It struck me, like the heat underneath
my palms and the love we shared
under the glare, beyond the beats
I long to feel, now snared.

Wish the clock can stop its tick
with roses, thorns, and ******
the heat, another magic trick
going deep, going quick, a strong kick

is fading. yet I ravish you today
with a kiss, or a bliss of bites
with a tease, or a wistful play
a fading, yet no regret.

for I loved you like this heat
with its embrace and curse
I loved you for the beat
but the water quenched my thirst.

like raindrops when the storm passed
with no rainbows, but still gray skies
let make the path on window panes
let live a trace, but leave no face
on silent deaths becoming clear
of the dark paths made from tears

feel the cold embrace of this cage
of the thousand cries unheard
and a hundred wounds still fresh
with every path on window panes
that lead to the cold hard ground,
with a crash that leads to a loss
but gives life to dear earth

we  are dancers of a feast of stories
of life and death and our momentary clouds
like the paths we made  that meets the ground
after the rain has passed

Sa’yo ko unang narinig ang katagang “mahal kita”,
sa labi **** mapula at sa salitang
sinambit nang una tayong magkita
tag-ulan, sa ilalim ng tagpi-tagping ala-aala
“Mahal na mahal kita”.

mahirap at malabo ng mabuo ngunit sapat na ito
ang mga ala-alang kasama ko pag malamig
at ramdam ang paglampas ng hangin sa pinto
at sa anino **** palayo ng palayo

Ngunit nandito pa rin ako para sa’yo
dahil sa mga katagang mahal kita
at sa bawat paglipas ng oras
lagi kong nilalasap ang dati mo ng binigkas

Sa’yo ko unang narinig ang katagang “mahal kita”,
at mahal talaga kita, sapagkat ikaw lamang
wala ng dahilan pa, hanggang
(“Mahal, minahal kita’)
tapos na ang tag-ulan.

The beating started from one to two
once an unending chant for you,
with love and hate and all its colors
speak soft then strong with rings of dolors

the beatings went from three to four
till roses turned to violet skin
she was blindfolded and never keen
till she was left to jump a hill

the beatings went from four to fire,
she knew she loved a liar,
she played her last song of curses
till the beatings stopped
and her strings were veins of blue

The beating was a broken chord
she ended the last note for her pyre
not a tear shed for her cursed lyre

Monodies

There were songs left lost with chords
of lonely aims, of hearts unclaimed
of things like death off-beat.
like doom of keys now breaking
or doors kept sealed kept screeching.

The poem,

This heart that lost its melody
and stopped its pace but not its peace;
of caged laments, unbreathing,
self-poisoned, imprisoned
still not unhoping.

The poet,

The voice of a silent noise,
kept sealed with unheard poise
of love, kept locked, forgotten;
remembered duets, of you and I
of the beats and the claps and the vow
of a written song unsung, till now
was a beating never present;
and we are never one but two
melodious but no harmony
together, alone.

The lines,

All connected, but not you,
and I was left still singing

The love,

still not unhoping.

Fred has to be a male,
so, he must be masculine,
a muscle man, an alpha bag,
with a core made of ego.

Fred as a noun is something known,
He must be working with his hands,
not with his mind, no thinking.
He must be strong, and fit and sporty,
not a kid who is gay for not lifting
- a kid is a gay if his not sporty.

Fred is a guy so he must smoke,
adore the feeling of the coke,
Drink his beer and get a toast,
he must be **** smelling dope.

Fred is a man so he must have pride,
Never cry, never try to apologize,
and he must think he is always right;
like the way fathers, brothers,
often won an argument,
as punches and fists were persuasive.

Fred is a male so he must love women,
women as in **** ladies in bikinis,
**** ladies as in ****, making love,
so he must love ***, love as in having fun,
having fun as in playing with everyone,
and he is macho for doing that.

Fred is a name who is always feared,
of his tounge and cursing,
acting tough, controlling,
like a god, he is supreme,
his words ****** every being,
with hurt, and dissappointment.

Fred is a dude so he must be a champ,
he must be the first in every rank,
he is the strongest and toughest guy,
and he must be vain for looking tough,
looking at the mirror, self-adoring,
“Who’s the fairest of them all?”

Fred is a man, so he must always be mad,
mad as in angry, always ready to fight,
his enemies were himself if his outsmarted,
her girl if she’s disobedient,
her wife if he thinks she’s unfaithful,
the gays for they are sinners but cowardly;
and all his anger is a real strong punch,
or a slap, or a curse, or a high-sounding insult,
or the smoking of a pack of coke or puff.

Fred?
He is a guy, so he must fail to express himself.

It was all about her and I, separated
by the sheets and the **** of my ego,
and the scratch that left a scar
bleeding once again.

Tonight is a night of cold stares,
of I talking to the wall,
her eyes darting on the door,
a soul wandering what’s left to hold,
but there is none and I’m alone.

The bed is a cage for forgotten sorries,
with the pillow as the lock,
and our tears, the key
to our broken hearts,
It will flow till we regret,
what we don’t know,
Till we are united
by the fluids
of our love,
again.

Love is formed from spoken thoughts,
of disgust, or remorse,
or *** and love,
until our hearts stop beating.