stumble over the rhythm you create
as if it wasn't yours.
trip over the syllables in haste
as you attempt to overtake them
before they run out of control.
this is not poetry;
this is just plain crassness.
you're a verbal klutz,
and it hurts our sensibilities.
you can't hear what you're saying,
you are driving blind
in the blizzard of words
and you have the audacity to think
you'll get out of this unscathed;
somehow revered
because of your valiant effort
and mediocre product.
a bad combination,
and you're bound to be
called out on it, for sure.
luck won't cut it.
you have to know what you're doing
and you have to be good at it.
so if you have nothing to say
that you'll be saying right—
nothing that will squeeze flesh
through clothes or break skin and teeth
or kick and scream—basically,
don't
even
try.

I hate the way the wind steals centimeters of my cigarette,
hate the way it shares my moment of silence
without me even knowing. I hate how it just
comes, unbidden, & sets everything aflutter,
unsettling things that are easily shaken
(like leaves,
like trash,
like me)
& leaving in its wake a trail of overturned things,
messed-up things,
displaced things.
I hate the way it ruffles my hair,
blows in my ear, touches my face.
I hate how I can't see it even though it's there,
& I hate how I can't see it even though it's everywhere.
I hate how it just comes & goes,
without saying a word,
without making a sound.
I hate the way the wind's left me;
dishevelled, & caught unawares,
cigarette blown away.

I hate the wind for staying so, so silent.
I hate the wind for not staying.
I hate the wind just *so ******* much

In
and
out
my mouth
you go

feeling every inch of my warm heat
with your inanimate cold
with a streak of burning mint
and brutally
like a finger made of plastic

scrubbing my teeth,
scraping my tongue,
sliding against my hollowed-out cheeks
mercilessly,

and my gums begin to bleed
and the mint is stained with blood
and the white has become pink
and it burns
it burns

but I guide you.

Waste paper & ink
via corporate endeavors—
no doubt noble.
Vicariously sit still
or swivel around—
Oh, corporate freedom!
The aircon's never felt this
cold,
the coffee never this
expensive (& free, but
a mirage is a mirage.)
the elevator never this
wild & brimming with life.

Braindead oblivion
is a natural high.

It’s a lift that people get on
when there are a hundred floors
to climb; even Armageddon
can’t get past these sliding doors.

People press whatever button
that will send them on their way
to their meeting & discussion
& their business for the day.

Until one day, someone skipped church;
barely missed the sliding doors.
But the lift stood still, shook, then lurched,
slamming people to the floor.

& then people sat up to perch
on their knees & start to pray
that they’ll never again miss church
if they don’t run late today.

(I was bored I
couldn't feel things I
started to cut myself last night)

Red razor blade streaks criss-cross
on the terrain of my wrist;
like the grooves in my skin,
magnified and coloured.

Drops of blood formed
in the paper-thin slits
not like geysers, or rivers,
but mountains of bright crimson.

(The sight is interesting the
pain is exhilarating the
fear is mind-numbing)

This morning,
the bleeding lips
sealed themselves.

(And tonight, I will do it again.)

Tayo dapat kamo
ang mga pangalan ng Zodiac natin.
Ano ang iniisip mo,
na ang mga tala ay iaayos ang sarili nila
para sa ating dalawa?
Wag ka nang umasa.
Pero gusto ko ang ideya.
Sige, tayo na lang
ang magpangalan ng ating kapalaran.