.
it sends you to a blackhole. the abyss.

i hate it and it takes raw will just to get through it for no one will help you and that nobody understands.

i bet you're thinking this is emo.

*******.

half closed eyes. . .
you don't want to
read this, i know.

'm drunk and so the world.

boiling stomach;
ready to *****
but no.

i hold it in.
and so my pain
is steady but i'm still drunk.
drunk.

this is not a secret anymore
but it is because i feel it.
my heart isn't
responding that much
and it could be the
cigarette contents.

but never mind that
for the obscurest thing
no words can describe
is how frail my body
turned out.

my tongue feels like
it is always swelling
from trying to bend
all the necessary words
i tried to speak under
these anxious episodes
i try to hide.

and my feet burns
so as that tragic
moments that took
me second thoughts
before the steps
that seemed to break
my spirit.

Ever, I remember you.
You put this curse
on me very well that I can't
seem to believe
that you got the guts
all along to destroy
something beautiful.

I will always remember
the beautiful parts.

the roots in my head
are violently
spreading and
no certain amount of
chain smoking could make it stop.

if i'm seeing things right,
how could anyone be so
calm when everything
is heading towards a
pointless meaning
and the blinded are
deceived by the
temporal irrelevance of their
genuine hobbies.

i'm restrained enough
with this work and earn thing
already and one more push is all it
takes to end this *******.

oh god, is this a trap you set
for us seers?
and if you are so great you
know what I truly mean.

my voice echoes in this empty house
on a thursday morning in a time
where you no longer walk the floors
and touch the walls of it.

i imagine our time, our short youth;
the sun rays passing through the shades
of my room sides on your sleeping skin
your soft arms, everything.

i can't describe clearly enough
for i didn't get to look long
enough for the last time.

i miss you from the other side.
i can't make the perfect poem.

i feel like i shouldn't be here
or shouldn't be thinking in an
era where thinking makes you all
different and all that stuff.

because of this, i needed more
than ten fingers to count
how many times i've had
these vague conversations
with myself
discussing things that
non-thinkers wouldn't last
a second to spare to even try to
make a whim out of it with
the likes of me

i don't need everyone to agree
with all what i have in mind
but it seems that this tranformation
my slightly unfortunate
youth donated is making me
all weary
and the conversations i had
with myself is making me all
lonely

being accepted in your
natural ways is a myth
hell, the best example
is how these local band people
always act and think you should please
them 'cause of their rockstar bull
and that they do something out of
the common
well they are all narcissists to me

and these idealists are miles
away from the actualities
so there's really no way to find
a way to get out of this cycle

it's the 'nobody notices it'
part of the spark that angers
me during some occasions
when i'm having a chat with
myself that brings me to
a state of being upset
for nothing
like a teenager's angst
that leads me nowhere
but more realization
of how lonely i get.

Mesmerizing
Captivating
Tantalizing
Divine

Those are the words.
Just the words I say to describe the
happiest
merriest
of memories

all of it washed away by the rain
from the roof down to me

flickering images,
I say my heart pumps
Declines invitations

A bird in a cage, not so original
but I think I can twist this call

A dead bird trying not to think about
any Bukowski quote

Just here lying, thinking of ways
on how to sleep and thinking of
these words here. .

and just how long. .
will my lungs accept the smokes
every time wars evict me from consciousness

mom and dad
I believe you didn't brought me here
just for nothing

the only thing that is clear
is that no one understands
that natural enemies
makes a ******

I'm both.

I'm pretending.

I'm always following.

the instructions.

Though sleeping naked isn't part of it.

and smoking my life away too.

to have fun is to be rich.

but to be happy is to have a lot.
Of people that loves you and will
stand for you

And that's what my greedy business
is all about.

Most are ******* who forces
me to accept to afford loses
and give ins.

Good thing only me and few people appreciates
math rock and bad writing.

every day is a great depression
my neck lives on the payroll
sometimes it tightens up
and that's where the loan shark
shows its dorsal fin. . .

freddie mercury sang it, roared the truth
but like van gogh's audience,
not all knows it. . .

these kids who hangout at malls
will never see it coming
but i sure do now and before then. . .

jesus is an insult
his believers are an insult
and they buried the reality. . .

i am so tired
but i don't have a choice
for i have to finish somewhere. . .

at some point
in the river floating with the fishes
with a mark on my neck
that says, "paid in full."

It’s hard to be taken away by thought
A predecessor heir to life chapters
embracing facts all at once

Facing the enormous glutton
masticating a heart
like a licorice treat

Wasting away
Wasting away
Wasting away

The madness is gone yet
I felt like I haven’t
been here before
the times went
from good to
bad

It seems we are all
like arms; weary
of holding still
in front of
the never
ending
slog

We kiss and we hug
until we’re
tempted to
bite one
another

We wished for an adventure
from the howling of the
cold rainy wind inside
a tavern where we
thought all will
be cozy until
everything
comes
back
to

normal

to almost succumbing to the heaviest
darkness that we ever felt deep
inside our heaviest breaths
like it’s a couple of our
last ones

You are a warrior, capable
of thinking above as you
see through many and I
will tell you the secret
that was there for a
very long time:

Never lose your grip for
the best people who
ever walked the
preliminaries
of hell all fell
down to
hell.

lover, i am not sure if the name suits you today.
you are not the only one;
our encounters tastes like paper.

it's hard to admit once in a while,
i know.
remember i have a soul too.
i'm amazed to see you alright lover
for you are not the one who is getting smaller
every single day.

your overbearing will make me stop
if you don't stop.

“Never leave your enemy winning without something
to groan about
in other words,
never go down without a fight
even if you only have your raw will left
to fight.”

what is it about fighting that makes some of us
want to win so badly like it’s God’s next big throne?

winning isn’t permanent, today you’re ahead
with three days up and the next day you
value the remaining seconds you have.

it’s always about winning
and nobody wants to fight;
end the fight.

I fight because survival isn’t the reason.
I fight for all daily reasons
and not one of them is winning.

I just want to finish whatever the
end may seem to be

It never hurts to see your colleagues
10 stairs up and never looking down,
just keep on reaching whatever they may
find on the top and what lies above the finish
but then I must continue to fight along with
these regular-sized rabid dogs and our leash
is about to unfold:

There is no paradise for us and we
made a pledge that we’re God’s unwanted
children like what we heard from “Fight Club”
it all makes sense to us and none of us
is you.

Fight not to survive.
Fight because you are born for it and is
good for it and if you don’t,
you’re no different from the others.

once i was proud to have it all over my sight,
these right words that fits each rhyme.
and after the consecutive strings she pulled,
i felt it wearing me out.

but first
let me tell you something anyone can relate to:

everyone goes through a tight relationship
on their youthful days and those were the days
life does its part best;
it lets you feel something to keep,
gives you a lot of memories you never
thought you had.

well, the only trail that leads me to it
is smiling about it, skipping all the bad parts
and focusing on to the best moments.

after a couple of years,
it completely disappeared
and today, i feel no trace of the past
and my words are no different than
train stations and traffic jams
but i'm with someone new now
and i guess it is never too late
to take a chance with the current.

our romance began when nobody
wanted to start one
i remember it like it was a while ago
on a day when the leaves were yellow
and the times suggested
parks that are far away from the road.

my heart felt something
and it remembers
in a quite unfamiliar sense.

it is just like the first time in a long time to
witness the sunrise again in this dull life
the wind blew. . .
and changed its direction

i followed it and i knew it’s
that time again.

there was no way to tell
if it was the same before
but to splash my frail body in there
for a leap of faith

but i was sure though seemingly different,
i convinced myself
it was going to be all worth it.
and when it was about to happen,
i didn’t give admission to my doubts.

as

i played the bull
on a rampage
to be killed
for its desire.

it made me forget the pain of
the thousand scrapes and wounds
of trust
i succumbed into
for what seemed
like many years
and you were there,
                  
                   you
        
       came;

you
      
      found
                  
                 me.

what words do i need to put here next?
o yeah right, i just lost an argument today
and i didn't bother speaking out my stand.

speak out what?
speak about how ****** my life
is turning out to be?

i was late at work today
because of the ****** traffic enforcers who
delayed my travel because of their
incompetency on handling the ****** up
traffic
and funny; they make a living out of my taxes.

my fingers wants to explode,
my fists wants to punch a hole out of thin air.
this frustration can't even take a shape of a ball
and so it goes ******* my head all day

is it fair to say i'm doing my best every
single ******* day just to make it through the fire?

bukowski, i imagine your ghost
but i can't tell what would be your reaction.

maybe you'll ignore me like those desperate
writers from the past who sent you their poems
you ignored unless it was a fuckable *****.

you don't give a **** for what matters most to you is
how well you walk through the fire.

i am walking through the fire.
every day.
every cigarette.
every breath.
every dump.
every ****.

*frustration at its finest

March 2008
I found my legs shaking
trembling before my schoolmates
somewhere
I hid it under the table, under the first
bottle of Generoso, yes, so local you puke with hate

There with me is the formidable lesbian
I fell so badly in love with back then
at first I knew coming along was a bad idea
but let me tell you, first times are as fickle
as those ******* your **** got used to

and yeah, the first drink of the grape
straightened my frightened legs
gave me courage
but no, it’s not what you think it is

I snubbed her all the way
that is right
after she got a little bit tipsy in the middle
and told me how she’s gonna tell her
big brother that she’s gonna get herself
a boy friend

and more fellow schoolmates came
most of them look up to irrelevant
people like Tupac, Snoop and whoever
it is that can speak fast on drugs.

we reached the denouement
of the unplanned gathering
I wasn’t able to handle myself
for I was ******* everyone off.

three of them even tried to gang up on me
but the tides sided with me
as Deo who almost died last year
sent me home.

my father was so ******* furious
when he first saw, smelled and heard
his son drunk
it was a replica in progress.

His heavy arms and swollen fingers,
Can't reach for her love's lingers
No matter how he use those saved hours,
Their remains will soon be devoured..

The caressing sound made by the pouring rain
Admonishes his heart and soul of their reign
Through things that dignifies his solitary sane
That wasn't tranquility although diminishes the pain...

He was badly mistaken for what it brings..
They feed on his flesh, those hungry things..
Evenly, his dear love was melting as she sings
The anthem of the missing wedding rings..

The cries of their aspiration moaned like the wind..
Their intervening fate befalls how they have sinned..
Preaching the words of the forgiveness seen,
Judgement is already been fulfilled and serene..

It was the day when the pews were burned..
The day when the prisoner gained what he earned
The pair will be forced to embrace maledict of the lorn.
Together they will turn to ashes, sealed in urns.

Oh good Lord, may you provide us with providence..
Merry are those who are deceitful at ease..
Wash away not only my sins but also my knowledge..
These index fingers are pointing at all direction...
This unclarified purpose is digesting my head..
Why do I loathe a lot of irrelevant things?
When my existence is a part of inconsistency..
I see the world from a moon in my isolation.
More and more souls are appearing to be a nuisance..
For the voice in my head told me so..
Such is defining gravity and drowning on a sunny day..
To a soul with feet fixed on the daily tracks..
Perceptions are unnecessary for these subjects..
Relying on hope itches my pessimism..
I am so eager to scrape my enemies but I don't know them..
And my thoughts.. why are they trying to **** me?

Let’s start with these
overpriced filters
for
heavy smokers..
I choose Tarshield
for it’s the cheapest  
****** brand
there is..

and if there’s a cheaper brand
Let the light guide me
to find it
in these
self-proclaimed
convenience stores.

Works, shifting hours and
contemporary sanity, laterals
of an old
establishment barely hears
the sound of the siren

A courtesy call for the
undeserving folks in expensive
suits; I say
I-****-You-For-You-******-Us

Mothers, when they hear their sons’
pockets empty they
cut 1/4 of their flesh:
We’ll restore you back to your
youthful glow with our 20’s to 40’s

Fathers who lost their will to provide:
Do good in the afterlife,
we’ll ring the church bells for you

Yellow-sulfur stomachs in the streets,
in the slums, near the Malacañang,
who did you vote? Was it worth it?

Those untouchable ‘iglesia ni manalo’
it takes someone who has totally nothing to lose
to take your fancy states down
with a gun.

The real saviors are the cigarette retailers
they keep everyone sane, helps those in need
keep their minds on the ground, away from
the commas and the commas and the commas.

All this, a notion. Notion that has nothing to do
with, no connection with, doesn’t exist to, irrelevant to,
rich kids who call themselves ‘cool kids’

and

self-proclaimed leaders who leads masses with lies
through a microphone
religious cults that mistook money for god (is there a god?)
human resources personnel who desperately
needs to die
bosses who just don’t give a ****
presidents who just don’t give a ****
policemen who just don’t give a ****
people who just don’t give a ****
substantial earners who just don’t give a ****
leeches who just don’t give a ****.
you don’t give a ****.

you are the wishes you never
told anyone before,
frankly there's a god who agrees
with you and there's one who doesn't

and the world and the souls
that walks around it

and the time won't stop

and departures never arrives

and the promises never
dared to expose themselves

and the hopes and dreams
can only be seen on t.v.

and the happiest people are
those who doesn't deserve it

and weddings are paid for

and families and its
relatives never had gatherings

and the churches started
to appear in different genres

and the childhood memories
were as colorless as an
untouched coloring book

you're never the first one
to know how
quite awful things
have been

for all of what you've been
waking up for is all
a mad reality,
an impostor of what
you went up against.

let's clean up
this canvass
shall we?

I tried to explain in so many tidal ways
I reach for my pockets to grab a change and buy a cigarette;
go upstairs smoke away the never ending worries about the future.

It’s about to rain again, the sky is dark and the clock ticks
inside my head’s getting pretty louder and louder
each time I wonder how tomorrow will turn out to be.

Should I call some friends and invite them over when I prefer
to spend more time with myself that doesn’t do me
any good?

Is this it? I told myself that I’ve reached my limit
and I need to stop at some point many times before.
Everyone I’m paranoid about knows me and I know
I badly need to know what it is they think of me,
perhaps convince myself that it’s all in my head.

The people and their preferred purpose along with
the busy offices and its crowd wasting 8 to 9 hours
just to provide food on their tables; I am one of them
but I’m not with them.

This is living as they say it is where sometimes you win,
sometimes you lose and the truth is I’m just a soul
left unfinished.

Incomplete in my own ways, I think of things as
the world doesn’t want things to be.

Lost in this roundabout, in circles of an never ending
struggle whilst death never leaves my mind.

Brave no more as I was left beaten by what I was
up against.

This is a sleepy head trying to stay awake in an
area wherein if you sleep they are going to take
all your possessions, well all these materials
are theirs to take just leave my Bukowski books
alone or I’m going to have to think I really
have nothing to lose.

There’s an eruption,
as delicate as mid-teenagers’
jeans could topple its ugliness

There’s an eruption,
turning the streets and its
cigarette butts upside down

There’s an eruption,  
sprinkles of salt in
every man’s heart,
vivacious more than what it seems

There’s an eruption,
the veins of a business man
is clogged as he watches the graph fall

There’s an eruption,
Hemingway;
in another Earth
called for a shooting spree
all the way off to madness’ extinction

There’s an eruption,
the anxiety steams as some of us
chokes down and digest
the indigestible memories

There’s an eruption, all over selected
rooms of each suburban
addresses and houses

There’s an eruption, the words of some of us adhere
serves as the thick barrier
of revelations
buried beneath the soils of turmoils
and tumors residing inside our heads    

There’s an eruption, it keeps up, stops, breathes,
stares, flashes, keeps up, stops, stares, flashes,
keeps up, stops, stares,
flashes, keeps up, stops,
stares, flashes, keeps up,
stops, stares, flashes, keeps up, stops, stares, flashes;
keeps up forever. . .