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Joyce Aug 2015
On a good day, the Sun shines on you.
You are in a Disney movie, stretching your arms,
As the first light of day hits your toes.
And all the sores of the previous nights,
Reduced as mere soap suds down the drain.
Last night's shower is a preview of the first one today, and coffee smells like the freshest brew straight from a pre-packed foil. Nothing beats the thrill of a morning cup.
Life is a sitcom, waiting for the supporting characters to show up and raid your ref, and then! The punchline.
You plan your day.
You invite a good day.
You laugh out loud.
On your best day, you lounge.
You drink your cup and eat breakfast straight from the pan, and the pan loves you for calling the kettle black.
You write your notes on some discarded tissue previously used to wipe off dust.
You are free versing with the staunchest disregard for tones and rules of archaic poetry; sometimes, disavowing a semblance of order.
Because the best is you.
It is now.
And you are but a small supporting character,
Patiently waiting for the chime of the next five punchlines
Sep 2014 · 792
Hearts and Bones
Joyce Sep 2014
I pray to the Man on the Moon; he listens to me every night.
He knows when to send fireflies in green and white glow; I believe in him
just like how I believe in road trips and their gram of health benefits.
I do not believe in sunlight, in daylight, in blazing heat that cuts
my skin without honor or grace, or respect. I believe in the Dusk and the
precedence of Dawn, and the exchange of whimpers between the now and five
minutes before that; in the dust that cannot seem to settle when I hold my
hand against the first greeting of the day.
I am made of dust and sand; I am made of clay, of sheds of disappointments
and blisters of neverending tomorrows. I am skins and heart that skid on
a swinging tire loosely cramped on a tree branch. I lift my feet up before I
do that huge push, and it is the closest to flying. I believe in flying high
and landing deep, with bruises and cuts on my forehead, and splinters on my
palm.
I believe in the Man on the Moon and the truth he tells me. I believe in
looking up, closing my eyes and smiling as I feel the first drops of heavenly
drizzle; I catch some in my mouth. I do not believe in the truth spoken and
outside; I believe in the whispered honesty of tongues who cannot lie, who seek
clapped eyes and receptive hearts. I believe in the witch doctor and if he says
run, I will go.
I believe in quiet nights spent curled with old pressed pages on Earth that
reek of ink and strings and speak of hopeful hearts and bones. I believe in hope.
I always hope. I believe in unmade beds on a Saturday morning and why the sheets remain white.
I don't believe in shared moments spent talking, mouths moving against skins;
I believe in looking, in always searching, in intertwined hands that talk more
than mouths and sharp tongues, in gazing and waiting and understanding that
waiting is the Man on the Moon smiling at me, in the unspoken kindness of
being held.
Joyce Feb 2014
I stood across a fiery red

and ended up purple.

Greased thighs, dripping down and

rested on knee caps

too brittle.

“So this is how you fall apart.”

I say,

“this is how you fall apart.”

When it isn’t as glorious as others make it seem

and the only sound you make is an

inner monologue, where you berate yourself.

“This is you, you **** of a train wreck example.”

And then you stand and you cower

at the mere sight of a figure ahead.

You tug down the remains of your shirt

and you wipe your busted lip dry,

like it will hide the cut and bite.

You wince once sweat kisses your brow

and you hiss like someone hoisted you against a brick wall.

You never stand. You never stand

and you are excused for cursing.

All the *******, the dammits, the batshit *******, flow out

like breath – naturally, an incestuous inhale and exhale of

“someone give me that thingamajiggy for the pain!”

But it never comes.

And you are never cured.

And it never goes away,

when a quicksand of that stinky pile of unwritten brain farts start farting,

one by ******* one.

Blessed are the stoic ones, for they glorify aching.

****** are the loud ones, for the stoic ones are deaf.
Feb 2014 · 529
They Were Playing Our Songs
Joyce Feb 2014
Dance to the violin, twirl me and then run.
Tomorrow’s a different day. You have gone cold
and I remain burned.
There were candles of periwinkle skies and sunshine,
I remember,
I have lit them one by one.
I watched the wicker ember glow and fade black
and blew some. Candles are meant as wishes.
It was 11:11, a shooting star, or the first twinkle of
the night.
I left, cold sweat glistening under your touch
too humane for me.
Let’s keep the box wrapped in silk paper.
Put the sheets and that cologne I like
along with your candles.
Stop looking for that old silver Nokia phone.
The umbrella’s broken, and everything else that I have given
are with dust under my bed, where your monsters are hidden.

I am no longer yours
and you, never mine.
And I’m okay with that
like how you once held me in peace under
your Mother’s watchful eyes.
* For Mark and his scented candles and boxes of different shapes and sizes. Forgiven but not forgotten.
Feb 2014 · 579
The Little Prince and I
Joyce Feb 2014
Goodnight, goodnight.
A rocket has hit the man on the moon in the eye,
much like how it was when mermaids declared war
on every little babobab tree across Mars.
A pinch of salt to go with you eyes squinting with
desire. You talk too much.
Wheels could not take me up to the moon,
man on the moon,
oh, so miserably!
We were married once, he and I. He had my heart
in his mouth.
I flew across the galaxy, with my pink hat and
my pink shoes
and your grey coated nails that danced in June.
Happy June day. Happy birthday.
I see fretboards every Saturday morning, right before the sun
sets back south.
I’m quite hard to remember and even harder to forget.
I cut my own hair, why not? If it takes me back home,
then you have not seen me yet.
I rode a rocket that left me somewhere in the Atlantic.
I fell on you; once, I fell for you.
Do we dictate form when form has no meaning?
But you are so skinny, and someone should feed you.
One does not live on waves alone, nor does one become something
when the grounds start to shake.
Choose me! I say, pick me!
I was swallowed by the cracks on the pavement and I
felt guilty.
Do you deny, do you lie, do you dance in
periwinkle skies?
Do you think it’s too soon to quit the man on the moon?

I cut my hair today.
I heard you cry as I slashed them strands with a knife.
Samson cut his hair and so did I.
Good night. Good night.
The man on the moon has one eye.
The man on the moon is a Man and a Woman and I with one eye.
Joyce Feb 2014
Mid day moonstruck cafe somewhere in the city
where hearts constantly swoon over brighter neon skies
and the brightest settled at the bottom of my glass,
I am madly intoxicated by the spirit of free speech.
I saw hips swaying with strawberry and kiwi atop
the mahogany brown by the kitchen sink.
They sold *** by trade for a dozen foes and fetish laden
throes of pink.
I heard someone singing Auld Land Syne at the height of
November fog.
There were cups made of porcelain blue; someone dropped a pair
right after the washroom saga.
She kept coming and going, and coming and going, and coming
until she sat on my lap; beet red, as I was, when she stood
and left a pitcher more than we could handle.
Did we eat? I remember eating and cursing because they forgot
our forks.
And spirits matched lone spirits; they tended to one another
as one performed the greatest story ever told; that of a tragedy
left undiscovered by three people, maybe more.
I fell for the bartender, as with the hostess and the
guard and that one glowing illusion made up of wishful thinkings
and mere repetitions of whatever you are for the day.
Do you remember? I counted one full mid year for the buzz to finally
kick in.
I learned a few things, spoonfed with it, that’s the truth.
Did I ever thank you?
Dogs never lie, as with kids, and we are neither.
So that one letter tied with a big plump red ribbon adorning
the bulky box of heat, with the sugary high impulse perfect for
an ADD bloke, and that monkey – he was hairy, and thus I named him Harry -
became a last-minute Thanksgiving that year.
Because friends don’t lie, and presents don’t always arrive.
Glasses break, phones give up, and people forget.
But I’m mafia like that, so I don’t.
Feb 2014 · 1.1k
The Manhood of Dorian Gray
Joyce Feb 2014
I rode a Trojan horse off to sea with the winds of tide.
Off with a quil and a sword and a helmet to protect my
head the size of a melon soda;
I wondered,
did Dorian ever grow his hair long?
I envy you, Dorian,
with your silky locks and impenetrable gaze,
slanting, almost cursing mouth filled
with gasp.
Portraits do not exceed the size of its canvas,
but you seem to breathe Life, Dorian.
You seem alive.
Perhaps the color black suits you or your tie;
perhaps the ground on which you walk upon
turn grey and wither with every step.
They say you die a little each day, Dorian.
Are you looking for a lover?
One’s whims turn to coals with every feathered touch.
Lay down beside me, Dorian, and
don’t forget to cover us.
Wrap me in the shade of your *****,
and maybe tonight will be the kindest of clouds.
Lay down beside me, Dorian, and kiss me on my lips.
I have long since felt a stranger so humid and dry.
Wrap your tongue around my finger, Dorian.
Taste me;
take me breath by hurried breath.
Grounds will shake and split to quarters into the far
corners of the Earth.
There was a play, staged at the living room, where the couch
used to be.
I heard a hiss on the recorder the step you
started grinding your hips pressed unto me.
I took a hold of you, dear Dorian, and you vanished in thin
air.
Goddamit, Dorian, we never talked about Chaplin.
I never said anything about grieving or weeping the insides
of my being.
Dance with me, oh Dorian!
Before the clock strikes one.
Before you fade and your face becomes a smudge on my arm.
Look at me, Dorian, *******.
Look at me.
Look.
This is the sound of your embrace,
and of a million and one hues pressed clear in wells of oil.
I loved you, Dorian,
as much as one portrait hangs somewhere, gathering dust and memories,
waiting for a breath,
a sigh,
a touch,
a face.
Dec 2013 · 2.3k
A vermin stings
Joyce Dec 2013
I smell burning lights of neon and blue.
It's Christmas, they say. Inkblots have formed
their own sentences, helping me
write.
In the midst of this slow night,
I swear I am right.
And I pull Kafka from the shelf
because I want to hear him talk.
I am my own vermin, and we can be random
together.
I love you Kafka, I say.
I love you.
Kafka.
I love you.
Shall we dance despite your limbs?
Samba's playing, I am left staring at you
then back at him,
and right back at you, right where you stood
tiptoeing as you reach the topmost corner of the
cupboard.
You know I never hide any can of insecticide, Kafka,
because I get it, you'll wither.
But I love you, Kafka, I say.
I love you.
Kafka.
I'm a bit colorful with a drag of dirt.
I'm a bit Spanish when I shake my hips.
I turn French right before midnight.
I lose sight and might when the clock chimes
two in the afternoon -
I become just by looking at you.
Because I love you Kafka, I say.
I love you.
Kafka.
I.
Dec 2013 · 1.4k
Divorce
Joyce Dec 2013
Went down on one knee
Fumbled for the diamond
Stood up and then wept.
Joyce May 2012
When, instead of cozying in bed
I wander out there with Kerouac,
Imagining that I am Kerouac
Or some slave who walks upright;
Or a priest without a crowd
With hands and feet tied.
When, instead of snoring like hell,
I am left unimaginative by some;
I am making disgusting Love with shadows unknown
And remain pinned against the wall.
I am some nine year old senile who wets her bed
in fear and disbelief.
Lights flicker and then fade
And the switch becomes a button pressed to send
Someone in raving comfort.
I am not a stranger to sleepless nights
Even when night becomes noon.
Nightmares haunt me no more but I
Am left haunted by my bed.
Sheets crumpled by tossing and turning.
My bed does not recognize my warmth.
Voice recordings and constant tweetings
Pump blood to my Über active head.
Sleepless nights are well received as my body
Succumbs to sleep.
I live in a different world with five hundred other names
And the ten thousand other Me’s are all in disarray.

(And when the clock chimes at one, two, three ‘til way down six,
There’s a carnival of sorts with hair strands flailing like
Seven sets of arms.)

I am not a stranger to sleepless nights
And wetting my bed is not a Sin.
I am sinful beyond recognition, as my bed is my witness.
I have had different beds
But to me, they’re all the same.
Some, soft; others, too hard
Or covered in satin, exaggerated by the moonlight. Some, made of wood
While others, with tight springs.
Water’s absurd but so is steel.
Double padding, triple linings, four feet, at times, none;
There’s the car, the guest room, the floor, hospital bed,
A seat next to a complete stranger ---
I make my bed before sleeping
And leave it when I’m done.
I am not a stranger to sleepless nights
And I jump on the bed at midnight.
I am not a stranger to morning tides and the morning shows on TV.
I’m not a stranger at all, no,
And when I sleep, I sleep in peace.
Stranger things have happened
Noons and sudden weekends are no way sleep - inducing; I am left believing
That nights and days dance in my
Sleeplessness.
Joyce Apr 2012
I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Because it means you’re listening.
His piano keys are no different from mine.
I like hearing you talk about Mozart.
I used to play his pieces before I sleep.
His arpeggio is my lullaby;
His laughter, a sombre tune to which I tune
My keys.
There’s no denying that you like Mozart;
Never mind his spending habit.
I sometimes think you are Mozart.
I think Beethoven was fad gone true because
He was deaf to his laughter,
And Schubert was too old, too young to remember
How to step on the pedals
While he tried his many operas
On his baby grand piano.
I think of Mozart in my sleep, in my dreams,
On the toilet, while eating.
I think of Mozart and his young son
And the requiem he stood dying to finish.
Mozart became a
One night stand, and I am not proud of that.
I majored in advertising, God knows why, and maybe
Mozart had something to do with that.
I factored one and two equals the sign of what digit,
And maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I wrote a story once,
About a starving artist;
Maybe he was the force behind that.
I filled my library with fiction,
And fiction became a running schedule for me.
Maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I’ve grown roots and sprouted horns listening to Bach;
I don’t think Mozart knew that.
But it was the size of the shoe that never fit me in third grade,
And the roots run as deep as a well of Hope grown asunder.
I knew Mozart would not like that.
And it was holy.
We are holy.
He was holy.
Mozart was holy. Mozart was holy.
Mozart was holier than a cow gunned for meat turned to steak
And corned beef on my breakfast sandwich.
Mozart was holier than a dishwashing paste advertisement
That promises oil free, squeaky clean Experience.
Mozart was more than a religious façade played in the sala
Of some affluent geeky teenager’s house
Where no one bothers to eat the garnishing.
Mozart was holier than Bach, Chopin, Stravinsky, Wagner.
His flute promised a princess to remain priceless.
Mozart was holier than Salieri.
Mozart knew better than Salieri.
Mozart played better than Salieri,
And he got the better of Salieri when Antonio himself said,
“**** that Austrian ****** who plays, lives and howls like a show monkey.
**** this court.
**** this Emperor who can hardly keep together his fingers to play.
**** Austria.
**** Vienna.
**** this era of opera played in German that hardly sells a ticket.
**** this requiem and this boy,
This mad man, pint sized and hardly put together like a china doll.
**** this piano, and to hell with his lovers.”

I saw Mozart once. He waved at me.
I turned and looked away because I was listening to you talk about Mozart.
And I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Than Mozart talking about
Himself.
May 2011 · 510
When, Finally, You Saw Me
Joyce May 2011
Amidst this,
I find you sleeping,
Cuddled softly in your
Curls and sheets
of warm midnights
And moonbeams.
When all that’s left
Are miniature versions
Of yesterday,
Facing today.
I love you.

I love you
And I cannot stay put
Not even for a day
That I don’t see
Your eyes shut beautifully
As would one’s dreams
Come true.

I love you and
When I say it,
It cradles me into temptation
Of not waking up again
Without you
By my side.

I love you more
When you say instead of none,
That there is me in you,
And you in me.

I love you
And you are more
Than sleep,
Than a dream.
May 2011 · 623
Of All The Things
Joyce May 2011
Right before I called,
I imagined ---
is there anything left other than
Pages?
Pages yellow in time
and red ink becomes wine stronger than
your average cooler
that settles.
When bottles clink
and drown bubbles endlessly,
when the fiz dilutes memory
always fondled with friends.

Is there anything left
other than pages?

I have your fingerprint and the
scent of your hair fading
like your name in my eyes.

Nothing's left when stubs have
burned the last of crumpled letters
into ashes,
and the ember consumes
what I remember the most.
Mar 2011 · 734
A Musician's Apprentice
Joyce Mar 2011
I watch
you from afar.
Looming like
a shadow
when keys of
black and white seem
more red than a
Rose petal.
Faster than
the Wind
when chords
become the Wind
itself --
pray, I pray
on my knees
by the window,
just to hear your Voice.
Wooden figures talk.
Hooded mist and a
Curse
for every word sung;
can we dance and circle the Sun?
For I sink as I destroy,
and I create more than
I can enjoy.
Them tongues will not have
Words for watchers like
Us.
Jan 2011 · 1.3k
INTJ Chapter 1
Joyce Jan 2011
You are no more than
A cow’s foot
Up my mouth
Down my throat
You tread down roads
Long forgotten
Yet foreign
To an unknown being
Left standing
In the middle.
You are no more than
A lion’s paw
Landing on an antelope’s
Fury, yellow skin
But when it runs,
It sprints with the wind.
You plunge like a fish
And waters purge you.
You are no more than
A fly
On someone’s back,
Settled restlessly
Skin deep, pores open
For maggots of deceit.
You are no more than a thumb,
A peck of sand,
A bliss too distant to pursue.
I curse the hours you became
The mist of a Virtue.
Nov 2010 · 599
Dusted
Joyce Nov 2010
To wish across
a ray of cosmic everglows
To wish on every Star
for every dream,
every wish --
maybe one for
every Fear.
To create,
recreate
And then dissect.

Spread vastly
for no one to see,
punctured you
And stained Me.

To walk freely
where my feet can
take me.
To stand,
to laugh,
to cry --
To be One.
To hand over
broken pieces
and every piece of whatever's left.

To stand,
stand,
Stand.
Dust myself
and stand.

After you,
before me.

To stand.
To stand.
To, finally,
Stand.
Joyce Nov 2010
When, but a time
of hours counting days
and minutes become seconds;
light-shining grace -
I gaze on my One,
Once.
Intrepid and dreamy,
wary of a cannonball
that is
You.

And somewhere,
somehow,
I remain unperturbed
while your gaze
befall in slumber.
Nov 2010 · 918
Artemis V
Joyce Nov 2010
There shall be
no dawn,
as Dawn itself
waits.
An hour in passing
is an hour
in vain.
Gentlest, most hallowed
like a song
of the night;
words are but words
spelled
in neon lights.
Mist,
let me greet you.
Let me say goodbye.
Let me bade you
farewell.
Let me kiss you.
Let me cry.
Let the fog,
finally,
as it thinly unveils,
shut you
blow sand
unto your cold, cold eyes.
Someone break
the ice.
Someone will.
Someone will.
In eternal slumber,
someone will;
someone,
most precious,
gifted
heart of summer.
-- old one, retitled.
Nov 2010 · 3.5k
Dangwa
Joyce Nov 2010
Dumaan ako sa Nagtahan
at doo'y nanahan
aking diwang gising
at minulat,
pilit binulag
ng isang dakot
na Asin.
Rumampa sa Laong Laan,
pilit inabangan
ang pagtila,
tila Luha
ang tanging pakinabang.
Tumawid sa Lacson,
nadapa --
bumangon.
Sumakay ng traysikel
sa Ocampo,
pumara sa Crisostomo;
nangapitbahay sa Maria Clara
nagpalamig sa Ibarra
hanggang Simoun,
Quintos, Dapitan.
Hindi ka matagpuan.
Tila silyang marupok
na walang pakinabang;
Tila laway na muntik
masayang
ang paglalakad ng pusong
minsan nasagasaan
noong binagtas ang kahabaan ng Dimasalang.

Umuwi sa Sampaloc,
kumuha ng gamit.
Palihim na naglakad
papuntang Blumentritt.
Pinagpawisan sa pagsakay
sa Recto.
Anong ginagawa ko rito
sa Quiapo?
Isang makipot na sangandaan
kailangang mairaos daanan.
Isang hakbang palayo
sa maputik na Ocampo;
minsan nang bumagyo dito.
Meron pa bang tayo?
Nov 2010 · 1.1k
Artemis IV
Joyce Nov 2010
Breathing is
Without air,
Without sound,
Without which gives
Warmth
To my weathered
Fingertips;
If only to touch you,
Reach you
In the slightest shudder
Of my eyes.
My soul
Is yours.
My heart,
I succumb.
My every inch of sanity
Covers me,
Wakes the faintest
Shadow of you.
I long for that day
When the sun shines on me
Like how it does
Every morning
Next to you.
Joyce Nov 2010
Stained pillow covers
Write their own
Story.
Mine said,
“pens are dearest
Yet most worldly.”
Half empty *****
Atop a wooden table
Unfinished meal
And a
Misty glass window.
And then,
Rain speaks once,
Twice,
Thrice –
Bed’s empty.
I am
Empty.
Perhaps,
Forever be.
Nov 2010 · 867
Artemis III
Joyce Nov 2010
I lay down gently
And watch
Hair falls gently
Wisps on your
Lips –
Run my nose
Against your cheek
And my thumb,
On your chin.
I grin
And feel
Heavy hearted,
Beating, pounding
As I search for your neck;
And lay fingers,
Trail kisses
Emblazoned skin.
Deep within,
I hunger
For you.
Nov 2010 · 1.1k
Jasmine
Joyce Nov 2010
Mere sight, o mortal,
Sinful, banal covetousness
Sin, as it may,
To feast upon your nakedness;
Drive this stake
And I may punish
My own treachery
Of touching,
Feeling you –
Your breath close to mine
As your scent
Send shivers
Down my spine.
Eternity shall not pass.
I will but gladly perish
For one touch of your being,
For a single stare
Though mockingly.
And it shall be as if
You were mine,
And I,
Yours.
For as my soul
Screams of want of you
And no other,
And my lips trail
As fate plays coy;
My hands –
My whole body –
Ache in deepest longing,
Wither,
I may never,
Lest your desires be true.
And I shall bless,
Union of wings,
A pair I created for you.
My own be broken,
Your glance,
Stolen.
Your laughter be most lovely.
You are most lovely.
Dare I beg,
“love me.”
-- not really sure how this came about, but a friend borrowed a copy and read it to the would-be girlfriend. Oh, happy ever after! :)
Nov 2010 · 633
Morning Begets
Joyce Nov 2010
sleep now, little bee
i may have to stay awake
for thee.

the coals of clouds come
crashing down
shooting stars do not recognize
innocence when they see one.

have we forgotten what it was like
to bury ourselves in
slumber deep?

i have forgotten how it is
to peacefully sleep
-- I love sleep. My life has a tendency to fall apart when I am awake. (Ernest Hemingway)
Nov 2010 · 856
Anticipation
Joyce Nov 2010
A second or two
My thumb on you
Soft,
Sweet
Yet painstakingly near.
Two steps back
One foot forward
Sweaty palms –
I remain calm.
I remain firm
But it burns.
… should it burn?
I grow thorns
In the night
When the scent
Of your lips float
And blind me.
Yes.
Blind me
With the wicked curve
Your arrogance
Is breathing.
Imprisoned,
I am enslaved,
Finally,
Truthfully,
Wholeheartedly –
As when the voice
Of your touch,
Alas,
Faintly whispers,
“come.”
Written after a much younger cousin asked how a first kiss is like. Sometimes an innocent question from an innocent being becomes anything but innocent in the making. :)
Nov 2010 · 852
2nd Serving
Joyce Nov 2010
This cup of joe
never lies.
Sip,
as it drowns
my mouth.
Wash me whole
but filled with holes
punctured previously;
Coffee flows
freely.
My second cup,
the third drop
tastes familiar
and stale.
Three-fourths sugar
but bitter,
made sour by spoon.
Dangling,
stirring -
I shall finish my cup
soon.
And what have I learned?
It takes a little bit
of German
and sweet-sounding French
to blend the Irish,
Mexicans;
when I stare,
I leave a welt.
I leave a welt.
I do it so well.
I leave a mark;
it creeps up your neck.
It strangles
then spits venom
on your face.
It will wipe,
it shall lick the scars
left by Grace.
Your saving grace -
amazing grace -
coined by days, years
6 years,
perhaps,
5.
Count to 7,
down to 8, 9, 10 -
the 11th,
you die.
And my cup,
it overflows.
It overflowed,
caffeine-sweet.
The bitter had gone sour;
the sweet,
sweetened by spit.
Written back in June 2008, after experiencing a most uncalled for rejection by my (then) beloved.

— The End —