close your eyes.
breathe in eternity.
let the weight of time dissolve.

what is your soul’s curriculum?
what lessons are carved in your bones,
whispered in your dreams,
woven into the moments that brought you here? Saturday.

what an andy wants.
what an andy needs.

Saturn’s touch…
did you call these trials into being?
shape these crossroads before you arrived?
do you feel the pull of destiny,
or the echo of something you’ve already known?

what an andy wants.
what an andy needs.

are you listening?
to the hum beneath silence,
the flicker between waking and sleep,
the voice that speaks when all else is still?

what an andy wants.
what an andy needs.

the answers are not ahead of you.
they are within you.
all you have to do—
is remember.
Return.

change is the only constant
but being is open-hearted
& loving more.

i don’t want to be so
drunk
that i wake up in gun hill road.
home on new year’s day. 7 am.

for me, you can always reclaim a
sense of sanity
even in a time of chaos.

there are many things that
one
cannot reclaim.

why should i try?
if those things are gone…

did i need them in the
1st place?

self-worth comes back.
things get stolen.
for something
new.

really finding their peace.
in a zoom meeting.

tingaling with a feeling
from a screen.

if i stopped caring
people could bear
with me.

i see him spit
in
a hand-washing station.

my entry denied
over
a
face shield.

face shield. face shield.
a repeated mantra; standing there
still.

inspired by tony labrusca's portrayal of josé rizal

babae likes me contained.
me—a tupperware full of lumpia.
i'm soggy, *****.
*****—inday—i'm gwapo. fried uy.

sorry. soggy.
druggy. sorry.

my chest tattoos?
yes, they can be removed.
will that be provided in my—

nevermind. thank you.
she opened her purse.
hard candy.

waving me away.
sorry carb-eating lad.
she is just ******* hard candy.
cgeh. babay. cgeh bi.

jose, they say you wrote novels.
but i wonder—
did you ever write yourself out?

did you watch your own ink
bleed into the soil?
did you wish for something softer?

in the way i am devoured. hero forgotten.
in the way i am swallowed
whole—one piso coin
by lovers, by history, by a name
they gave me before i ever
spoke too. ii

non-reacting
presenting an acting exercise

— it’s windy outside.

non-reactors finding.
searching.
stillness in the storm.

i have been promoting my new video on youtube.

taking a break.
needed a break.
taking a break.

writing songs seems so hard.

will youtube how to write a song.
i will do that later, babe.
you're bae.

i didn’t eat any food.
wait—i had a piece of ginger.

i would want to be famous
if i became a musician.
very well known.
songs in karaoke books globally.

i wouldn’t sell my soul or anything like that.
i need a vocal coach, daddy.

dear santa,
christmas was great for 2019.

make 2020 even better.
god is in control.
don’t forget that.

the great thing about Bic-Round Stic M is that the ink doesn't bleed through the paper.

singing all day - will the willing to write songs and produce a great debut album.

where do i stand? anywhere—

where are you?

babe…

why must you ask such trivial questions?

then again, i grapple with an external validation problem,

curbed by a body—my own diary.

andy denson's diaries, tales—sweet.

thoughts flutter like moths to a flame,

yearning for the light of recognition,

yet finding solace in the shadows.

the pages absorb my musings,

ink drying without a trace.

genocide needs to end, you complacent fools…

bodies stack like forgotten prayers,
ash clings to the tongues of those who
dare not speak.
your silence—
a currency traded for comfort,
a choir of apathy humming along
to the drone of dying children.

how much blood must drown the sand
before you call it a flood?
how many broken spines,
how many mothers screaming into dust
before your heart cracks open
and spills something real?

you sip your lattes,
scroll past the headlines,
tut-tut at the mess of the world,
then click away—
like a god who does not answer,
like a witness who turned away
and called it survival.

but history is watching.
your name will be written
not in gold, but in shadow.
the ledger of your soul
tallied in the weight of the lives
you ignored.

wake up.
the dead are calling.

Specked on the toes
or heals of a plate.
The horse is waiting. You don’t know it —
you should breathe in & out in situations like this.
Situations lead to more of them. You smell like Axe. My breathing hasn’t been consistent
-or monitored enough to know the depths of the soul.
Scroll down or turn the page depending on what era you are in. There is infinity on the back of my hand.
On your other back there is some tension. Taste like sweat. Southeast Asian flavored — not in an overly ****** or fetishized way. You and me are the same.
The other you called me an intruder. I know by nationality — not blood. So, you are partially right.
On the other side, you get a massage. We’ve taken turns with other versions of ourselves. Plenty of work in the 21st Century.
A job. Updated resume. For someone who might love you in that moment. Truly love that job. On the back of your real back.
A *******. Not a quickie. We work. Free labor. We use our hands to make things. All jobs are hand jobs — don’t be a pervert. I thought you were a nice person. Don’t sexualize everything? What job isn’t a *******?
Why is it so hard? Why is it so big? Why do I have expectations?
We met at a mall. Or you picked me up. My feelings are present. Your feelings back there. You and me are scared. Because jobs that are tiring can be scary.
I miss all of you. You’re back and my back. My stupidity and my wisdom is yours too. The back seat smells like SafeGuard. Breathe in. Brea- Calm. No more scared.
You just ate. That’s how we flirt in the Philippines.
I had black pepper on my foods because it’s used on the front of a dish where I’m from-
When I eat, I don’t burp from the back. You sprinkle the front of the food on its back.
On the front of the back of the phone is an anticipation.
People I know of back home are dying. There is black pepper. No one I have been really close to has passed yet. In the back of your mind you know it’ll happen.
I back up a bit from the table and you. I always think I am smart. I always think of crying when I get home. But I am too smart to cry in public.
Back up — back up. Black up. Sprinkle Black Pepper on food. For you. Backed by support from followers like you.
You may be familiar with my back. Or vice versa. What a beautiful time it is to eat Black Pepper in September!
Wondering what is going on in the back of their minds. You tell me to get over it.
Try the Black Pepper in a town near you. Sides go great with a little back back dash of the Black Pepper. Yes I am ok.
You need salt. I need salt. Back away. Because moderation. Just use Black Pepper. It is your job.
Black. Then front. Top it off. Then back and black. Self love advice — taking everything with a grain of (bath) salt.
Which Black Pepper is the best Black Pepper?
Back and Black. Duh.
Forward through the congestion of Cebu City — I back up but not enough. My new job is to sprinkle the Black Pepper on us. After the commute.
Crazy?
You’re crazy, babe.
You…
Baby, I know I am crazy.
Sike.
You bet.
Because of the motorcycle makes me feel dangerous and cool on your back. I drove too. Danger. You. Never mind! Never. Mind. Men are dumb. That includes me.
That means everything men do other men and women they pursue is dumb. Black Pepper takes their mind off that front and back to the front. People are dumb. Di ba?
Black Pepper is Black Pepper. Nothing but Black Pepper. I love me so much. You too. You told me to love myself more. So I ate Black Pepper.
You aren’t always looking at palm trees, or nature, like I do. Back on your phone. Black pepper grounds the tree.
Now from the back to the other back I calmly sneeze.
Where has life taken you in regards to others? The backs of theirs.
It is not hard to believe in the world of form — because Black Peppers are on my back.
So is the back of your motorbike. I smell Black Pepper on my upper lip. There is Black Pepper sprinkles. Everywhere. I use the back of my wet hand to wipe the back. You wipe the front.
— in the back of my mind, I’m glad most of the Black Pepper is covered by my clothes.
Sleeping on back back — exhale. Exhaling from both the nostrils. I remember the time I garnished a dish with Black Pepper in the Upper East Side. I felt gross. I remember that moment in the back of my mind.
How could anyone hate you if you’re back?
Black Pepper eaters never seem to care too much. So you — don’t back up that with a fact check. Back up. I am not crazy.
I love the blacks. I love the peppers. If you back the love too — it’s a job. You too will know love from the back.
— Sprinkled with black pepper and backed by gold.

sator
i am still here—
the eternal spark, the constant presence
amidst the whirlwind of thoughts and dreams.
i manifest success, forging my destiny
brick by brick with every cosmic “yes.”

arepo
in the mirror of raw ego and honest reflection,
i transmute every reeking flaw into fragrant power.
from the ashes of past mistakes
i sculpt myself—a masterpiece of perseverance,
refined like the best soaps, emerging renewed.

tenet
i hold fast to my celestial blueprint,
a generator with a capricorn flame,
a leo moon roaring for its rightful spotlight,
each heartbeat an invocation of divine order,
each breath a promise to the stars.

opera
in the theater of creation, i am both director and actor—
my life a symphony of passion and precision.
with every action, every well-earned victory,
i spin the wheel of destiny,
turning obstacles into stepping stones
that lead to realms of boundless light.

rotas
and as the cosmic cycle revolves,
i embrace the sator square’s eternal secret:
what is sown in the heart returns in glory.
i manifest success with every radiant step,
every choice a spiral that brings me closer
to the infinite horizon of my dreams.

i stand as a living constellation,
an alchemist of fate and fervor,
a poet of the universe—
and in this sacred square,
i claim my success,
now and forever.

I am the sum of stars and design,
A Generator in cosmic flow—
Waiting, always waiting to respond
To the universe’s subtle “yes.”

Capricorn sun burns in my chest,
A furnace of duty and ambition,
Forging dreams with meticulous might—
Every moment a brick in my empire of light.

Virgo rising, quiet and precise,
Crafts my path with order and care,
Each detail a whisper of destiny,
A careful dance on the edge of chaos.

My Leo Moon roars with inner fire,
A constant call for warmth and applause—
In every gaze, a longing for the spotlight,
Yet I remain the calm at the storm’s eye.

Venus in Sagittarius sends me on wild quests,
Where freedom and passion entwine in laughter,
Love is an adventure, an open road—
A journey where every scar tells a story.

Mars in Capricorn drives my relentless pace,
A warrior armed with discipline and resolve,
Turning obstacles into stepping stones,
Each challenge a testament to my truth.

Jupiter in Virgo blesses my work,
Not with random luck, but with earned grace—
Every detail polished in the crucible of effort,
Every success a quiet, triumphant sigh.

In my Human Design, the Sacral speaks
With an unwavering gut feeling—
A truth too visceral to be denied,
Guiding me with its pulsating rhythm.

Profile 4/6 whispers of connection and evolution,
From youthful sparks to the wisdom of the crown—
Each phase a masterpiece of becoming,
Each step a stride toward cosmic perfection.

I dwell in my own sacred cave,
Where the tactile world meets inner space,
Grounded in the touch of life’s raw beauty,
While dreams take flight on wings of stardust.

I, Andy Denson—a living constellation,
A mosaic of charts and celestial codes,
Every line a verse, every placement a chorus,
In the symphony of an endless cosmic poem.

And as I breathe in the infinite night,
I stand, a masterpiece of celestial blueprint,
Inviting the world to witness my evolution,
One stellar, deliberate, radiant step at a time.

I love, I love, I love poetry
more than acting, more than making films.

your ego reeks of ****
because you keep looking at me like that.
your ego reeks of ****
because it’s your favorite smell.
your ego reeks of ****
because my ego reeks of ****.

we are just mirrors,
wreaking of ****,
washing, cleansing,
but the smell never goes away.

the **** you love
is the **** I used to love when I was a kid.
all trends are patterns
repeating, repeating, repeating.

I love, I love, I love poetry,
and it reeks of ****.
so hard to clean,
but **** isn’t what makes me sick.
it’s the thought of it
being like that forever.

my friend once told me:
if it smells weird, if it smells good—
the smell only lasts for ten seconds.
so even though your breath reeks of ****,
that will change.

oh, you thought I was finished?

we no longer smell of ****.
we smell of the best soaps and shampoos
products available in our area.
(that happens to be Safeguard—
this is not sponsored,
but I always wanted a sponsorship.)

this is a poem, by the way.

stream of consciousness,
dictated through my voice,
since I forgot about this feature.

the ego does not smell like ****—
the ego has no smell.
what smells is your breath,
and that shall pass.
all shall pass.

as I pass on the baton
to the next muse of my inspiration,
I want to say:
your ego no longer reeks of ****.
but if it does, just wait ten minutes.

oh, you thought I was joking?
one more thought:

your ego reeks of ****
because your ego exists.
delete.
oops.
not sure if I’m using this properly.
anyway, I’m not going to edit this poem.

your ego smells like ****
because I made it smell like ****.
your ego can smell good if it wants—
like daffodils, cinnamon rolls,
whatever your imagination comes up with.

but I’m too tired to think
of what smells good besides soap.
so I guess that’s my favorite.

as spoken once:
roses really smell like boo-boo
—Andre 3000, OutKast.

once we realize
everybody’s ego reeks of ****,
we also realize
we can make our ego smell like soap.

and that is the end of the poem
(for now)
unless I come up with something else.

this is stream of consciousness—
this is my poetry collection—
and yes,
I’m a poet writing about a poet
writing poems about ****.
that’s not the point.

the point is:
if your ego smells like ****,
you have a lot of life to live—
for better or worse.

and my ego reeks of ****
the more I write this poem,
but it won’t
once I finish it.

so as I bid you farewell,
I say:
I am no Shakespeare.
I am no Oscar Wilde.

I am Andy Denson.
The next great poet of the world.
And even if I’m not, I don’t care.
Because at least—

my ego doesn’t reek of ****.

our thoughts are cradled like an unexperienced parent.
our willingness to be in each others work.
to watch is to live. to live is to watch.
films speak more on how we see our worth to
others...
maybe it's the other way around.

the campus is giving 90s teen drama.
motion pictures is why we are
here.

i am the star.
no, is she. or is he. wait, it's
all of us...

it's the thought counts. it's the frames that
count. it's the thoughts that dictate the rate.

the obligation expands as some of the angels cry over
us. protecting the rest.

some scream like the students in 'cleaners'.

does the comedy make us think? or cry instead in the
seats of  
cine lawan --

Me, [insert your name here], a filmmaker. we all win
an award or two. some of us do.
we still keep creating.

my thoughts hold me in a loose trance. dancing with
me in the heat -- walking
with me the rain.

the white lady - i mean ghost- must have stopped recording since
we can here our voices again.


is the world even gonna end? says a fragile student
two rows in front of me. their back facing her
front.

it's giving blue and hidden in the dark. illuminated
by the works of art.
cinema. it's films. movies.

that a big reason i'm alive.
it's a reason to continue
even if there is not a quick
fix to life.
films give us life. or is it
the other way
around?

as the filmmakers desends into madness -
i mean their seats,
they soak the experimental footage,
red dirt sprinkled everywhere in
a ditch--
one weeps and the other takes a shot
for a share later.


everything happens because we filmed it.
thought it. cast it. documented. recorded.
edited.
distributed.

a feedback loop.

we think we know how the plot will unfold.

i see the colors from the projections even
as i look ahead. Still. Here.
I am still here as
my thoughts-