Call it cringe
call it bad
call it great
or whatever you want
Hell, rip pages out
and make your notes
mail me my own poems
back with critiques for all I care
Just know that I don't care; about subject
punctuation
spelling or any of it
Because I swear
on all that I hold dear
if I have to hear
"that's not a real word"
one more ******* time
I'll lose my ******* mind

He kissed with his eyes,
And I acted surprised,
As if my world hadn't crumbled
Half an hour ago.

I kissed with my smile,
And we stood for a while,
As butterflies bumbled
In the crystal snow.

Your touch still lingered,
And you twiddled your fingers,
As birds mumbled,
you love him so.

The chirps slowly died
with our lips and eyes,
As we stumbled
slowly home.

Sine arte
A satire against modernity in the arts

O modern beast our captive arts release,
The laws of Nature wished your reign to cease.
What beauties does this modern art restores
By turning vestals young to Russian ******.
How strange the painter draws his new reforms 5
Reducing Nature’s shapes to foggy forms.
All, I may add, by rambling thoughts conceived
If Nature’s order’s razed the goal’s achieved.
‘‘What then?’’ A tasteless judge if dared to ask,
To which the answer wears pretentious mask: 10
‘‘Dear Sir! ’Tis art, all ***** mere symbols made,
And *****, though crude, denotes the father’s shade’’
Go Man admire the fruits of twisted state,
Interpret ***** as something deeply great.
Let ***** Cupid stab his precious heart 15
To make our poesy more interesting art.
Let Cyrus wreck the might of Shakespeare’s throne,
And use her tongue to lick his hallowed stone.
Thus, give the verses blank to frenzied beasts,
Or let Rihanna burn Miltonic seats. 20
A simple critic might her craft enjoy,
But witty minds oft do their gift employ.
New Cornus comes with broken tools to teach
Yet none can bear to hear postmoderns preach.
They mumble days upon the wage and race 25
For them the world’s a strife, that is the case.

Americana is a saggy *** ***** that leaves pockmarks in the sheets and sludge underneath the handles in the bathroom. 



The staff either don't or can't clean it. 



Lazy or honest. 

What a legacy. 



Her steel sheds and high hanging water towers peppered with rust stains, harken to the diseases that claimed this body long ago. 



Waylaid by a bygone era of chauvinism and supremacy.

***** by billionaire promises and suffocated
by his Bible's belt. 
 


Autoeroticism is a blood red state gasping for hot wet air in its own existential twilight.


Never to rise again. 



Your labyrinthine streets shaded by overgrowth and cracked freeways. 
 


Your dirtbrown waters and fenced in dogs.

They bark at the sky, screaming of the same stir crazy psychosis that's infected everything else within your borders. 



Beneath your clothes. 



I can see your long drooping *******, caked with the inky milk from long gone reserves. 



Black gold drained. 
 

Powdered milk of a different sort. 
 

Victim to the greed you've coveted and ****** on. 



Hard. 
 


*****. 
 


Fast. 
 


Loud. 
 


Your tragedy is vaguely romantic, 

in its slumped and defeated stature. 



Vericosed stilts stuck in the sewage and mud of your ideologies. 



No, we cannot go to bed together. 



I'm afraid of what the blood test would come back with in the dull diesel smoked grey morning. 



Something I've come to know you for. 



The sun sets red as the corners of your eyes. 



Who ever said an apocalypse had to happen suddenly? 



Your broken bones and hip strapped cattle calls. 



An auctioneer in the distance. 



The proud cliche of a lie laid Western Lore. 



The hot irons of pride in your sockets. 



You can't even see how hard we're all laughing. 



Only a few of these tears are for you.

some folks in this department
are really full of it —
a curse on those who use my poems
for some didactic ****

but blessings on the amateur
who reads, and reads again
and travels where i’ve never thought
to go, or never been

within the walls, between the lines
to make a hidden way
and use my words to say the things
i never thought to say

to make a subtle gradient
between the truths and lie —
and turn me over in my grave
that i may slower die

Say it to me, baby,

that you want me—still—
after all that I've done to you,
and only.
    
I hear you breathing out hot
—lying flattened on the cold floor—
even after the hard bruisin'

you've gone through—swell, sure it was.

And I wrecked such havoc on you
all because I care for you,
nothing more, nothing less.

I beat you up swell
to get you in a better shape
just like a sculptor

beating his stone
into the shape of David—bare naked.
I'm modern Michelangelo, so to say,

and I want you
to whisper to me
that you crave me,

    that you desire still
    such tyranny of mine
    even more. So just say it,

for your perfection
and a sheer thrill that follows
—all these right at our hands—are so close.

    Wicked as it is,
    my whispering to you demands it.

Maria Ressa, ano'ng problema?
Ba't hanggang ngayon, mukha pa ring lamanlupa?
Nagkakalat-lagim sa mga balita
Mayro'ng yayari sa'yo.


Ito'y kuwento ng....
....isang BULATE,
TUKMOL sa umaga,
TUOD sa gabi,
Pisngi man niya'y punuin ng kolorete
Mukhang BANGAW pa rin, walang silbi
Ibaon na ang IMPAKTA.


Maria Ressa, ano'ng problema?
Bakit mukha pa ring nayuping pugita
Mga galamay mo panggulo sa media
Mayro'ng yayari sa'yo.


Ito'y kuwento ng....
....mga payaso
fake news sa umaga,
fact-check sa gabi,
mukha nila ay sintigas ng adobe
bungo naman laman ay kamote
Ututin pa ang bunganga


Maria Ressa, ikaw ang problema
Hilig **** magkalat ng maling balita
at kapag sinita biglang magpapaawa
#DefendPressFreedom kuno?!


Ito'y kuwento ng....
....mga bulate
walang voter's I.D.
banyaga kasi
bida-bida, sumasama pa sa rally
wala namang bilang, hindi noypi
i-deport na sa kangkungan


Maria Ressa, walang problema
kahit maglaho pa tulad mo sa media
Marami pang ibang magbibigay ng balita
Walang manghihinayang sa'yo


Ito'y kuwento ng....
....mga bulate!

We are asked to be nonjudgmental,
for the failures of others especially the aged. Even when they have wasted their whole life with foolish acts. How are we to blame when they have failed to understand the game. Angered at our positive criticism public turn against us.
This attitude of the crowd spoils the chance of at least one fallen mend his ways. The ladder to survival is steep and long making it difficult to hang on. We trick our mind into believing in fate convincing ourselves with words such as that's his fate non can change.