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Apr 2017 · 478
Into sea mists and sunsets
We're literally verging on death and no one even bothered to properly orient us on what it would be like.

There's the West Valley Fault, ready to strike a fatal blow that will make buildings crumble and set an entire city afire. There is always the Tokhang, a ruthless method that could practically annihilate and gun down anyone through gossips and word of mouth. There's the brewing tension between the North Korea and the US, the possibility of nuclear war and bioterrorism breathing at the back of our necks.

Earlier today, a friend of mine witnessed an accident. A death, I hazard. Broken bones and crumpled body. A loud explosion, a worker coming face to face with electrocution. He fell from the roof of the footbridge, she said, near Session road. Mortality is easing up on us, she said.

So before any of these befall on us -- any of these dooms -- as it inevitably will, I would like to ask you to go out with me. We'll go anywhere, anywhere at all. Everywhere, nowhere, wherever we want. We'll talk and dance and scream and exist all at once. We'll build bonfires and watch the stars and roll under the moon beams and in silence and anticipation, we will wait for the arrival of the morning light.

We will savour the last sliver of our days and we will hope. We will carry the splinters of our bones and we will find our way out of all these harms, into sea mists and sunsets in indigos and golds. We will never cease hoping. We will go on living and with each breath we draw against everything that happened to us, each beauty we make out of our sorrow and uncertainties, we will mock this grey, grey world.
Some prose for the pesky new layout of HP.
Apr 2017 · 353
In an unloved hinterland
Lately, all I want to do is stare at the ceiling and let my consciousness descend in the cellar of perpetual dreaming.

It happens, I guess. Friends vacate their spaces and walk quietly out of your life. Without warning, and sometimes, when we need them most.

All those times you've spent together, those nights you've skipped sleep just so you could drag them out of their loneliness before sunrise, all those they've buried in the farthest corner of their memories, to be left forgotten and cold like ordinary days.

I will let you be. It's your prerogative to leave. I cannot make you stay, I can only give you a piece of myself as a parting gift -- last cup of brewed coffee, a sleepover, random snack, crackling laughter, secret language, and a silent, desperate plea for you not to decamp and disappear.

If you do, do something for me, please? Walk away without noise. Leave a breath of your memory under my pillow where my hand would find them in the morning. Let them live on, in my mind, as you were, as we were.

I will plant trees and seek solace in the uninhabited forest of our bygone days. The olden times will no longer be drifting in exhaustion. In each leaf, I will build a cabin and a home and I will remember the time when you never asked questions, when you never judged, and when you were just kind.

I will remember the look of understanding in our eyes as I unraveled my thoughts and bled out. I will remember, always, when you reassured me that it is human to be vulnerable.

One day, we will find a way out of this harm and regain a kinder hope. And perhaps, in an unloved hinterland, a miracle will happen and the rain will dance, dearly, in barefoot.
~To S, my favourite person in the world so far.
Feb 2017 · 741
Marshland
My internal landscape was once a wetland. Grasses and herbaceous plants sprout from the ventricles of my heart. My rib is a birch tree, a deciduous hard wood crowned with thin leaves. My veins are wild ravines. Inside it is the torrent of rain water that keeps me alive.

My heart is a beating water lily, eternally blooming on the lake of my blood. I was a sullen mist, and I loved it that way.

But they mistook my solitude for loneliness, the crowd, the clever engineers. So they loaded sands on their trucks, sacks after sacks. They opened me up, covered my wetland, and built a city inside me. They paved roads. They constructed buildings. They opened cafes and pubs and restaurants. They turned on their neon lights.

A rave party is inside me at night, and they won't stop until I am filled with cigarette stubs and empty bottles and used issues and half-eaten plates -- litters and grime that I have to clean every morning of my life. My gutter is overflowing and they call this happiness.

I call this wreckage.

I moved close to the bed, pulled the sheet and laid down. I tried to remember my by-gone world -- my birch trees, my herbaceous plants, my wild ravines, my water lily -- before I was converted into a rattling shell called Happiness.

You wrapped your arms around me and press your face on small of my back. My spine was a hard wood once, and every October it shed its golden leaves. "What do you want?" you asked.

The neon lights and the avalanche of noise from everywhere drowned my thoughts, and all I can do for my defense is curl my mutiliated body.  "Love me until the end of everything," I whispered. "And understand that this is not a plea."

This is a burning desire to have my wetland back.
https://baelfiremoon.wordpress.com/
Dec 2016 · 335
Montage
I now see my
succeeding days and
weeks and months and
possibly years as a ball
being handed to me and
my singular impulse is
to run as fast and as far away as
I can
in the shortest possible time.
The TV contains budding romances
and break ups
and new lovers and mistresses of
hundred celebrities that made you
believe that the world
is a merry place.

You made songs for your lover
and poems and recited and sing those
on the platform in a social media before an audience
who would believe that
your relationship is a
merry go round one.

But the world is not a merry place
and relationships are not actually spotless like
plates in a dishwashing liquid commercial
on a TV that does not exist for the people in Bakwit
who fled their lands and walked three hours
under the scorching sun as their
three month old infants dived in
thirst and hunger and mothers
and fathers were murdered and gun-fired
in brazen daylight.

The TV contains budding romances
of celebrities that made you recite love poems
and hugots on this very platform
as you continue your quest of finding
a fling or lament on your unrequited love.
You do this
You
do
this
while out there
out
there
the world does not revolve in a merry go round ride.
This poem was performed in a slam poetry event in Quezon City, Philippines. I dedicate this piece to the minorities, to the indigenous tribes, to the bearer of timeless cultures and ancient traditions.
Oct 2016 · 489
No demons, no gods
Could ever dictate
the course of our days
and nights
on the serrated cliff
where we bid our love
and dissolved our selves
our distinctions for
the parallel altar
of sublime affection.

No demons, no gods
could ever dictate the
color of thistle I will
crown on your hair
before you turn your back
and I finally walk away.
Sep 2016 · 267
A Need
All I desire tonight is
to lay down and
read some raw poetry.

Nothing more.
Sep 2016 · 246
Near the train rails
There were nights
when you would left me
for sleep
and I would ask you to wait for me
in an old shed
near the train rails
in your dreams.

I wonder if I ever made it.
I wonder if you ever waited.

Do tell me
I'm eager to hear your heartbeat.
When I die,
I want to be clothed in black
and look stunning.

Afterwards,
I want my body cremated and my ashes scattered
wind in my hair, I feel part of everywhere.

But before all that,
I want my closest friends
to read their eulogy.

I will sit in front or in a corner,
and listen to our ancient stories
Every word of it.

I want to know
how they would
remember me.

I want to know
if I've been good, over all,
and if I have been worthy of this existence.

Like a regular human being,
in the end,
I need to be validated.

For now,
let me lay on this bed
in an old house in an old room.

There is a certain tranquility
in watching the low sun passed between
the small openings of the capiz window.

There is incarnation.
There is finding again.
There is hope.

No matter how tiny
and bleak
and almost impossible it looks,
it exists.
To those we will left behind after we passed.
You are far more complicated
and immense
and incalculable
and larger than that.

You are a montage of stardust
of good days and bad days
of exploding galaxies
and rebirth of universes.
To Nicholas, always and forever.
Jul 2016 · 362
Song of wings and flutters
My social life is
basically filled with
cats.

A grey cat on my right leg
while I hold the book
and struggle to devour
the passages you've highlighted
and asked me to read
over and over and over.
I'm sorry I never did.

A black cat pawing my naturally
unkempt hair you used to smell
as you hold me near and hold me close
and echo in your low, husky voice
the promises of Keats and the
haunting beauty of Neil Gaiman.
Thank you for the cloves and rosemary and a crown of purple thistle.

A white cat on my side was scratching
that precise region on my skin you've burnt
when you've freed the dragonflies in the night
and assured me they would, in time, come back.
A hundred times I lit a candle near the window
and waited, love, but heard no song of wings and flutters.
Still, I curled under the blanket and nursed my wounded hope.

A calico cat handed me
an inquiry I've been dying to hear.
Does it ache? The cat prodded near and purred.
Everywhere, cat, I retorted. Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.
Come close, please, and ask me those questions
under the flowering jasmine
and the waning moon.

I will answer you truthfully.
To Mazi, Pinwheel, and Fishy Morgan Le Fay. for being my lead Also, to Kiba.
In nights like this
I wish to be near you.
I'll tuck you in and
read you stories
I'll tell you about the hills in Scotland that
devoured people on rainy days
and the grey rabbit that
deceived it and snapped its heart.

I'll tell you about the battlefield in
places we cannot touch
the origin of rumbling thunders and
forked lightning.
I'll tell you about the sacrifices to the old gods
as their decaying bodies sway in the wind
and crows and ravens circle the canopy of the old oak trees.

In times like this
I wish to be near you.
I'll make coffee and
get us a couple of apple pie with cinnamon
Then I'll tuck you in and say I love you in unusual,
remarkable ways.

By telling you peculiar stories until you fall asleep, perhaps.

And if you want to –
if it comforts you –
I'll do this night after night.

I'll bring you marvels from arcane knowledge and
forgotten myths and
I guarantee that the unwavering cruelties of this inane, mad civilization
will only make us stronger.
May 2016 · 297
Of dark green grass
Let' walk, after all these
Explore the wood lands
Search for the faery rings
Lit fire out of dried pine woods
Lay on dead leaves and
watch the passing of the stars
Whisper in low, husky voice
Talk in ancient languages of the universe
Recite our long, forgotten poetry.

Disappear with me, after all these
I'll bring cloves and
rosemary and
crown your hair with purple thistle.
Do you recall that time?

You were resting your head on the creased pillow
while my palm traced the patterns of your moles.
I'd run the tip of my fingers,
almost without weight,
on your bare skin, and
draw the constellations of unremembered stars.

Cassiopeia, I'd say.
Or Betelgeuse, the hand of the giant.
Antlia. Cepheus. Pictor. Pavo. Musca.
Orion the Hunter.

Do you remember those times?
I guess not.

Because you've always been the blind and
I've always been the poet.
These wonders escaped your notice --
you dull, specious creature with
your dull, specious brain.

Those moments were spectacular.
Maybe I'll wake you up and
ask you to drive me around
Windows down
music blaring.

We'll play Beatles
Or Firehouse
Or The Smith
Classic rock bands.

We'll sing
and live our lives
and make this world adore us.
I would love this.

And I would do this
I'd like to do this
It is almost 4 in the morning and
I'm wishing, really really hard,

I'm wishing for something to fall
that will enable me
to love you again.
Apr 2016 · 707
Belial and back again
You still don't get it, do you?
I don't like your godly love
Or godly flowers
Or godly proposals
Or godly weddings.

*******
I don't like anything that is
godly.

Call me in the middle of the night
at 3 AM, perhaps
call me and talk to me about
your dreams and nightmares
and fears and dreams back again.
Introduce me to your demons.

I would love that.
https://baelfiremoon.wordpress.com/
Mar 2016 · 249
Ghost stories in the end
And I also say yes --
when old fellas ask me out.

But I wouldn't be there, no.
We've ran out of conversations.
We've exhausted authenticity.
We're all like hostages confined in a room
and forced to be cordial
and nice for an hour or two.

Funny --
I've just ended certain friendships tonight

With more or less 10 people.
No, I did not just disappear.
I gave them my closure.
I told them that they
at least
deserve that.

And --
thanked them for the years we've been through.

I'm concluding any relationship in my life
that lacks profundity.
Come second week of April and
I will have few friends left.
Few, yes.
But genuine nonetheless.
And that's sufficient to make this life worth living.

I guess this is it --
we're all ghost stories in the end.
To old friends who know too well how to patch and dismember each others' hearts.
Mar 2016 · 231
Your poetry
sheds nothing
but pretense
and unrequited love.
It's exhausting, really.
Your sheer lack of substance.
Girl,
Angels do not have wings
Demons do not have tails
What they told us
Are plain *******.

We,
otherworldly creatures,
Are larger than the streets we've roamed
Are greater than the books we've read
Are deeper than the oceans we've swallowed

Are longer than the nights we've sojourned
Are scarier than the monsters in our head
Are vaster than all stories
and possibilities
and gloriousness combined.

So tell me, girl,
who needs wings and tails
and a god that fails
When we're grander
Than life itself?
Because we never meet the comrades until it is time.
baelfiremoon.wordpress.com
I was exhausted and
you could have been my comfort
but you chose not to notice me.

You're all shadows and
I'm all secrets, and
after all our ***** and egos,

beneath our clothes and bodies,
we must have unearthed
our hidden contempt.
Mar 2016 · 305
Dearest Rain
Why do you have to fall
and break your self
on the cold, cold
pavement?
Mar 2016 · 609
Throw banters to the stars
Do you want to walk with me tonight?

I'll take you out;
we'll find stone walls.

I'll compose poems for you
and recite it in low, husky voice
while the wind trembles and
the pebbles shake beneath our steps.

I promise we'll stop when exhausted.
Catch our breath.
Laugh around.
Throw banters
to the stars.

Then maybe --
maybe --
kiss.

The night will adore us.
baelfiremoon.wordpress.com
Come here
and lay with me
I will show you
the narratives of the dragons
of the horns and the tails
and the tide that will rise above
the corruption of all heavens.
The complete writing can be found at https://baelfiremoon.wordpress.com/
Mar 2016 · 214
Cryptic Wedding
My affection for you
will rise above
the corruption of heavens
and drought of all the seas.
Mar 2016 · 225
In the back of my mind
I get obsessed with ideas
adventures
people
territories.

I kiss them
mark them
own them.

This is my personal demon --
this ceaseless desire
to roast you

over
and over
and over.
Uncertainty --
you never know
how it roasts me alive.

You never know
how it tatters my skin,
gorges my flesh,

powders my bones.
How it reaches through my veins,
clutches my heart,

and despoil
my godforsaken
blood vessel.

No,
this rough oceans
slips through your stupid, little fingers

because you are so busy
confining yourself
in your trivial, pathetic world.

While you stand
on the threshold
of agitation and denial,

I try to resurrect
my hours
that you have spoiled.

And I do this while slowly --
very slowly --
hating you.

This is my elegy
to every second
that you have

murdered.
Mar 2016 · 454
Causatum
You are
the bitter taste of coffee --
a lump of spite
and insecurity in my throat.

You murdered everything
long ago and turned us into rubble
yet you have not really moved on
from your paranoia

and cowardice
and bitterness
and hesitations
and poetry

that reeks nothing
but unrequited love
and cheap hunger for
pathetic attention.

You may hide behind
your computer screen
yet you cannot arrest your insecurities
from transcending these digital borders,

polluting my coffee
and forming this lump of spite
in my throat
demanding to be noticed.

Please, do us both a favour --
dissolve yourself into nothingness
and do not, don't ever
live once more.
Feb 2016 · 225
Fortunes and misfortunes
Forgive me, dearest.

I accidentally
injured my hand a while
this evening.

The metal of the vehicle
pecked on my index finger
took out a skin
and marked me

as its own.

It culled a deep void
you would hate, I know
you would curse, I know
because it is ugly
and you would hate it.

Still,
you would hold my hand anyway
and sing me some lullaby
till I fall asleep

And forget where it hurts.
To you,
as always.
Jan 2016 · 429
High Altitude
The graduate school
sent an email
telling me
that my application for
comprehensive exam
has been approved.

In compliance with the GS policy
the chair of my committee
is required to submit
a report
in regards to my examination
a week after
the 29th.

I feel like
I have not read
sufficiently
enough.
You, demigod.
You own your wonders
and curiosity
your flaws
and hesitations
your fears
and secret hopes
your narratives
and truthfulness.

Let no one
take those
away from you.
https://www.instagram.com/barbonista/
Jan 2016 · 289
Postponing Vintage
You are my constant uncertainty
time and again
I take your trembling name
out of my pocket
and demand to know
your whereabouts.

Our whenabouts.
Our whatabouts.

You are my philosophical hunger
and bland hesitations.
Jan 2016 · 224
Few bites and few thoughts
The taste of coco jam
On a bread
On top of the mug
Filled with coffee
On a wooden table
Satiated my Sunday morning.

The day would have been perfect
If you were here
To play with me.

We just did not work out.
And all I could think about is you.
You have been running in my consciousness
in and out
in and out.

You and all your detachment.
You and all your wonders.
You and all your fears and ego and denial.
You and all your hidden courage.

You,
the woman who feels life deeply.

You being absorbed
in your ceaseless inner worlds
where absolute conversations

never fall
like
fallen
friends.

Amidst all these shards,
I wish to see you again.
Maybe we can dance on our wreckage
on a whirling stardust,

one more time.
I have not written a poem for a while, but this is for you. May he-who-never-grows arrive, knock on your window, and ask you to fly.
Jul 2015 · 603
And Fear will lose its grip
While the afternoon is glum
I would draw my chair
and write my verse.

I would choose the words carefully.
I would calculate the space.
I would blend the atmosphere in all perfection,

and I would prop its truthfulness
until it is strong enough to stand beside your name
under this overcast sky.
Give me this feeling of elation
And I will prolong it
By not possessing you.

I will indulge in this feeling
Until it disintegrates
into nothingness.

You will evolve
But still,
I will not possess you.
To S --
for being brilliant
Jun 2015 · 317
Piecing Back Your Evolution
The last time we were together,
I was sleep
my arms wrapped around your chest
holding you close
and not wanting to let you go.

That was before your flight to the United States
And you woke me up with a kiss.

At 2:37 last night,
I was haunted by the thought
that you are no longer the same person
who will wake me up with a kiss
before his flight to the United States.
To those who have loved and who have lost,
remember that life goes on.
Jun 2015 · 458
June's Affection
There is something peaceful
in University of the Philippines
at the end of the semester
after the rain

with nothing in it
but the sound of the night,
the occasional bouts of lightning,
the crunch of the footsteps,

and the passing vehicles.

And darling,
I would like to walk around the campus with you
while everyone
is far, far away.
To the genuine and pure
Jun 2015 · 177
Come July
And comfort me
why some poets
are not as beautiful
as their poems.
Jun 2015 · 471
Psychological Polarities
And in retrospect,
You will find
the good things.
Jun 2015 · 224
No, Lennon
You are very wrong.
Love
Is not all we need.

We need time.
We need comfort.
Desire.
Intimacy.
Anticipation.

We need understanding
And someone
Who can actually understand.

Upon laying down,
We need an actual person
Who is still interested
In touching our skin.

Inch by inch
After everything.
And love...

is not encompassing.
Jun 2015 · 406
In Japan as a Substitute
This space
between you and I
is exhausting.

No coiled, inseparable bodies.
Just this space,
and cold academic tasks.

Yes,
I desire intimacy.
Like an actual human being.

And right now
you were somewhere else
Eating lunch.
*To every dead relationship.
May 2015 · 277
And Sussurate like a River
Body,
please rest.
You've been tormented by Mind
all day
all night.
#exhaustion #lifehacks
May 2015 · 403
Positive Nancy
Happiness
Is too safe,
Too ordinary.

It deprives me of my verses.
Apr 2015 · 220
I crave for time
Of years gone past.
Of the parallel universes.
Of the mirror ones
where second chances are available,
as well as butterfly effects.

This world is so ordinary
it isn't capable
of giving my desire to me.
Apr 2015 · 544
Infatuation
I'm enjoying it.
I'm delighted.
I actually revel in it,
like a regular human being.
To S, for the first time.
Mar 2015 · 402
In the Pacific
So, I went to our old place
Days after you flew back to the US.
And all I can think of
are the various ways
to brace myself.

Then I opened the door.
Then I smelled us.

And that was life
this afternoon
here in the Asia Pacific
in our old place

with all our dreams
and all our books
and our tiny bed.
To Nick, whom I met here in Hello Poetry, and who traversed the world, with autumn leaves, to be me.
Dec 2014 · 1.0k
Lovesick
Been trying to drink a glass every round
because there is nothing left
in my stomach.

Hurts.
Because I wanted to try a classic method,
I bought some wine.

As I foster my alcoholism,
Edgar Allan Poe
please hold my hand.
Cheers to sleep deprivation!
Nicholas.

In the middle of my thoughts
You arrived in blaze and found
The remnant of my drunken, bleeding heart.

You were relentless
In pursuit of re-existence
From ashes and fragmented hopes

That exhausted afternoon
At scorching 4 o’clock
In the corner of the room

On the creases and the pillows
We shed our clothes
And re-assembled eternity.
Aug 2014 · 820
Gentle Bloody Foams
You're not aware of this, darling,
but from the open door
I watched your drenching insides.
Water dripping on your arms, on your legs, on your feet
from your hair wrapped in bubbles
of leaking advertisements promising
softness and dandruff free scalp.

The strands were around your fingers,
sterile and making love.

And all those times, darling
while laying in bed
on crumpled sheet, I wonder
if you ever saw the blood of the rabbits in the lab
as the water dripped down the gentle foams of the shampoo
down to your temples -
down to your eyes.
#To all the animals slaughtered to satiate the misguided market of comfort and civilization.
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