The unmistakable sound of metal carving through ice,
Armored gladiators move swiftly
Wielding wooden weapons with curved blades
As they chase a hard black disc.
Bodies slam into the boards,
The boisterous crowd masks the sounds of cracking bones.
One team scores, then the other.
The crowd cheers, and then they boo.
Two competitors exchange words,
Then fists.

Seconds tick off the clock,
Before they know it the game draws to a close.
Sweat drips from every pore,
Steam rises from the warriors' helmets.
The game has not yet been decided,
So extra time is needed.
The purest form of competition,
The first to score wins.
A skater breaks away from the defense.
He shoots, he scores, he goes home and waits for the chance to play again.

My tears aren't of pain
I have nothing to gain
I just have to keep my demons tame
It's hard to do when you're insane

I cry from my shadows point of view
Hoping my life will reach a breakthrough  
Thoughts flow through my head like a typhoon
If I am to die it will be to soon

How many trials must I endure
To take the test is to be sure
My heart is everything but pure
I will fight; it is my turn

Have you tried suicide, it is quite nice
For if you fail your life will not suffice
The gate keeper is the one you must entice
While you take the chance and roll the dice

You are the candle a meter away from me.
  The little light you create was enough to burn
  my eyes, and I had to look away
  not for too long. I got addicted to your flame.

I refuse to elevate my eyes an inch from
  the yellow light in front of me.
  Over and over, I reckon and I reckon
  that your heat isn't burning me right, it was burning me from my insides.

You bend, you deform yourself, you break
  ever so gracefully, like dancing through the stagnant wind.
  And in that moment, your body is telling me
  a flame can die if the blow is too strong.

But you are the candle a meter away from me,
  and the space, the distance was too far
  even with your flame too yellow
  my lungs couldn't breathe enough air to make your flame flutter.

And he sleeps
Amongst the fisherman,
And the cab drivers,
And he's with me at midnight
Where the devil's hour draws
Closer to the lone sidewalk
And we are all ghosts
And I'm on the edge
Of a proverbial cliff and he's
There with me.

And he is no longer
Jesus of the Chapel
But of the slum dwellers,
Of the motocycle bikers,
Of the sodomites mentioned in
Howl and thought to
Roam the nights unsatiated.

That God.
The one I'm looking for.
The savior with an armsling
And an extensive knowledge
Of *******,
Every position every crack
Every twist and turn.

That God
Who baptized needles pinned
Freshly to tattoos
And made theologians
Out of tax collectors
And Jesus

Whose nails
Were used to tattoo
The words "King" grisly
On his forehead
And he was chiseled
On a cross,
Not hung.

Spurs on his feet licked
Like lapdogs by tongues
Hungry still for love,
Laying at the foot of the
Memory Jesus,
Crying,
All adulterers and profaners
And cheaters and liars all,

Who laugh
And sneer and snipe
In disbelief at his memory.
Ours.
At his clean, pierced hand
Slowly turning to ash
At the weight of our
Ink, face turning to bulletholes
As the chests decay
Into some kind of
Gang war amalgamation,

Tongues swollen,
Organs numb,
***** pierced with rose thorns
And rubbed with alcohol
And lubricant and
Sharp fingernails.

And we weep
As we are transfigured in return,
Each wound a closing scar.

river run like a song.
watch the joy
leak from the wells
in your eyes,
and let it spill over like
ink and write
the pages of your story
in the history books
of heaven: oh,

you will be remembered.
you will be remembered.

an amalgamation
of all the blood that
runs through you:
the pasig,
the yangtze,
the pacific,
the sewers of manila,
john the baptist's,
tracing down your cheeks
and down your throat and
slowly you begin to choke:

the saltwater sticks to your
throat. you do nothing
but breathe,
breathe slowly and
try not to choke
but slowly swallow
the birthrights
that remain river
run,

river run
and remember
where you came from.

I was reading old texts again
Or at least what little is left.
How I wish we could go back
To the time we talked til morning.

Typing on our phones
Like time didn't exist.
Sending texts
Like it was world's end.

We'd talk of nothing,
But something at the same time
I don't know if I forced you
Or if you truly did want to speak.

The past can bring joy and pain,
And now I'm in both.
I wish we still texted each other
Because I sort of miss you.

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.