affixed there, its insignia of silence,
the river-memory of bleak stone
in waters raging
all at the vandal of the afternoon.
running dog's the swelter, a salvage
of iron in heat. the revolution's an image
of the child in all of dogdom
when anger breaks loose a fettered dove
here, or the crisp agony of bannerets
shoving a name worthy of forget:
bawling enigma from here to there
all the tension of wires, umbrella-heads
are people, drowned in lambanog.
our mirage drunk somewhere in intestinal
roads flushed with the swill of bile --
moon's the face of ****** stars
their ****** patrons. squall of wind's
the pernicious call of morning starting
washlines, groping dry,
an unpossessing pale ****** somewhere
in Quiapo, someone's a Jesus-monger, ****
of the Magdalena, or
an inverted crucifix treading its way
past hills without geometric memory.
mine's the next station, yours too,
thumbed by a tired machine: this etcetera
of coffins squinting at their faces.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 8:39 AM UTC
affixed there, its insignia of silence,
the river-memory of bleak stone
in waters raging
all at the vandal of the afternoon.
running dog's the swelter, a salvage
of iron in heat. the revolution's an image
of the child in all of dogdom
when anger breaks loose a fettered dove
here, or the crisp agony of bannerets
shoving a name worthy of forget:
bawling enigma from here to there
all the tension of wires, umbrella-heads
are people, drowned in lambanog.
our mirage drunk somewhere in intestinal
roads flushed with the swill of bile --
moon's the face of ****** stars
their ****** patrons. squall of wind's
the pernicious call of morning starting
washlines, groping dry,
an unpossessing pale ****** somewhere
in Quiapo, someone's a Jesus-monger, ****
of the Magdalena, or
an inverted crucifix treading its way
past hills without geometric memory.
mine's the next station, yours too,
thumbed by a tired machine: this etcetera
of coffins squinting at their faces.
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