#burglar
100921
Ilang beses pa ba tayong magpapaliguy-ligoy?
Pagkat sa pagitan ng paghahasik ng dilim
At sa pagsilang ng araw ay doon tayo magsisipag-sulpotan?
Hindi ba tayo mapapagod?
At hanggang kailan ba natin ito kayang ipagpatuloy?
Ganitong estado ng pamumuhay rin ba
Ang nais nating ipagmalaki't ipasa sa ating mga anak?
Pandemya nga lang ba?
O kahit hindi naman gipit
Ay ito na ang pamamaraan natin?
Oct 8, 2021
Oct 8, 2021 at 10:39 PM UTC
"hell yeah?" the burglar asked the pusher.
(the burglar: wirily, ambitious. plain appearance, dressed in black.
the pusher: wealthy, strong and well-conditioned. sumptuous leather jacket.)
"hell yeah", the pusher answered. "now i got what i like and you got what you need."
both grinned. after a day of extensive work, they relaxed in a hellish pub. it was visited by diplomatic creatures whose faces were recognizable like shadows.
this pub was called babylon 8.
the burglar and the pusher touched glasses to celebrate their deal. they drank.
"nothing to be written down",
the pusher added. burglar nodded. voices of the diplomatic creatures surrounding them; satanic sighs; bold laughter; their sentences sounded like orders that are dictated by judges.
snakes and rats. gravelpitbulls and red cats. creatures with excellent memory. guys who swallow their plans after they had learned them by heart.
a while later, a lady entered the pub: adorable like a man's fantasy; imitable like a woman's strategy. her hair color was your desire; her skin color the color of your dreams.
her name was fantasy girl.
suddenly, the lights went out; suddenly, a lightblue sun illuminated the room. no one noticed. everyone so busy hiding something that nothing was hid.
the creatures of babylon 8 therefore didn't perceive the light.
fantasy girl ordered a drink. she told the bartender: "i need freedom. that's what i want from you, the people of babylon 8."
the bartender a giant with a face full of shining scars; his right ear missing; flashy shirt; an ancient first name; speaker of all world languages combined: the omerta.
fantasy girl took a sip from a silver brew which had been served to her by the bartender. she took out a single match and there was no box; a long cigarette between her unknown lips.
bartender looked at fantasy girl. without saying a word, he turned his stubble cheek into her direction. fantasy girl lighted the match.
lightblue fire. inhaling. smoke. iceblue cloud.
the burglar and the pusher had been looking at fantasy girl all the time.
fantasy girl held a white fountain pen and took a black sheet out of a green handbag. she began to write.
Dec 15, 2019
Dec 15, 2019 at 10:12 AM UTC
News announced today "cop kills a man in his own home".
Mistakes his apartment for hers, mistakes him for a burglar or
an easy target!
My Granny says "I bet she is white and he was black"? She used was since Botham is dead. Granny says "cops killing black body has been normalized since forever".
Three days later the news releases her name and photo.
My Granny was right. She is a white woman with Klansman's robes for eyes looking to **** a black man.
Amber tell me did you sit in your car for 15 hours carving Botham's name on the bullet that killed him before going to his apartment?
Did you want his apartment to reflect the same color as
the red mat in front of his door?
Oh, you didn't notice that,
or did you just decide to take a shot in the dark,
while Botham was in his home resting effortlessly?
It was too dark for you to see that was not your apartment, but lit enough to see him to shoot him in his chest.
Amber, I bet your heart is cut from the same
cloth as your mother's "All Lives Matter" Tee Shirt.
Botham's Mother says his heart was made by angels.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC
Alone in my dark room I sit,
as the spiders build their web,
trapping these brick and mortar walls
inside of it.
The wolf lurks outside my window,
his mouth waters as he is peeping in,
just waiting to sink his teeth
into my skin.
Creeping shadows
I mistake for burglars
are at the windows,
every time I pass them.
The wind whispers of danger,
as it hits the house with a running start,
it's murmurs seep through the cracks,
disturbing my fragile heart.
I hear the clash of broken glass
falling to the floor.
Who or what could that have been?
The wolf has broke down the door,
the spiders have made their way in,
and the man with the knife,
has just took my life.
m.e.
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 2:15 AM UTC
When I was younger I wrote of cops and robbers
Killers, chases, drugs and thrillers
One specific story that was my favorite chiller-
Hitting big money houses in a quiet town,
What a young burglar grabbed was something he'd better off not found
A suitcase full of treasures not
What he thought was heavy with cash, commodities
Was weighted with remains of bodies.
Can't risk jail, no, he can't pay his bail
So when the killer came looking
The only thing to do was to cover up his trail.
I never finished the story, writing it was kind of boring.
I was busy drinking and exploring when
One night I met a man, and he was telling me this story
How he was almost caught robbing this old man's home
And of the couple things he gathered, a suitcase was one.
No- it wasn't full of literal bodies
Maybe this time, some actual commodities.
But he sold them soon after, to get money for his drugs and whatever else he revered.
That he introduced to his friends that he turned to cold bodies with his endeavors.
So my story plays out in metaphors and its true that rich old men can be killers too
Like the one in my town with the corpses in the walls
I wondered, if plundered, would the killer turn the burglar into another number
And finish my story for me.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 9:32 PM UTC
Burglar of the night,
Why steal my light?
What can you gain,
From waking my bane?
How do you appear,
Instilling fear,
In my weak heart,
Like throwing a dart.
Kidnapping my glow,
In one quick flow,
Have you no soul,
you bottomless bowl.
But I will move on,
As tides are drawn,
I would say bye,
But I got to fly.
Light burglar.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 4:52 AM UTC