Where's the chick habit
that's supposed to be clinging to me?
I don't have some chick habit of believing that
there's meaning to loving someone.

So come along, bro.
My love is your worst homie.

Bang bang bang.
I **** you.
Bang bang bang
I *******.

I'm a burnout,
burnt to the ground...
and I'm taking the forests with me.

And your the plastic decorations
that melt to the ground
in the aftermath of my flames.
I wish I could melt with you,
but my body is already made of ashes.

And the things I find morose have changed
from being suspended from classes
to just breathing and spending money...
and smacking *******' *****.
If you should try to kiss her,
remember that she'll soon turn to ashes.

And while we're young
we'll forget about the explosions.
Because she's always the new thing
and if you light her up she'll just be
a display of fireworks to you.

And I'm searching for the harvest within myself,
so that for once I can make things bloom
destroying them with an exploding boom.
mais la nuit est jeune
and it will always be young.

*So we wash and dance and showcase ourselves
using symbols like roses and arrows.

My whisper is a high pitched scream,
I can never seem to be soft enough.

And I've never been a lover of books
but I love what they've done for themselves.
And I've never been a lover of poetry,
but I'm an author and lover of words.

So kiss them for me,
because I'm exhausted.

Kiss them for me in the still sound of music
and I'll scream though I don't want to.

You are the light,
but I live in a comfortable cave.

I wasn’t ready for your sky-eyed nostalgia any more than I was ready for my suffragette seclusion.

I couldn’t have swallowed any more of my snake bitten hollow intellect than that which allowed me to kiss your throat to the stars skin.

So I’m hoping the ochre-rayed sun moon stars rain clock parts will aid in the time that can make things like they were in the gazebo with the puddles stuck in my shoes and your hat already full of thoughts.

And then can we spin around again?

AN INTRODUCTION TO INDIAN ART IN VERSE  
By Raj Nandy : Part One

INTRODUCTION
Background :
The India subcontinent and her diverse physical features,
influenced her dynamic history, religion, and culture!
The fertile basin of the Sapta-Sindu Rivers* cradled one of
world’s most ancient civilization, (seven rivers)
Contemporary to the Sumerians and the Egyptians, popularly
known as the Indus Valley Civilization!
The Sindu (Indus), Jhelum, Chenab, Ravi, Sutlej, Bias, along
with the sacred river Saraswati, shaped India’s early History;
Where once flourished the urban settlements of Harappa and
Mohenjodaro, which lay buried for several centuries;
For our archaeologists and scholars to unravel their many
secrets and hidden mysteries!
Modern scholars refer to it as ‘Indus-Saraswati Civilization’;
By interpreting the text of the Rig Veda which mentions
eclipses, equinoxes, and other astronomical conjunctions,
They date the origin of the Vedas as earlier as 3000 BC;
Thereby lifting the fog which shrouds Ancient History! +
(+ Two broad schools of thoughts prevail; Max Mullar refers
to 1500 BC as the date for origin of the Vedas, but modern scientific findings point to a much earlier date for their Oral composition and
their long oral tradition!)

On the banks of the sacred Saraswati River the holy sages
did once meditate, *
When their third eye opened, as all earthly bonds they did
transcend !
From their lips flowed the sacred chants of the Vedas, as
they sang the creator Brahma’s unending praise!
These Vedic chants and incantations survived many
centuries of an oral tradition,
When Indian Art began to blossom into exotic flowers like
Brahma’s divine manifestations;
With all subsequent art forms following the model of
Brahma’s manifold creations!
The Vedas got written down during the later Vedic Age
with commentaries and interpolations,
And remain as India’s indigenous composition, forming a
part of her sacred religious tradition! *
(Rig Veda the oldest, had hymns in praise of the creator;
Yajur Veda spelled the ritual procedures; Sama Veda sets
the hymns for melodious chanting, & is the source of seven
notes of music; Artha Veda had hymns for warding off evil
& hardship, giving us a glimpse of early Vedic life.)

IMPACT OF FOREIGN INVASIONS:
Through the winding Khyber Pass cutting through the rugged
Hindu Kush Range,
Came the Persians, Greeks, Muslims, the Moguls, and many
bounty hunters storming through north-western frontier gate;
Consisting of varied racial groups and cultures, they entered
India’s fertile alluvial plains!
Therefore, while tracing 5000 years of Art Story, one cannot
divorce Art from India’s exotic cultural history.
From the Cave Art of Bhimbetka, to the dancing girl of Harappa,
To the frescoes and the evocative figures of Ajanta and Ellora;
Many marvelous and exquisitely carved temples of the South,
And Muslim and Mogul architecture and frescoes along with
India’s rich Folk Art, enriched her artistic heritage no doubt!
Yet for a long time Indian Art had been the least known of
the Oriental Arts,
Perhaps because from Western point of view it was difficult
to understand the spirit behind Indian Art!
For Indian Art is at once aesthetic and sensual, also passionate,
symbolic, and spiritual !
It both celebrates and denies the individual’s love of life,
where free instinct with rigid reason combine !
These contradictory elements are found side by side due to
her culturally mixed conditions, as I had earlier mentioned!
Now, if we add to this the constant religious exaltation,
With the extensive use of symbolic presentation, from the
early days of Indian civilization;
We have the basic elements of an Art, which has gradually
aroused the interest of Western Civilization!

The further we get back in time, we only begin to find,
That religion, philosophy, art and architecture,
Had all merged into an unified whole to form India’s
composite culture!
But while moving forward in time, we once again find,
That art, architecture, music, poetry and dance, all begin to
gradually emerge, with their separate identities,
Where Indian Art is seen as a rich mosaic of cultural diversity!

(NOTES:-In the ancient days, the Saraswati River flowed from the Siwalik Range of Hills (foothills of the Himalayas) between Sutlej & the Yamuna rivers, through the present day Rann of Kutch into the Arabian Sea, when Rajasthan was a fertile place! Indus settlements like Kalibangan, Banawalli, Ganwaiwala, were situated on the banks of Sarsawati River, which was longer than the Indus & ran parallel, and is mentioned around50 times in the Rig Veda! Scientists say that due to tectonic plate movements, and climatic changes, Saraswati dried up around 1700BC ! The people settled there shifted east and the south, during the course of history! Some of those Indo-Aryan speaking people were already settled there, & others joined later. Max Muller’s theory of an Aryan Invasion which destroyed the Indus Valley Civilization during 1500BC, supported by Colonial Rulers, was subsequently proved wrong ! Indo-Aryans were a Language group of the Indo- European
Language Family, & not a racial group as mistaken by Max Mullar! Therefore Dr.Romila Thapar calls it a gradual migration, & not an invasion! The Vedas were indigenous composition of India. However, they got compiled & written down for the first time with commentaries, at a much later date! I have maintained this position since it has been proved by modern scholars scientifically!)

SYMBOLISM IN INDIAN ART
From the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphic to the Cretan Bull
of Greece,
Symbols have conveyed ideas and messages, fulfilling
artistic needs.
The ‘Da Vinci Code’ speaks of Leonardo’s art works as
symbolic subterfuge with encrypted messages for a secret
society!
While Indian art is replete with many sacred symbols to
attract good fortune, for the benefit of the community!
The symbols of the Dot or ‘Bindu’, the Lotus, the Trident,
the Conch shell, the sign and chant of ‘OM’, are all sacred
and divine;
For at the root of Indian artistic symbolism lies the Indian
concept of Time!
The West tends to think of time as a dynamic process which
is forward moving and linear;
Commencing with the ‘Big Bang’, moving towards a ‘Big
Crunch’, when ‘there shall be no more time’, or a state of
total inertia !
Indian art and sculpture is influenced by the cyclic concept
of time unfolding a series of ages or ‘yugas’;
Where creation, destruction and recreation, becomes a
dynamic and an unending phenomena!
This has been artistically and symbolically expressed in the
figure of Shiva-Nataraja’s cosmic dance,
Which portrays the entire kinetic universe in a state of
eternal flux!
The hour-glass drum in Nataraja’s right hand symbolizes
all creation;
Fire in his left hand the cyclic time frame of destruction!
The raised third hand is in a gesture of infinite benediction;
And the fourth hand pointing to his upraised foot shows the
path of liberation!

It was easier to teach the vast untutored population through
symbols, images, and paintings in the form of Art;
For a picture is more effective than a thousand words!
The Dot or ‘bindu’ becomes the focus for meditation,
Where the mental energies are focused on a single point of
creation,
As seen in the cotemporary art works of SH Raza’s
artistic representations!
Yet the same dot when expanded as a circle becomes
wholeness and infinity;
The shape of celestial bodies of the cyclic universe in its
creativity!
The Lotus seen in many sculptures, on temple walls, and
majestic columns, denotes purity;
A symbol of non-attachment rising above the muddy waters,
retaining its pristine color and beauty!
The Lotus is a powerful and transformational symbol in
Buddhist Art,
Where pink lotus is for height of enlightenment, blue for
wisdom, white for spiritual perfection, and the red lotus
symbolizing the heart!
This Lotus symbol also finds a place in Mughal sculptural
carvings and miniatures;
The inverted lotus dome resting on its petals, forms the
crown of Taj Mahal’s white marble architecture!
The trident or ‘trishul’ symbolizes the three god-heads
Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva;
As the Creator, Preserver and Destroyer, in that cyclic
chain which goes on forever!
The ***** stone of Shiva-lingam surrounded by the oval
female yoni symbolizes fertility and creation,
Usually found in the inner sanctuary of Hindu temples!
Finally, the symbol of ‘OM’ and its vibrating sound,
Echoes the primordial vibrations with which space and
time abounds!
All matter comes from energy vibrations manifesting
cosmic creation;
Also symbolized in Einstein’s famous matter-energy equation!
The Conch Shell a gift of the sea when blown, sounds the
ancient primordial vibration of ‘OM’!
It’s hallowed auspicious sound accompanies marriage
ceremonies and rituals whenever occasion demands;
And pacifies mother earth during Shiva-Nataraja’s sudden
seismic dance! (earthquakes)
Dear readers the symbols mentioned here are very few,
Mainly to curb the length, while I pay Indian Art my
artistic due!

A BRIEF COMPARISON OF ART:
Despite the many foreign influences which entered India
through the Khyber and Bholan pass,
India displayed marvelous adaptability and resilience, in
the development of her indigenous Art!
The aesthetic objectivity of Western Art was replaced by
the Indian vision of spiritual subjectivity,
For the transitory world around was only a ‘Maya’ or an
Illusion,- lacking material reality!
Therefore life-like representation was not always the aim
of Indian art,
But to lift that veil and reveal the life of the spirit, - was
the objective from the very start!
Egyptian funerary art was more occupied with after-life
and death;
While the Greeks portrayed youthful vigor and idealized
beauty, celebrating the joys of life instead!
The proud Roman Emperors to outshine their predecessors
erected even bigger statues, monuments, and columns
draped in glory;
Only in the long run to drain the Roman treasury, - a sad
downfall story!
Indian art gradually evolved over centuries with elements
both religious and secular,
As seen from the period of King Chandragupta Maurya,
Who defeated the Greek Seleucus, to carve out the first
united Indian Empire ! (app. 322 BC)

SECULAR AND SPIRITUAL FUSION IN ART:
Ancient Indian ‘stupas’ and temples were not like churches
or synagogues purely spiritual and religious,
But were cultural centers depicting secular images which
were also non-religious!
The Buddhist ‘stupa’ at Amravati (1stcentury BC), and the
gateways at Sanchi (1stcentury AD), display wealth of carvings
from the life of Buddha;
Also warriors on horseback, royal procession, trader’s caravans,
farmers with produce, - all secular by far!
Indian temples from the 8th Century AD onwards depicted
images of musicians, dancers, acrobats and romantic couples,
along with a variety of Deities;
But after 10th Century ****** themes began to make their mark
with depiction of sensuality!
Sensuality and ****** interaction in temples of Khajuraho and
Konarak has been displayed without inhibition;
As Tantric ideas on compatibility of human sexuality with
human spirituality, fused into artistic depictions!
Religion got based on a healthy and egalitarian acceptance
of all activities without ****** starvation;
For the emotional health and well-being of society, without
hypocritical denial or inhibition!
(’Stupas’= originated from ancient burial mounds, later became devotional Buddhist sites with holy relics, & external decorative gateways and carvings!)

KHJURAHO TEMPLE COMPLEX (950 - 1040 AD) :
Was built by the Chandela Rajputs in Central India,
When Khajuraho, the land of the moon gods, was the first
capital city of the Chandelas!
****** art covers ten percent of the temple sculptures,
Where both Hindu and Jain temples were built in the north-Indian
Nagara style of Architecture.
Out of the 85 temples only 22 have stood the vagaries of time,
Where a perfect fusion of aesthetic elegance and evocative
Kama-Sutra like ****** sculptural brilliance, - dazzle the eyes!

KONARAK SUN TEMPLE OF ORISSA - EAST COAST:
From the Khajuraho temple of love, we now move to the
Konark temple of *** in stones - as art!
Built around 1250 AD in the form of a temple mounted on
a huge cosmic chariot for the Sun God;
With twelve pairs of stone-carved wheels pulled by seven
galloping horses, symbolizing the passage of time under
the Solar God !
Seven horses for each day of the week, pulls the chariot
east wards towards dawn;
With twelve pairs of wheels representing the twelve calendar
months, as each cyclic day ushers in a new morn !
The friezes above and below the chariot wheels show military
processions, with elephants and hunting scenes;
Celebrating the victory of King Narasimhadeva-I over the
invading Muslims!
The ****** art and voluptuous carvings symbolizes aesthetic
bliss when uniting with the divine;
Following yogic postures and breathing techniques, which
Tantric Art alone defines!
(Both Khjuraho & Konark temples were re-discovered by the
British, & are now World Heritage Sites!)

Artistic invention followed the model of cosmic creation;
Ancient Vedic tradition visualized the spirit of a joyous
self-offering with chants and incantations!
The world was understood to be a structured arrangement
of five elements of earth, water, fire, air, and ethereal space;
Where each element brought forth a distinct art-expression
with artistic grace!
Element of Sculpture was earth, Painting the fluidity of water,
Dance was transformative fire, Music flowed through the air,
and Poetry vibrated in ethereal space!

CONCLUDING INTRODUCTION TO INDIAN ART:

Indian Art is like a prism with many dazzling facets,
I have only introduced the subject with its symbolism,
- without covering its complete assets!
After my Part Three on ‘Etruscan and Roman Art’,
Christian and Byzantine Art was to follow;
But following request from my few poet friends I have
postponed it for the morrow!
Traditional Indian Art survives through its sculptures,
architecture, paintings and folk art, ever evolving with
the passing of time and age;
Influenced by Buddhist, Jain, Muslim, Mogul, and many
indigenous art forms, enriching India’s cultural heritage!
While the art of our modern times constitutes a separate
Contemporary phase !
The juxtaposition of certain concepts and forms might
have appeared a bit intriguing,
But the spiritual content and symbolism in art answers
our basic artistic seeking!
The other aspects of Indian Art I plan to cover at a later
date,
Hope you liked my Introduction, being posted after
almost forty days!
ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE WITH RAJ NANDY
E-Mail: rajnandy21@yahoo.
    FEW COMMENTS BY POETS ON 'POETFREAK.COM' :-
I have a vicarious pleasure going through your historical journey of Indian art! Thanks for sharing this here! 2 Mar 2013 by Ramesh T A | Reply
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The prism of Indian Art is indeed has myriads of facets and is an awesome mixture of many influences some of which you list here so clearly - a very understandable presentation of symbolism too - -thank you for your fine effort Raj. 2 Mar 2013 by Fay Slimm | Reply
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Oh what an interesting read with immense information capturing every single detail. You painted this piece of art with utmost care. Truly, it's works Raj…tfs 2 Mar 2013 by John Thomas Tharayil | Reply
•
First, I have to say, the part about the lotus symbolism reminds me – My name ‘NILOTPAL’ can be split into ‘NIL’ meaning BLUE and ‘UTPAL’ meaning LOTUS. So my name represents wisdom (although it contradicts ME.. LOL). A lot of things were mentioned in the veda and other ancient Indian texts that were way ahead of the time Like the idea of ‘velocity of light’ got considerable mention in the rig veda-Sahan bhasya, ‘Elliptical order of planets, ‘Black holes’ , although these are the scientific aspects. The emphasis on contradictory elements or even the idea of opposites in Indian art is interesting because India developed the mathematical concept of ‘Zero’ and ‘infinity’. Hard to believe Rajasthan was a fertile place but now it possesses its own beauty. It was great to read about the Natraja, ‘OM’ and the trident(Trishul). Among symbolisms, Lord Ganseha is my favorite because a lot is portrayed in that one image like the MOOSHIK representing

“What we had went so much deeper than a kiss.
When we were together, she turned me completely inside out. It didn’t matter if we were dead or alive. We could never be kept apart. There were some things more powerful than worlds or universes. She was my world, as much as I was hers. What we had, we knew.
The poems are all wrong. It’s a bang, a really big bang. Not a whimper.
And sometimes gold can stay.
Anybody who’s ever been in love can tell you that.” –pg. 421 of Beautiful Redemption by Kami Garcia and Margaret Stohl.

And didn't you know
That this is how I've always felt about you,
And my most fantastic dream
Wasn't a type of fairy tale *******,
It was laughing and working through problems.
It was my understanding you
And you understanding me,
And it astounds me
That even at the worst
We've found it.

And nothing can keep me from you,
Because red strings don't work like that.
I am meant to be yours
Just as you're meant to be mine.

No one can ever
Tell me otherwise.

Let there be worlds between us,
Let there be trials and tribulations
Of the most dangerous and detrimental kind,
And I promise I will find you,
Each and every time.

Because you don't just walk away from someone,
Love isn't about the times when keeping on is easy--
It's about when it's the hardest thing to do.
And I will do it,
Through and through.

Bang! bang! went the screen door,
"Don't slam the door!", my mother.

Decades later...

Bang! bang! went the screen door,
Sounds like heaven to me!

PROLOGUE
               Hyde Park weekend of politics and pop,
Geldof’s gang of divas and mad hatters;
Sergeant Pepper only one heart beating,
resurrected by a once dead Beatle.
The ******, Queen and Irish juggernauts;
The Entertainer and dead bands
re-jigged for the sake of humanity.
   The almighty single named entities
all out for Africa and people power.
Olympics in the bag, a Waterloo
of celebrations in the street that night
Leaping and whooping in sheer delight
Nelson rocking in Trafalgar Square
The promised computer wonderlands
rising from the poisoned dead heart wasteland;
derelict, deserted, still festering.
The Brave Tomorrow in a world of hate.
The flame will be lit, magic rings aloft
and harmony will be our middle name.

On the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl;
the ‘war on terror’ just a tattered trope
drained and exhausted and put out of sight
in a dark corner of a darker shelf.
A power surge the first lie of the day.
Savagely woken from our pleasant dream
al Qa’ida opens up a new franchise
and a new frontier for terror to prowl.

               Howling sirens shatter morning’s progress
Hysterical screech of ambulances
and police cars trying to grip the road.
The oppressive drone of helicopters
gathering like the Furies in the sky;
Blair’s hubris is acknowledged by the gods.
Without warning the deadly game begins.

The Leviathan state machinery,
certain of its strength and authority,
with sheer balletic co-ordination,
steadies itself for a fine performance.
The new citizen army in ‘day glow’
take up their ‘Support Official’ roles,
like air raid wardens in the last big show;
feisty  yet firm, delivering every line
deep voiced and clearly to the whole theatre.
On cue, the Police fan out through Bloomsbury
clearing every emergency exit,
arresting and handcuffing surly streets,
locking down this ancient river city.
Fetching in fluorescent green costuming,
the old Bill nimbly Tangos and Foxtrots
the airways, Oscar, Charlie and Yankee
quickly reply with grid reference Echo;
Whiskey, Sierra, Quebec, November,
beam out from New Scotland Yard,
staccato, nearly lost in static space.
      
              LIVERPOOL STREET STATION
8.51 a.m. Circle Line

Shehezad Tanweer was born in England.
A migrant’s child of hope and better life,
dreaming of his future from his birth.
Only twenty two short years on this earth.
In a madrassah, Lahore, Pakistan,
he spent twelve weeks reading and rote learning
verses chosen from the sacred text.
Chanting the syllables, hour after hour,
swaying back and forth with the word rhythm,
like an underground train rocking the rails,
as it weaves its way beneath the world,
in turning tunnels in the dead of night.

Teve Talevski had a meeting
across the river, he knew he’d be late.
**** trains they do it to you every time.
But something odd happened while he waited
A taut-limbed young woman sashayed past him
in a forget-me-not blue dress of silk.
She rustled on the platform as she turned.
She turned to him and smiled, and he smiled back.
Stale tunnel air pushed along in the rush
of the train arriving in the station.
He found a seat and watched her from afar.
Opened his paper for distraction’s sake
Olympic win exciting like the smile.

Train heading southwest under Whitechapel.
Deafening blast, rushing sound blast, bright flash
of golden light, flying glass and debris
Twisted people thrown to ground, darkness;
the dreadful silent second in blackness.
The stench of human flesh and gunpowder,
burning rubber and fiery acrid smoke.
Screaming bone bare pain, blood-drenched tearing pain.
Pitiful weeping, begging for a god
to come, someone to come, and help them out.

Teve pushes off a dead weighted man.
He stands unsteady trying to balance.
Railway staff with torches, moving spotlights
**** and jolt, catching still life scenery,
lighting the exit in gloomy dimness.
They file down the track to Aldgate Station,
Teve passes the sardine can carriage
torn apart by a fierce hungry giant.
Through the dust, four lifeless bodies take shape
and disappear again in drifting smoke.
It’s only later, when safe above ground,
Teve looks around and starts to wonder
where his blue epiphany girl has gone.

                 KINGS CROSS STATION
8.56 a.m. Piccadilly Line

Many named Lyndsey Germaine, Jamaican,
living with his wife and child in Aylesbury,
laying low, never visited the Mosque.   
                Buckinghamshire bomber known as Jamal,
clean shaven, wearing normal western clothes,
annoyed his neighbours with loud music.
Samantha-wife converted and renamed,
Sherafiyah and took to wearing black.
Devout in that jet black shalmar kameez.
Loving father cradled close his daughter
Caressed her cheek and held her tiny hand
He wondered what the future held for her.

Station of the lost and homeless people,
where you can buy anything at a price.
A place where a face can be lost forever;
where the future’s as real as faded dreams.
Below the mainline trains, deep underground
Piccadilly lines cross the River Thames
Cram-packed, shoulder to shoulder and standing,
the train heading southward for Russell Square,
barely pulls away from Kings Cross Station,
when Arash Kazerouni hears the bang,
‘Almighty bang’ before everything stopped.
Twenty six hearts stopped beating that moment.
But glass flew apart in a shattering wave,
followed by a  huge whoosh of smoky soot.
Panic raced down the line with ice fingers
touching and tagging the living with fear.
Spine chiller blanching faces white with shock.

Gracia Hormigos, a housekeeper,
thought, I am being electrocuted.
Her body was shaking, it seemed her mind
was in free fall, no safety cord to pull,
just disconnected, so she looked around,
saw the man next to her had no right leg,
a shattered shard of bone and gouts of  blood,
Where was the rest of his leg and his foot ?

Level headed ones with serious voices
spoke over the screaming and the sobbing;
Titanic lifeboat voices giving orders;
Iceberg cool voices of reassurance;
We’re stoical British bulldog voices
that organize the mayhem and chaos
into meaty chunks of jobs to be done.
Clear air required - break the windows now;
Lines could be live - so we stay where we are;
Help will be here shortly - try to stay calm.

John, Mark and Emma introduce themselves
They never usually speak underground,
averting your gaze, tube train etiquette.
Disaster has its opportunities;
Try the new mobile, take a photograph;
Ring your Mum and Dad, ****** battery’s flat;
My network’s down; my phone light’s still working
Useful to see the way, step carefully.

   Fiona asks, ‘Am I dreaming all this?’
A shrieking man answers her, “I’m dying!”
Hammered glass finally breaks, fresher air;
too late for the man in the front carriage.
London Transport staff in yellow jackets
start an orderly evacuation
The mobile phones held up to light the way.
Only nineteen minutes in a lifetime.
  
EDGEWARE ROAD STATION
9.17 a.m. Circle Line

               Mohammed Sadique Khan, the oldest one.
Perhaps the leader, at least a mentor.
Yorkshire man born, married with a daughter
Gently spoken man, endlessly patient,
worked in the Hamara, Lodge Lane, Leeds,
Council-funded, multi-faith youth Centre;
and the local Primary school, in Beeston.
No-one could believe this of  Mr Khan;
well educated, caring and very kind
Where did he hide his secret other life  ?

Wise enough to wait for the second train.
Two for the price of one, a real bargain.
Westbound second carriage is blown away,
a commuter blasted from the platform,
hurled under the wheels of the east bound train.
Moon Crater holes, the walls pitted and pocked;
a sparse dark-side landscape with black, black air.
The ripped and shredded metal bursts free
like a surprising party popper;
Steel curlicues corkscrew through wood and glass.
Mass is made atomic in the closed space.
Roasting meat and Auschwitzed cremation stench
saturates the already murky air.              
Our human kindling feeds the greedy fire;
Heads alight like medieval torches;
Fiery liquid skin drops from the faceless;
Punk afro hair is cauterised and singed.  
Heat intensity, like a wayward iron,
scorches clothes, fuses fibres together.
Seven people escape this inferno;
many die in later days, badly burned,
and everyone there will live a scarred life.

               TAVISTOCK ROAD
9.47 a.m. Number 30 Bus  

Hasib Hussain migrant son, English born
barely an adult, loved by his mother;
reported him missing later that night.
Police typed his description in the file
and matched his clothes to fragments from the scene.
A hapless victim or vicious bomber ?
Child of the ‘Ummah’ waging deadly war.
Seventy two black eyed virgins waiting
in jihadist paradise just for you.

Red double-decker bus, number thirty,
going from Hackney Wick to Marble Arch;
stuck in traffic, diversions everywhere.
Driver pulls up next to a tree lined square;
the Parking Inspector, Ade Soji,
tells the driver he’s in Tavistock Road,
British Museum nearby and the Square.
A place of peace and quiet reflection;
the sad history of war is remembered;
symbols to make us never forget death;
Cherry Tree from Hiroshima, Japan;
Holocaust Memorial for Jewish dead;
sturdy statue of  Mahatma Gandhi.
Peaceful resistance that drove the Lion out.
Freedom for India but death for him.

Sudden sonic boom, bus roof tears apart,
seats erupt with volcanic force upward,
hot larva of blood and tissue rains down.
Bloodied road becomes a charnel-house scene;
disembodied limbs among the wreckage,
headless corpses; sinews, muscles and bone.
Buildings spattered and smeared with human paint
Impressionist daubs, blood red like the bus.

Jasmine Gardiner, running late for work;
all trains were cancelled from Euston Station;  
she headed for the square, to catch the bus.
It drove straight past her standing at the stop;
before she could curse aloud - Kaboom !
Instinctively she ran, ran for her life.
Umbrella shield from the shower of gore.

On the lower deck, two Aussies squeezed in;
Catherine Klestov was standing in the aisle,
floored by the bomb, suffered cuts and bruises
She limped to Islington two days later.
Louise Barry was reading the paper,
she was ‘****-scared’ by the explosion;
she crawled out of the remnants of the bus,
broken and burned, she lay flat on the road,
the world of sound had gone, ear drums had burst;
she lay there drowsy, quiet, looking up
and amazingly the sky was still there.

Sam Ly, Vietnamese Australian,
One of the boat people once welcomed here.
A refugee, held in his mother’s arms,
she died of cancer, before he was three.
Hi Ly struggled to raise his son alone;
a tough life, inner city high rise flats.
Education the smart migrant’s revenge,
Monash Uni and an IT degree.
Lucky Sam, perfect job of a lifetime;
in London, with his one love, Mandy Ha,
Life going great until that fateful day;
on the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl.

Three other Aussies on that ****** bus;
no serious physical injuries,
Sam’s luck ran out, in choosing where to sit.
His neck was broken, could not breath alone;
his head smashed and crushed, fractured bones and burns
Wrapped in a cocoon of coma safe
This broken figure lying on white sheets
in an English Intensive Care Unit
did not seem like Hi Ly’s beloved son;
but he sat by Sam’s bed in disbelief,
seven days and seven nights of struggle,
until the final hour, when it was done.

In the pit of our stomach we all knew,
but we kept on deep breathing and hoping
this nauseous reality would pass.
The weary inevitability
of horrific disasters such as these.
Strangely familiar like an old newsreel
Black and white, it happened long ago.
But its happening now right before our eyes
satellite pictures beam and bounce the globe.
Twelve thousand miles we watch the story
Plot unfolds rapidly, chapters emerge
We know the places names of this narrative.
  
It is all subterranean, hidden
from the curious, voyeuristic gaze,
Until the icon bus, we are hopeful
This public spectacle is above ground
We can see the force that mangled the bus,
fury that tore people apart limb by limb
Now we can imagine a bomb below,
far below, people trapped, fiery hell;
fighting to breathe each breath in tunnelled tombs.

Herded from the blast they are strangely calm,
obedient, shuffling this way and that.
Blood-streaked, sooty and dishevelled they come.
Out from the choking darkness far below
Dazzled by the brightness of the morning
of a day they feared might be their last.
They have breathed deeply of Kurtz’s horror.
Sights and sounds unimaginable before
will haunt their waking hours for many years;
a lifetime of nightmares in the making.
They trudge like weary soldiers from the Somme
already see the world with older eyes.

On the surface, they find a world where life
simply goes on as before, unmindful.
Cyclist couriers still defy road laws,
sprint racing again in Le Tour de France;
beer-gutted, real men are loading lorries;
lunch time sandwiches are made as usual,
sold and eaten at desks and in the street.
Roadside cafes sell lots of hot sweet tea.
The Umbrella stand soon does brisk business.
Sign writers' hands, still steady, paint the sign.
The summer blooms are watered in the park.
A ***** stretches on the bench and wakes up,
he folds and stows his newspaper blankets;
mouth dry,  he sips water at the fountain.
A lady scoops up her black poodle’s ****.
A young couple argues over nothing.
Betting shops are full of people losing
money and dreaming of a trifecta.
Martin’s still smoking despite the patches.
There’s a rush on Brandy in nearby pubs
Retired gardener dead heads his flowers
and picks a lettuce for the evening meal

Fifty six minutes from start to finish.
Perfectly orchestrated performance.
Rush hour co-ordination excellent.
Maximum devastation was ensured.
Cruel, merciless killing so coldly done.
Fine detail in the maiming and damage.

A REVIEW

Well activated practical response.
Rehearsals really paid off on the day.
Brilliant touch with bus transport for victims;
Space blankets well deployed for shock effect;
Dramatic improv by Paramedics;
Nurses, medicos and casualty staff
showed great technical E.R. Skills - Bravo !
Plenty of pizzazz and dash as always
from the nifty, London Ambo drivers;
Old fashioned know-how from the Fire fighters
in hosing down the fireworks underground.
Dangerous rescues were undertaken,
accomplished with buckets of common sense.
And what can one say about those Bobbies,
jolly good show, the lips unquivering
and universally stiff, no mean feat
in this Premiere season tear-jerker.
Nail-bitingly brittle, but a smash-hit
Poignant misery and stoic suffering,
fortitude, forbearance and lots of grit
Altogether was quite tickety boo.



NOTES ON THE POEM

Liverpool Street Station

A Circle Line train from Moorgate with six carriages and a capacity of 1272 passengers [ 192 seated; 1080 standing]. 7 dead on the first day.

Southbound, destination Aldgate. Explosion occurs midway between Liverpool Street and Aldgate.

Shehezad Tanweer was reported to have ‘never been political’ by a friend who played cricket with him 10 days before the bombing

Teve Talevski is a real person and I have elaborated a little on reports in the press. He runs a coffee shop in North London.

At the time of writing the fate of the blue dress lady is not known

Kings Cross Station

A Piccadilly Line train with six carriages and a capacity of 1238 passengers [272 seated; 966 standing]. 21 dead on first day.

Southbound, destination Russell Square. Explosion occurs mi

nais kong simulan ang aking tula sa isang katanungan,
"bakit mo ako iniwan?"
dahil ba sa ugali kong hindi maintindihan?
dahil ba sa itsura kong hindi kagandahan?

bakit mo ako binitiwan?
bakit mas pinili mo ang lumisan?
bakit mga pangako mo'y iyong kinalimutan?
bakit ka lumihis ng daan?

mahal, sana'y sagutin mo't huwag kang magalit,
kung marami akong tanong sayo na bakit,
hindi ko parin kasi talaga matanggap yung sakit,
sagutin mo naman, baka sakaling tumamis ang mapait.

hindi kita matanggal sa puso't isip ko,
at dahil sa takot ko na baka maulit ang pag-alis mo,
ipinagkatiwala ko ang puso ko sa ibang tao,
kaysa ang maniwala muli sa mga salita mo.

sa bawat paggalaw ng kamay ng orasan,
sa bawat pag-ihip ng hanging amihan,
sa bawat pagsilip ni haring araw,
tila puso ko'y nanatiling naliligaw.

paulit-ulit sa aking isipan,
tama ba ang aking napagdesisyunan?
kasiyahan sa iba ay dapat bang subukan?
nagbakasali na hindi ko ito pagsisihan.

sumubok ako, nagtiwala sa mga salitang naghatid ng panandalian ligaya,
nagpadala ako sa mga pangakong "ikaw lang at wala ng iba",
pero nagkamali ako, pare-pareho lang pala kayo,
sa una lang kayo pursigido.

mahal, nais kong alalahanin mo,
lingid sa kaalaman mo na makakalimutin ako,
pero inaamin ko, ni minsan hindi ka nawala sa isip ko,
oo mali 'to, pero masisisi mo ba ako?

bakit ramdam ko parin ang sakit ng iyong paglisan?
bakit hindi kita kayang bitiwan?
bakit sa bawat oras ng aking kalungkutan,
ikaw, ikaw ang nagsisilbing dahilan ng aking kasiyahan?

ang unan ko'y basang basa na ng luha,
mata ko'y tuluyan ng namaga,
alam ko na wala na akong dapat kapitan,
kung kaya't sanay matutunan ko ng ika'y bitiwan.

mahal, wala akong karapatan para sabihin na ako'y iyong balikan,
dahil minsan na kitang pinagtabuyan,
kaya hinihiling ko na sana sa iyong muling paglisan,
kasabay nun ay ang unti unti kong pagtahan.

patawad sapagkat hindi na tama ang aking nadarama,
patawad sapagkat alam kong tayo'y tapos na,
patawad sa mga salitang hindi na maibabalik pa,
patawad, patawad sa pagpili ko noon na lisanin ka at wag ng lumingon pa.

labis ang naramdaman kong lungkot,
labis din ang poot dahil hindi kita malimot-limot,
subalit sa mga panahong naghihilom na ang kirot,
saka ka naman muling susulpot.

lubos akong nagalak,
puso ko'y nabusog sa iyong salitang mabubulaklak,
nawala ang patalim sa puso ko na nakasaksak,
nang ikaw sakin ay kumambak.

subalit hanggang kailan kaya mayroong "tayo"?
hindi ko maalis ang takot sa puso at isip ko,
hindi ko maalis ang nadarama kong silakbo,
na ang dapat na "tayo" ay mapalitan muli ng isang "kayo"

hanggang kailan mo ako muling mamahalin?
hanggang kailan mo ako muling yayakapin?
hanggang kailan mo muling ipaparamdam ang apoy ng pag-ibig?
o papatayin na lamang ito muli ng malamig na tubig?

natatakot ako sa mga bagay na hindi inaasahan,
na baka magbago ang iyong isipan,
natatakot ako sa mga pwedeng maging dahilan,
dahilan ng iyong posibleng paglisan.

kasi minsan mo na akong isinantabi,
minsan mo na kong trinato na parang walang silbi,
minsan mo ng binasa ng luha ang aking pisngi,
at minsan mo na rin pinunit ang puso ko sa iyong mga sinabi.

natatakot ako mahal ko,
nais kong magtiwala muli sa mga salita mo,
paumanhin, subalit natatakot ako,
natatakot akong iwan mo ulit ako.

sana'y sa ating karanasan sa nakaraan,
manatili ka sa aking tabi at huwag lumisan,
sapagkat ikaw ang aking kalakasan,
subalit ikaw rin ang aking kahinaan.

ikaw, ang pumapawi sa aking uhaw,
ikaw, ang nagbigay direksyon sa puso kong ligaw,
ikaw, ang dahilan kung bakit ang puso mula sa bintana ng kaluluwa'y dumungaw,
ikaw, ang nagbibigay sigla sa akin araw-araw.

hinihiling ko na sana sa oras na magbago ang ihip ng panahon,
magbago ang direksyon ng mga alon,
tumaliwas ang lahat ng bagay sa dapat nilang posisyon at direksyon,
mag-iba man ang huni ng mga ibon,

sa oras na ikaw ay aking muling tanungin,
isa laman ang isasagot mo sa akin,
"huwag kang matakot at mangamba,
mahal na mahal kita"

We were once kids.
We were once wild.
We were once soldiers.
In the dead of winter, you greeted death.
You fell from my grip and into the darkness,
and now a hundred years have rotted away and I have never felt so alone.
I ran from the winter because war was to attached to it.
I close my eyes and I see you there on the front line.
Young and drained, you were just a body rotting away.
Full of life so you hung on with everything you had.
bang
bang
It was such an awful sound.
Only if I had taken your place.
If only you would have run the other way.
Just how unfair is our luck.

Someday I'll teach myself to learn and live alone.
I'll teach myself that death was not the enemy.
But the winter storm rages on and I'm still having trouble breathing.
Don't be alarmed.
I march on.
Like the soldier I once was.
Don't be alarmed.
I've seen many winter storms
and I have miraculously survived them all.

Can't you see that I don't want to move on?
Don't bring tomorrow because I can't take another.
My eyes are too fogged to see the light.
My minds too cluttered to think right.
I've tasted my own tears
and faced all my fears.
So here I am.
Laying on the floor.
So here we are.
Together once more.

Bang, bang, bang!
Shots rang out.
Bang, bang, bang!
On the sixth, he went down.
That ninth day of August,
two-thousand and fourteen,
a young man's life ended,
with an entire city's dreams.

They say he wasn't armed,
he didn't have a gun.
They say he fought back,
but the officer, he won.
Self defense or ******?
No one really knows.
Except the three who were there,
watching the nightmare unfold,
and so it goes:
"Michael Brown was murdered!"
"That white cop should burn in hell!"
"It was only self-defense!"
But to Michael, they said farewell.

Two sides to every story,
that's the way life goes.
You were not there, and the three that were, are the only ones who know
what truly happened that tragic night
when a young man lost his life.

So heart-wrenching a situation,
yet for the family, there is no peace.
The jury came back: no verdict.
And though they wished the violence would cease;
Turning the white man free
who shot their son
caused an uproar in the crowds.
They asked for peace, but they were not heard - the violence was too loud.
Flags of our fathers being set on fire,
dancing in the flames.
Shots ring out, stores windows smashed;
now, tell me, who's to blame?


This is not an issue of racism,
but of human decency.
The white man should not have shot the black man, but he could not set him free.
It is his job - his duty,
to protect and serve the law.
That fateful day, we may never know,
what it was that Michael saw.

Each man stood up for himself
in the best way that he knew how.
The outcome of what we now know
as the ****** of Michael Brown.

The media perpetuates racism,
there’s a different story everywhere you turn.
We cannot allow them to keep us apart,
and just sit here as they watch us burn.
Please, I beg you, from each man’s side,
it’s all been taken too far.
We need peace in the streets,
we need love in our hearts,
it’s all getting too hard.


My brothers and sisters,
and loved ones, too,
please listen to me now:
We cannot continue to stand apart
when war is happening on our very grounds.
We treat each other with hatred,
love is far from within our eyes.
How can we ever know peace
when all we tell each other is lies?

The unrest needs to subside,
the revolution needs to end.
Is this what your forefathers fought for?
You are ruining what they tried to mend.

Ang paligsahan ay nagumpisang magbukas
Ng mga piling kalahok kung sino ang pinakamalakas
Pinagtipon tipon sa labanang may mataas na antas
Ang gantimpala sa mananalo ay ang kapalaran ng bukas

Wari bang hamon ng buhay na tayong lahat ay kalahok
Sa paligsahang paunahang makarating sa tuktok
Kung sino ba ang makakalagpas sa mga pagsubok
At kung sino ba ang matatag at tunay na di marupok

Kaya wag hayaang tumiklop ang tuhod
Kahit sa panghihina ay dahandahang mapaluhod
Dapat kalimutan ang nararamdamang pagod
Dahil ang laban ay dumarating nang sunod sunod

Ibigay ang lahat ng makakaya
Magtiwala sa sarili, may magagawa pa
Wag mawawalan ng pagasa
Manatiling nakamulat ang mga mata

Sabay ibukas ang munting palad
Ano mang oras darating ang hinahangad
Tulad ng manlalarong naghihintay ng pasa
Nakasalalay ang puntos, kapag nahawakan ang bola

Ganun kahalaga ang bawat panahon
Di dapat pinalalagpas ang bawat pagkakataon
Yan ang aral na ipinapaalala nitong kompetisyon
At ang disiplinang nakapaloob sa isang kampeon

Sumigaw kahit gaano kaliit ang tinig
Di maglalaon ay tuluyan ka nilang maririnig
Habang ang tao’y may taglay na pagibig
May lakas na di padadaig kahit pang buong daigdig

Bumangon ilang beses man madapa….

Walang tagumpay sa pagsuko
Kaya laban lang ng buong puso
Ipakita **** ikaw ang nararapat
Sino man ang makatapat, bumalakid man ang lahat

Ang mundo ay isang parang laro
May panalo at may pagkabigo
Ngunit may karamay na kupunang sumasaiyo
Na magsasabing “Magkasama tayo, sila ikaw at ako”

You and I we lived a lie
And spread it to the masses
I made sure to tidy up and wore rose tinted glasses
I saw the flags and all the bad but couldn't understand
I cried myself to sleep and stuck my head under the sand
But somehow baby I just never could be what you needed
Accusing me of everything, yet you're the one who cheated
Such a sad realization when you wake up to a stranger
That you somehow knew for years and yet your connection's weaker

So goodbye goodbye goodbye I walk out with a bang (Just like I walked in)
Goodbye, goodbye goodbye we'll never meet again (you should have listened)
I know I told you baby that this was til the end (for better or worse)
But eternity don't work for me, if youre hurting me, my friend (you were my curse)

You told me I was heartless when I left without a tear
I guess you didn't count all the times I cried those years
You wounded me in different ways in which I still can't heal
Still I was devoted, my hearts not an easy one to steal
I gave you enough chances, time and time again
If you really cared about me, than you should have listened
So call me this and call me that
I really dont give a ****
I know that for some other man someday I'll be more than enough

So goodbye goodbye goodbye I walk out with a bang (Just like I walked in)
Goodbye, goodbye goodbye we'll never meet again (you should have listened)
I know I told you baby that this was til the end (for better or worse)
But eternity don't work for me, if youre hurting me, my friend (you were my curse)

How can I learn to trust again after such a failure?
You were just another waste of time, you weren't my savior
Sometimes I still think of things you said I get lost inside your lies
But I've grown so much since I stood my ground, you'll never realize
I won't allow myself to act stupid over another guy
I deserve the world and will except no less than the moon, the stars, and sky

So goodbye goodbye goodbye I walk out with a bang (Just like I walked in)
Goodbye, goodbye goodbye we'll never meet again (you should have listened)
I know I told you baby that this was til the end (for better or worse)
But eternity don't work for me, if youre hurting me, my friend (you were my curse)

Fast forward to the future and look how much I've grown
Can't believe how good I'm doing out here all on my own
I became my own support system, my own best friend
I don't need nobody else baby I got this til the end
But then a pair of eyes caught mine in a way I can't explain
They look not a thing like yours and I'm over the moon again
But this time will be different, this time Ill be stronger
I refuse to be abused or suffer any longer

So goodbye goodbye goodbye I walk out with a bang (Just like I walked in)
Goodbye, goodbye goodbye we'll never meet again (you should have listened)
I know I told you baby that this was til the end (for better or worse)
But eternity don't work for me, if youre hurting me, my friend (you were my curse)

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
I'm done with all your heartache
And I promise you by the time you notice what you threw away
I'll be someone else's cherished "mistake"

They're killing each
other outside in
a bullet barrage
as I write this
from my varrio garage...
Stupid turf wars
'tween rival gangs
Shoot em up bang
bang bang....bang,
bang, bang....

Here come the jura
looking for rats...
alleys are full
of stray tomcats
The ghetto bird hoovers
Infrared light....
here come the pigs
looking for a fight....

This is what I
witness every
Single night

Fireworks are a lot like promises
But I like the ones during New Years
Rather than the fourth
They have more meaning
Like:
Bang! : I promise to treat my parents better
Bang! : I promise to spend more time with the kids
Bang! : I promise to cherish her more often
Bang! : I promise to never look back

And then there are fireworks that
Can be heard more than once
The ones that shatter the sky and
Echo throughout the whole neighborhood
The ones that are lit to make a statement
Like:
I wish you were here right now.

Noong araw na umamin ka
Pikit matang sinabing, gusto kita
Meron akong biglang nadama
Dapat nga bang ipakita?

Habang nakikinig sa iyong tinig
May pagaalinlangang nadinig
Tama nga bang making
Sa nilalaman ng aking dibdib?

Binigyang pagkakataon
Sinubok natin ang kahapon
Ngunit bakit ganoon
Di ko na alam ngayon

Takot akong aminin sa sarili
Na baka ako'y nagkamali
Pero mas takot akong aminin
Na baka ako'y nakasakit

Gusto kitang palayain
Dahil di kita kayang yakapin
Bigyang paumanhin
Hindi nais ika'y paasahin

Kung gustong magpatuloy
Burahin ang nararamdaman
Kung gustong mabuhay
Burahin siya sa iyong isipan

                                                   Tamang daan ay alam na alam na
                                                   ito na dapat ang ginagawa
                                                   pero pinipili pa ring maging masaya
                                                   kahit sa dulo alam naman nating talo na

Masaya pa bang ituturing,
Kung ang sakit ay nandoon rin?
Masaya ka bang ituturing,
Kung sa gabi'y mata mo ay lumuluha rin?

                                                 Tunay sa ligaya
                                                 Di talaga sa materyal na bagay makikita.
                                                 Mata ng iyong sinisinta na sa iyo nakatulala
                                                 Anong ligaya ang madarama.

Panandaliang ligaya nga naman
Panandalian lang ang lahat
Pang matagalang sakit at poot
Naman ang sa iyo'y idudulot

Hahayaan mo na lang ba na gano'n?

                                                  Kung ligaya ay minsang panandalian
                            Malamang lungkot at paghati ay panandalian lang din.
                Ngunit haba ng dulot ng ligaya ay di masusukat
     Lungkot na naramdaman ay tiyak malilimot mo na.


Tunay ngang pag-ibig ay magulo
                 Hindi ko maintindihan
                          Bakit kapag nasasaktan ka'y ayos lang?
                                Hindi ko maintindihan
                                      Kapag nama'y masaya ka, babawiin rin lang
                                 Hindi ko maintindihan
                   Maaari bang madali na lang ang lahat?

Pag-ibig ay talagang magulo
                 Pagkat kulay nito'y halo-halo.
                            Mundo ay napapaikot gamit ng pag-ibig na ito,
                                           Sabi nga ng maraming nakaranas na nito
                             Hindi ka matututo umibig
                  Kung di ka masasaktan.
         Sakit sa pag-ibig ay normal


Pagkat ikaw ay nagmamahal.

Sa dami ng tao  na nabubuhay sa mundo,
Hindi lang isa o dalawa ang nakakaranas nito,
Mga tanong na animo'y basag na salamin na di na mabuo,
Walang ibang kayang sumagot kundi mismong puso mo.

Sinu ba naka imbento ng pagmamahal?
Bakit pag nasaktan, paglimot ay kaytagal,
Mga nakaraa'y gusto **** balikan,
Ngunit tadhana sayo'y gusto ng kalimutan.

Biktima ka na ba ng maling pagmamahal?
Yung tipong mahal mo sya, mahal ka nya ngunit bawal,
Mainit sa mata ng iba at hindi kaaya aya,
Ngunit para sa inyong dalawa'y pag sasama nyo'y anong kasing saya.

Agwat ba ng edad ay hindi alintana?
Sa paningin ba ng iba'y hindi maganda?
Mamahalin mo pa ba ang isang tulad nya?
Kahit ba ang edad mo'y doble sakanya?

Paanu ba masusukat ang pagmamahal sayo?
Sa tagal ba ng kanyang paghalik o pagsusundo sayo?
Sa rami ng okasyong nabibigay nyang regalo,
Dun mo ba makikita kung mahal kang totoo?

Paanu kung isang araw puso mo'y tumibok,
Sa taong di pa nakikita o nahahawakan kahit hibla ng buhok,
Mamahalin mo pa ba sya kahit sobrang lungkot,
Hindi nya magawang yakapin kapag ika'y nagmumukmok.

Mahirap talaga kapag ang mahal mo'y nasa malayo,
Lalo na kung umaasa kalang sa wifi ng kapitbahay nyo,
Na kapag mahina ang net , babagal din sayo,
Ngunit tinitiis ang lahat para sa mahal mo.

Paanu kung nalaman mo ang nakaraan nya?
Pagmamahal mo ba'y magbabago at mawawala,
Mga supling na nag aalaga sakanya,
Nagpasaya't nag aruga noong wala ka pa.

Iisipin mo pa ba ang nakaraan,?
Kung sa puso mo'y masaya ka sa kasalukuyan,
Mahirap man tanggapin sa unang nalaman,
Ngunit tinanggap mo parin sya sa kabila ng kanyang pinagdaanan.

Hindi pa ba napapagod ang iyong puso?
Sa nalaman mo'y bat hindi ka sumuko?
Ganito ba talaga kapag mahal **** totoo?
Tatanggapin lahat kahit komplikado.

Sa muli **** pagtanggap, may biglang nagparamdam,
Babaeng nakasama nya at gusto syang balikan,
Ikaw ba'y magpaparaya na at sya'y iwanan,
Na kahit labag sa loob mo'y iyong bibitawan.

Ngunit sa pag bitaw mo'y syang pag kapit sayo,
Mga paliwanag nya na nagpapatatag sa puso mo,
Pipiliin mo ba ang kasiyahan ng iba o kasiyahan nyo?
At tanggapin sya ulit at bumuo ng panibago.

Tadhana na ba talaga ang gumagawa para ika'y ilayo,
Nakaraan nya'y nagbalik na at may isa pang panibago,
Biyaya sa sinapupunan nya'y dugo't laman mo,
wala na bang magandang mangyayari sa relasyong to?

Mapapabuntong hininga ka nalang sa mga pangyayari,
Kailangan na ba tong itigil at hindi na maaari,
Kayrami ng rason para sa sarili mo naman ika'y makabawi,
Sa lahat ng luhang pumatak at pighati.

Panu kung ang mahal mo'y taglay lahat yan?
Dobleng edad, may mga anak, at meron pa sa tyan?
Tanga ka kapag hindi mo pa binitawan,
Nagmahal ka ng totoo kapag sya'y iyong pinag laban.

Ngunit hindi na susukat sa pananatili mo kung gaano sya kamahal,
Minsan gagawin **** bumitaw para sa katahimikan ,
Katahimikan ng puso nyo at ng nasasakupan,
Kailangan sumugal kahit na nasasaktan.

Alam **** darating ang panahon na maghihiwalay tayo,
Pero sana bumalik ka kapag puso mo'y tinitibok pariny ay ako,
Masakit man isipin na mag hihiwalay tayo,
Pero sana isipin mo na minahal kita ng totoo.

Yang katagang yan ang gusto kong sabihin sayo,
Ngunit takot ang dila ko na ipahayag ang mga ito,
Takot ako na masaktan ka sa paglayo ko
At takot ako na baka di matanggap ng puso ko.

Alam kong marami pang pag subok ang darating,
Alam kong panghihinaan ako ng loob kapag itoy dumating,
Sana gabayan mo ako sa anumang pag dedesisyon
Huwag kang titigil para bigyan ako ng leksyon.

Umiyak man tayo ng ilang beses,
nasaktan man tayo nag paulit ulit,
Marinig ko lang malalambing **** boses,
Sakit ng nadaramay ,saya ang pumalit.

Lagi **** tatandaan na mahal kita,
Mahal kita at tanggap ko kung anu ka,
Hindi importante kung ano ang nakaraang iyong nagawa,
Ang mahalaga ay ngayong masaya tayo sa isat isa.

Hindi ko man maramdaman ang init ng yakap mo,
Hindi ko man maramdaman ang dampi ng mga labi mo,
Maramdaman ko lang na nandyan ka lagi sa tabi ko,
Hindi ako mag sasawang unawain ka at magpaka totoo.

Balang araw magsasama tayo at sana ikaw na,
Kung hindi man ikaw, ang mahalaga tayoy naging masaya,
Hindi man matagal ngunit magsisilbi itong alaala,
Na dadalhin natin sa ating pagtanda.

#love
#sacrifice

(0)
Fly perfectly straight and high, and show the fly
out of the fly-bottle on your way.
Rise to victory, far above the blue sky,
Reap the reward: the opening of paradise!

The road ahead is clear and open this way,
with things small and big growing and disappearing up this way.
You will see sunrises and sunsets waxing and waning,
with mention of the moon and stars in the dark.
Be mindful as you sway, it's got to be laser-sharp.
There is no hard shoulder on this highway,
miss it by an inch and risk losing everything forever!

There is hope, there is light up high
pick up your paintbrush, just like the sun does
goodness knows how it sneaks in, right in the black
canvas of the night, painting the first light
lo, it shows up in heaven, the candle of the daylight.

As long as there is a man and a woman,
never give up, our canary bird can fly
rosy or not, the nest in every morn nets a sunrise!

(1)
A woman indeed plucks up the courage
she never had to look up to the stars
be it for the guide or the light in the night.
Fathima herself was the full Moon every night
is thanks to her Godsent innate light.

With it, she can bask in the full spread of the pi
on top of its short decimals mounting high
constantly as if countless stars in the sky.

The time and space under the sun
and that under Fathima's light
are far apart from each other
yet they coexist side by side.

As she points out,
"A circle is masculine
while pi is feminine."

Pi forms the circle with fine prints,
decimal dots continue to spring,
sprawling trillions of new digits,
the bandwagon is still increasing.
Connecting the dots is an untouched dream.

The full moon pi picture is veiled,
unseen at large, yet in short, 3.145 it can live!

(2)
Fathima flies her lock of hair
in the lurking air of the transcended pi
the primitive feminine does that,
no wonder she is God's secret feminine opus!
An immeasurable black hole lies in between
the short and transcended pi, running like a river,
dancing anew on every riverbank
in the many curls of Fathima's jet black hair.

She lent out a hair to the planet earth
and crossed over like a silhouette
without spilling out the colour
of the transcended end of the pi.
The earth takes it in the core in her heart
as if it would keepsake it forever.

Weaving the pi in Fathima embeds two hairs ties one
perfect circle at the back and one at the front of the universe.
Inside each hair the earth is finest fluid in the core
none is as deep as high as proportionate a perfect flow.
No time is as revealing no music is as sweet in this orb
no force is as mighty nor as prevailing a true giant
causing gravity and the heat at the earth's core.
Matter and spirit mix free in the play both wax lyrical
thanks to the pure resonance of 'Qun Be' the word of God!

(3)
The way to the earth's core is exposed to none other
save the Angel of Death the lucky one.

See both sides of the one lofty sky swathed in countless stars  
but the day and night render through still remains an unseen one  
Terra is shalet zeroed in Fathima is heaven on earth!  
Up in the sky-high bank turning the starry bowl upside down
Fathima took no star nor a pearl diving deep down the Arab water,
the brightest luminary came after Muhammad (PBUH),
in veil from the Night of Measures and into the flipside in the night
she's gone without lifting the veil but left her penetrating mark.

Few could find the shortcut contemplating on a blank canvas
the Moon looks down into the abyss down the sea eyes on far
for a mirror in the bottom on the as above so below matter
since Godsent Fathima touched on the all-inclusive primitive water.
The sun gets caught up in the very water dew she raised in the sky
the ancient fold of time still unfurls with the sun-kissed flowers
for the new hands yet the fingerprint on the sun remains only her!

Azrael heads to Fathima around the year 632 after death
touches down in Medina on his usual thin earth he steps.  
But this time a little mundane dust couldn't be thicker
he keeps descending deep down to the earth's centre
following from Medina but the angel locates her
inside the perfect circle a closed geometric figure.

(4)
Fathima is the female headline her secret is not all known
when she used to visit the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH)
he would stand up for her hold her hand and kiss it
and seat her on his seat, she would do the same to the prophet
when he would visit her like they did know each other
in and outside the spheres of heaven and earth!

She is the embodiment of the infinite feminine variations
the first spiritual woman created following God's word Qun.
Her is the mother tongue of the ever diversified feminine lingua
no one woman on her own can rhyme with her alone
she has no peer her rhetoric is unique like none other.
The galactic run from planet to planet up on the starry ladder
climbing high up the mountain heaven yet streams out like oval
off their rock bottom stone until that unleashes the final run
in perfect circle delving into the rhythm of the loop at the centre
made of Fathima's hair charged by 'Qun' God's uncreated word.  

Prophet David can sing on the bank of the river
and can see the fish are jumping to him out of the water.
The masculine is open form, eye on everywhere,
but not her the woman is in juxtaposition her
all-inclusive schema supplanting the details rest only on her.
She is the unseen world within the world at best imagine her!
Guess, through this inwardly open door who might disappear?
It's nature before the scientist on ultimate discovery of the matter!  

Aligning with her down the rainbow up high the land absorbs
the grooming sky looking on the running rivers within her.
Her words spread through like the smart cloud that flies far
over the lands and valleys but not even the wind none other
gets a sniff of the potion and melody it caries until that rain down
without a hurdle without a visual she moves on at the target
such a soul needs no after death lift from the angel of death.

Before Azrael Fathima loses an arc of the circle then and there
so not the earth but giant Azrael can take the pressure!
Marked by a fluid discharge since then she is cooling this fire
In Shaa Allah God willing when she ajars it, it will be elixir!  

(5)
Draw a straight line, but it won't be perfect
it keeps bending, fly straight touching the sky
the flight path won't look like a straight line
it would be like the crest of a crescent moon
like curve touched the sky, like climbing up
atop the pyramid is not going high straight on
it goes up from the widespread seked slopes.

Moves in golden ration 1.618 not the full two
and gets the designing formula flawlessly full
micro to macro all levels all the way to the true north!    

Fathima being the original feminine eyeing at her
she can tap in the knowhow of naturally feminine nature.
And discovers the immanent pattern - the world
is pre-designed and measured is never a coincidence.
The creatures' creativity, scientist's science
is to follow, discover working formulas like phi and pi.

Play along it works until an unknown hour strikes
comes with accurate knowledge dead on time
numerically correct never miss taking a life away
as if it was calculated beforehand before the birth.
A newborn is born for a limited time
already set but no one knows when it goes up  
is a deadlock clock but it isn't so shrouded
in the blueprint of the creatures' grand design
there the clock ticks safe and sounds it never dies!  

(6)
Fathima hailing from the other side of the pool
eyes on the ever live pre-design side of the creation!
Then its corporeal face was only a water drop,
the primitive one looks see-through it has dead zero
knowledge of its lively other side of the pool.
She comes closer and perfectly mirrors both sides
that shines through on her reflected face on the water.
An absolute new image that livens up the dead part
Bang - Big Bang! The corporeal world gets the spark
explodes out from the very first drop of the water!

Fathima's appearance was miraculously instrumental
God reveals nature the finite and infinite, 0 and 1,
future in the present and the death and life in play!
Nature follows suit it just saw the perfect role model
banged out but only to its corporeal set
it aspires to be with its infinite reality yet!

Fathima leaves the door open constructing a perfect circle,
hardly straight, took the mixed bag of countless variations
she zooms into the abyss irrational portion of the first matter,
the primitive water drop and aces the circle with her hair
that nothing can equate throughout the corporeal world.
Done the math discovering the zero starting point at the bottom.
The ocean of digit numbers, the DNA of all things material
banged out of it, still, the zero is numberless irrational!

(7)
All things, within oneself and in a set constantly vibrate,
strive to align with the enduring reality of itself.
The atom vibrates to reach out to its immortal portion
that doesn't die and is in the know of its lower base.
The planets are in a defined circular orbit, accurately measured
just the apex on top of their dynamic pyramid the pyramidon
is tucked away; they too have an irrational portion in the circle.

With the finest spin, they zoom in the spacious universe,
in part and like the sun outside the constellations round they go
never miss a target line yet to re-discover Fathima's perfect circle
the origin of their digital essences' breakthrough
the door to their transcended destination de jour.
Lo the matter turns the last stone pulsing across the cosmos
the mortal horizontal spread, the spirit returns home.

The earth has a line in its swansong it has a place in paradise
it's not here to stay for good neither to perish forever!

Matters form and break without losing the rope,
it's not to paint the shades of the eternal blue
but to ace an irrational portion in the circle
at the heart of the earth, as above, so below.  
The deep the high the perfect circle
up and down the centre of gravitation for all!

The matter at even or at odd the vibration within is fluid
somewhere is parched there the arch matter must make a splash.
Far away on a dark beach, the sea of the matters goes all in all
the most glowed up physical firefly rises deep from the bottom
pouring billowy potions the moon roams at the the front!

(8)
The seven seas swell up smoothly into the moonlight-dip
oh, the waterless Moon at the core is still fasting.
Led by time the sweet swan punting along the waves
streams down the watery inner circle of the planets.
Until stuck in the Moon no water in the last waterfront
but paradise is on the other side of the pool!  

The sun dips away into the night
while the eve baths in the shades of pink and gold,
the dazzling hues soon turn to taupe.
Drawing down painting the picture in full colour
only to find the time is up on the halfway,
yet to print a colour copy of the night!
The other unseen half is passed down to the Moon
tiptoeing in slow motion in the depths of the night
barely keeping the head afloat in a fathomless ocean
of shades of black hails from where knows no one.  

The sun enkindles the moon half-lit keeping itself away
amid shadows as if comparing the shades now it knows
a Mehrem a veiled female is ahead not to look on or
compared to that the sun has no light or true are both.

Wrapped in the eternal night beneath its black mole
once the moon on the front approaching most close
directly down to the centre of the earth eyes on
over that inlaid string hairy black perfect circle
never did it turn back the same gaze is still on
orbiting around the earth in synchronous rotation.

(9)
The never-ending night is becoming a night indeed
it's coming to an end so soon in our time.
In Shaa Allah I will see it with my eyes before I die
in the Night of Measures in an odd night in Ramadan
Fathima from the transcendental end of irrational heart
will turn on top of the curve opening for the first time
a 9-degree angle in the circle at the centre of the earth.

Instantly the leading force, time will get the first sniff
of the other world, so peaceful heart-melting serene.
Rapturous time feeling an ounce of the enduring peace
for the first time cutting all the corners with ease
will be propelled into its yet uncharted golden mean.
Scurrying to the peaceful abode time will be on its wings
across the globe, people will be stunned seeing
how first the times pass from then on incredibly quick!

Fathima, the first spiritual woman on duty, will start
pulling her hair back off the circle at the centre
Juxtaposed in between the worlds of here and hereafter.
She will take back every inch of it, the heavenly bodies
will feel the pinch of her every little subtle pull
that too is a boon helping them perfect their circle.

(10)
Soon she opens it just 9-degree wide at first
the Moon will see a glimpse of the first drop of water.
Without it, it's living perched without the water of life
that's destined to rain down soon and the Moon
back into its original pond shall revive!
Mapping the pi's whole infinitesimals playground
finally, Fathima will turn the circle upside down
on the dot the stunned sun shall rise in the western sky!

By now under Fathima's hair's shaded closed circle
it must have sailed far over the blue sky in the other world.
Billowing with the breeze over the sea of uncharted water
and stacking to the brim with all that it could discover
humbly stood like a cloud in that corner of the sky.

The time is finally ticking fast to rain down with love
paradise's welcoming schema rendering in waterpaint drops
on the Moon over the sea of matters, that's most glowed up firefly
ah, finally can break the fast sipping in a drop of elixir!
It's their heavenly adopted, Miʿrāj performed, primitive water.
The Moon with the seven seas will leave off the corporeal shell
gliding gracefully with this stately water nymph as if it never dies
and will make a splash plopping into the pond of paradise!  

For the matter ultimately is water and its extent is sound
Fathima will fetch it the water of life and take it to the next life!
Oh, the matter shall do both die and revive with Israfil's sound
the cloud will fly out of the dead water on the ground,
like the earth with chorus songs of the rain revives.
When that a melodious nymph in the water makes waves
see paradise is here the Moon over the sea can't take off its eyes.

(11)
Hang on though they all set ready on their horizontal span  
to pull in such a fluid yet colourful descending like a rainbow swan.
First chaste Fathima will evaporate her hair's perfume away
that's yet lingering in the water warming it up to its premium
no crowd then can see where this heady, fragrant cloud will fly!
There are the momentum and delights where that will alight.

Israfil might then blow his trumpet swooning the world away
the secret will remain a secret exception is said in the Qur'an.
A strange sound will silence the chorus of the innate digits
collapsing the floating cosmos bubbling on their music.  
The corporeal circle will collapse as if there is no base no pi
the melody of the first word Qun means Be will still be loud
supercalifragilisticexpialidocious so how can we all expire?

Israfil too will play his reviving trumpet pure mellifluous
and In Shaa Allah numerically perfect Fathima will rise
amidst the resonant Qun as like she did in the beginning
when except prophet Muhammad (PBUH) there was nothing!
Now the earth once zeroed in beneath her hair will follow her
the stunned terra will discover Fathima took her hair away
only to shift the constellation up onto the upper world!

The old songs of the planets the chorus of the digits will revive
from the zero bases in the core the digital panache that dance
planet upon the planet as if they are always at the perfect hertz.

Indeed that is yet to come, the arts of the fine layers
opening from the irrational pi, the finest one is to flower
when Fathima will unloop her circled hair at the centre
piercing the very immanent irrational cut
that no creation can fathom only the loving creator Allah
will turn odd to even in between the here and hereafter
then the ocean stuck in deep salt shall turn to enduring potion!
The As-Sirat shall turn to be the bridge to paradise
the body shall revive with the enduring soul forever
and with ah Fathima couple shall enter paradise In Shaa Allah
with the rhapsody 'all praise is for Allah' Alhamdulillah!

when i was born within the Chernobyl aftermath, and the nurse tried to **** me, in that she almost choked me, enlarging my heart, and when that didn't **** me, and they attempted to befriend me, and gave me a brain haemorrhage... and that didn't **** me... i started to think: what will? i can't say i'm in hell, i can only assert limbo: i'm not a monster, just yet... it's only later that i became *******, when they wrapped me in a blanket of denials, to ensure their society was a beacon of false hope and even more false love... that last bit is the cherry on the top... i once hated ridicule: now i started to loath playground like games of lies... i just started thinking: these people are a bit worthless... how could people i once respected become so... so... pointless? it's not a case of: oh poor me... i'm laughing... asking for the next quickened allotment of epitaph in marble... i prefer the pain rather than this kiddy game of denying something being true... that sort of **** just makes up for being thought about too much... it exhaust my mental capacity... limbo is quiet fine, i'm apprehensive where these people think they live... utopia isn't exactly a best-described vicinity... but when did people start to become so ugly? it's slow down here, the big bang just happened, or as i say: with the kettle boiling water... biology's darwinism timescale for a reaction, and physics's timescale of the big bang theory are not exactly fascinating for me, boiling my water to make a cup of tea... i am literally split-mind concerning these two "barometres"... it's just hard juggling these two (0, 0) coordinates... to stress a beginning... evidently juggling these two narratives leaves us living our lives on amphetamines... insect like... it's hard to even make time or emotional investment in: a death in a village... it's doubly hard to make adjustments for a tomorrow, giving our input in beginning: no one knows, billions and billions... years... and then back toward the befitting cranium... it really is man with an omni-characteristic, well... at least one of them... which clarifies itself in a way: given that we're no longer exploring this orb, globalisation ensured the tribe died... we can go in circles: round and round... there's never a clear vector in sight... no real unknown land to challenge... it's all been tamed... once the savannah, now the zoo... as one german noted: the melancholy of the completed house... all the work gone into constructing it, the thrills, all gone... it just stands as perfect, as it is already derelict... hard to keep track of a two-beginnings system... it's hard to find awe these days, i mean awe that might allow an Aristotle, rather than just looking stupid... i think that England really does require an invasion to shake it up a little bit, it looks so docile in its arguments... so certain: "poised" to conquer... i can get (0, 0) of the big bang, a big blank... my brain just became scrambled eggs... i store that **** in my head: i'll see forever-never-tomorrow... i store the monkey-suit in my head (the other (0, 0) beginning) - i'll begin to wonder: but the monkeys have it so easy! me panda! me and bamboo! darwinism has either killed of history that we made in the centuries a.d. / a few centuries b.c., or what they're prescribing us really can't fit into one head, or into a few, to make it into a crowd... because when a few ditto-heads ingest one wise monkey talking over another monkey... the atheistic crowd is the quickest to disperse... as with the constant banging on about the number of stars in the universe... i like to look at the number of carbon dioxide bubbles in a glass of Perrier water.

well, maybe because they aren't
my contemporaries... but i despise Chopin
like despise Liszt... the fact that the latter
smoked cigars is just asking
for me to abhor him... and that a poet
   succumbed to his virtuoso skills
with dire tears of
       a jealous thread (matt arnold)...
for me Liszt and Chopin battered the piano,
literally, battered the piano...
     could have slaughtered a cow also...
but then again there's a part of my that says:
well, if the god argument is infantile,
how about the nation argument, is that infantile also?
are we to be bleached entities,
or merely abstract pronoun users? you see,
   they stole Copernicus from the Poles,
and Mickiewicz, and evidently Chopin is no Pole...
but a prize nonetheless... so they keep him
as that rare thing: something born into an almost
inescapable state prone to disintegration...
   what with the monarchy being
     one of import, either a Swedish electer ruler,
or a Hungarian, or a Russian, or a German (e.g.
house of Sas) - a monarchical brothel,
   otherwise known as an aristocratic "democracy"...
    it's just a good thing i don't like him... i don't see how
a piano can be ***** as it has been by either Liszt or
Chopin, sure enough, nimple fingers,
joseph ii hapsburg, mozart, the film amadeus citation:
                                                               too many notes...
    a bit like me... for its worth, the piano is so delicate,
    so so delicate... how it becomes an instrument that
requires competitors, how you need more virtuosos
who can play the **** music than original from-scratch
composers... piano: it just asks for gliding hands,
it's not asking for these megalomanic
tunes that might leave you with a wish from an audience
memember: to break your fingers...
evidently nothing more than a death / ******* stare...
or why the true resting place
of Chopin is Japan... as odd as it might seem...
           plays the piano great... plays a woman
  like a bagpipe...
                  aren't the two related?
     and when i first heard *ola gjeilo on the radio
i was a woman watching a romcom...
                              the whole northern lights album...
my: a feast!
         just one of the few contemporary composers
that i can invoke...
     so coming back to the piano:
   me more of a Debussy and Eric Satie palette...
they just glide... i can only imagine
       a flight of migrating swans,
   or ice-skating...
    Chopin and Liszt is a mathematical headache...
        solo piano and the gentleness of approach...
    and only today,
   a lesbian couple travelling to manchester...
one of them phoned the radio station
and asked for a request...
      i've been dying to note this song / composer
down for a year or so... always heard the song:
never the composer's name...
                   ludovico einaudi,
much to my taste: the piano still remains
   a wardrobe item of the orchestral architecture,
rather than a door of your fridge...
constantly yapping for: more, more, more.
you glide across it,
tease it, rather than taste it,
  or subject it to a rubric of quickened calculation,
it stuff the room,
the best you can do is make it sound airy,
    make diacritical echoes from it,
than actual letters...
           say: the acute above the o, rather than
the o and acute in ó....
such a delicate thing: the piano:
which is why i never understood Chopin,
or felt a need for a national argument
       needing him, propping him on a peddlestool...
having him as a national treasure...
                  i always remained true to
those who settled for gliding over the alphabet...
    rather than immersing themselves in it...
that kind of composition, that simply fakes lazy...
     they are the ones i admire...
     and yes, given that dialectics has been
completely forsaken,
   the best we can do is give an indulgence
in an opinion, and make comments of
diacritic...
   women, chocolates,
men: dialectics...
                    or at least that's how i find myself,
making diacritic comments...
   akin to piano (contra chess,
    white notes consonants,
black notes vowels,
or should i say: any letter with a diacritical
distinction is the black note,
vowels and consonants are uniform in white)...

bang

goes our love
as we make a run for it
they’re chasing us like
chasing smoke from
the cigarette you lit.

bang, bang

goes our beating hearts
as adrenaline surges in;
as i feel your breath
in sync with mine
as we’re skin to skin.

drip, drop

the blood flows down
from deep cuts on your arm
but you say by
no gun or blade shall
our love be disarmed.

we are the runaway
king and queen;
in our kingdom without rules.
for scepters we have loaded guns;
and dollar bills for jewels.
for a chariot, a beat-up van;
our thrones are worn-out couches.
we dance in our majestic castles
masked as abandoned houses.

bang, bang, bang

goes our palace door;
the enemy arrives.
and so we run
like we always do--
that’s how our love survives.

and so we run
and run and run,
soon we’ll escape this place--
this world where they
don’t get our love
and so we run, they chase.

Bago ka umalis,
Sana pakinggan mo muna ako,
Pakinggan mo ang mga bulong sa isip ko tuwing nakikita ka
Sana hindi ito maging isang alaalang makakalimutan
Mga salitang papasok at lalabas din naman
At sana dalhin mo 'to sa pag-gising at pag-tulog mo
At alalahanin na para sa'yo to.

Hindi na kita mahal
Hindi na kita mahal
Makinig ka sa'kin.
Hindi. Kita. Minahal.
Hindi. Kita. Minahal

Ilang beses ko man ulit-ulitin sa sarili ko
Na minsan nawawalan na ng saysay ang salitang mahal
ang salitang ikaw, ang pangalan mo sa isip ko
Pero hindi pa din nawawalan nang saysay ang mga alaalang naiwan mga alaalang nakalimutan, at 'di ko alam kung tama bang binabalikbalikan ko
Ang gabing napagtanto ko na nahuhulog na pala ako sa'yo

Hindi na kita mahal
Na kahit lahat na siguro ng tulang sinulat ko ay para sa'yo
kahit lahat na siguro ng metaporang alam ko ay na inahalintulad ko sa'yo
Isa kang bulalakaw, isa kang bituin, ikaw ang buwan
Ikaw ang bumubuo sa ganda ng gabi,
Ikaw ang araw, ikaw ang mga ulap, ikaw ang langit,
Ikaw ang buong kalawakan na hindi ko kailanman pagsasawaan
Ikaw ang karagatan, mahiwaga at kapanga-pangambang sisirin,
Ikaw ang apoy, na nagpapaliwanag at nagpapainit ng gabing malamig
Ikaw ang librong 'di ko kinakailangan ng pahinga
Para intindihin ang bawat salitang nakalimbag sa bawat pahina
Ikaw ang sining ko
Ikaw ang tulang ito.
Para sa'yo at tungkol sa'yo.

Hindi kita minahal,
Kahit na lagi kong inaabangan ang mga storyang kwinekwento mo
Na para bang hinahatak mo ako pabalik kung kailan nangyari ang mga 'to
at sinamahan ako para panuorin natin
Kung sino ba ang nandito at nandoon
Kung nasaan ang mga silya, lamesa, pintuan, at bintana
Ang mga pangalan ng mga minahal mo at nagmahal sa'yo na dapat mo na sigurong kalimutan
Kung saan kayo nagkakilala,
Kung anong naramdaman mo nung nahuli mo siyang nakatingin din sa'yo at nagkasalubong ang inyong mga mata
At sa lahat ng storya mo,
Napagtanto ko na ayoko maging parte ng mga storya **** nakalipas. Na sana ako ang storyang hindi mo kailanman iisipin na bibigyan ng wakas.
At ikwento mo din sana ang gabing ito
Ikwento mo ang bawat paghinga ko sa bawat puwang ng mga salita
Ang pagbuka ng bibig ko para sambitin ng tama ang bawat pantig, ang pag nginig ng mga kamay at tuhod ko,
At kung maririnig mo man, ang bilis ng tibok ng puso ko ngayon.
Ikwento mo.
Ibulong mo sa pinakamalapit **** kaibigan, para manatiling sikreto.
Ang tinatagong nararamdaman na 'di mo na siguro kailangan malaman.

Tama lang siguro na magkaibigan tayo,
Kasi
Hindi na kita mahal.
Hindi kita minahal.
Pinilit ko lang ang sarili kong mahulog sa'yo
Pinilit lang kitang mahalin
Para makalimot, para iwanan ang dating naramdaman.

Gustohin ko man ulit-ulitin sabihin sa'yo,
Magsasawa ka sa bawat pantig, sa bawat letra.
Kaya ibubulong ko na lang sa sarili ko, para manatiling sikreto
Ang dating nararamdaman na hindi mo na kailanman malalaman.

Kaya bago ka umalis,
Sana pakinggan mo muna ako,
Sa huling pagkakataon pakinggan mo ang katotohanan
Isantabi mo ang mga bulong sa isip ko na napakinggan mo.
At sana tandaan mo na
Dati, at dati lang
Minahal kita.

ANUNG ALAM NATIN SA PAG-IBIG?
ito ba ay tungkol sa naglalakihang mga mata
kapag nakakakita ng magandang dalaga
na naglalakad sa kalsada
isipin na nating..
maikli ang kanyang palda
maputi ang hita
malaki ang dibdib
teka
tama na
nakaklibog na diba!?
o kaya naman ang pagmamahal
ay parang
yung ating nararamdaman kapag ang ating mga balat
ay nakakapagtindig balahibo
dahil sa hindi maintindihang halimuyak ng galak
o ito ba
ay yung mga pagbabago ng kulay sa ating mga pishi
kapag tayo ay kinikilig ng lubusan
dahil nga ang sweet sweet niya
kulang nalang magkadiyabetes ang puta
ganun ba ang pag-ibig?
ganun ba ang pagmamahal?

ANUNG ALAM NATIN SA PAG-IBIG?
ito ba yung kapag dalawa lamang kayo
nakahiga sa mga damuhan
o kaya nakaupo tumitingin sa kalangitan
habang nilalanghap ang simoy ng hangin
sa taas ng gusali o kaya bubungan
na niloloko ang sarili kapag tinuro mo ang iyong daliri sa mga bituwin
at sinasabi na ang bituwin na yan
ang parang hugis puso
kahit hindi naman talaga
para masabi kolang na meron tayong pag-ibig
para masabi kolang na tinadhana talaga tayo para sa isat-isa
kahit hindi naman talaga
ganun ba ang pag-ibig?
ganun ba ang pagmamahal?


ANUNG ALAM NATIN SA PAG-IBIG?
ito ba ay yung may nakilala kang tao
na wala kang ideya kung sino
na ang inyong bigalang tagpuan
ay hindi niyo naman pinaghandaan
o kaya naman ang makilala nating ang tunay nating pagkatao
na tayo ay hindi basta tao
tayo ay merong kadiliman na hindi purong kabutihan
na kailangan man tayo ay tao
napapagod din
natututong sumuko at bumitaw
sa kapit ng "kaya ko pa"
dahil kailanman walang anesthesia na dumadaloy sa ating katawan
para hindi tayo masaktan
ganun ba ang pag-ibig?
ang pagbitaw ba ay pagmamahal?
ang pagsuko ba ay pagmamahal?


ANUNG ALAM NATIN SA PAG-IBIG?
ito ba ay yung paguubos natin ng oras
kahit na alam natin na ito ay walang kwenta
pero wala nakong pakialam
dahil nga kasama kita
na ang saya saya natin dalawa
nagtatawan kahit sumakit pa ang tiyan
hinuhusgahan ang mundo
sinasabihan ng mga tinatago niyong sikreto
wala kanang pakialam
kase nga kasama mo ako
na sana
hindi na matapos to
tayong dalawa
ikaw
ako
at ang ating magagandang mermorya
ay itatago ko at aalagaan dito sa puso ko
ganun ba ang pag-ibig?
ang paglaan ba ng oras ay pagmamahal?


ANUNG ALAM NATIN SA PAG-IBIG?
ito ba ay yung galak kapag nakikita kita
o kaya yung kapag kasama kita
kapag ako'y ubos na
pagod sa katotohang na ang mundo ay hindi basta basta
andiyan ka palage
nakaaalalay
handang ibigay ang balikat masandalan lang ng mabigat na isipan
ganun ba ang pag-ibig?
ganun ba ang pagmamahal?


ANUNG ALAM NATIN SA PAG-IBIG?
ito ba yung pakiramdam
kapag tayo'y nagpapaulan
na para bang gusto na nating sumuko
sumuko dahil tayo ay pagod na
sumuko dahil ang mga sinabi kong halimbawa ng pagmamahal
ay malayo sa katotohanan ng buhay nating dalawa
iniisip kung ano pa ang ibabato sa atin ng buhay
sige ibigay mo ang lahat
hindi ako basta basta natutumba
hinihiling na sana magkasama tayo sa huli
sana wala nang huli
sana wala tayong dulo
dahil ayoko, na ito ay magwakas pa
o kaya hindi na natin ito inintindi
dahil ang gulo na ng  isipan
nandun parin ako
nagpapaulan
hinahayan na mabasa ang sarili
walang pakialam kung magkasakit pa kinabukasan
basta ako ay basang basa na
niyayakap ang ngayon
tinalikuran ang masamang kahapon

anung alam natin sa pag-ibig?
meron ba tayong alam tungkol sa pagmamahal?
anung alam natin?

ang unti
ang onti lang ng alam natin sa pagmamahal
napakaonti
na nagbibigay sa atin ng galak
ng sige gusto ko pa
ng ibigay mo na lahat wag kanang magtira
dahil gusto ko maranasan ang pag-ibig
bigyan moko ng pagibig
bigyan moko ng pagmamahal
mahal, anung alam natin sa pag-ibig?

Yung akala mo kayo na
Eh, part time kalang pala

Ginawa ka lang palang pamaparaos
Kahit katawan mo nay pinuno nya ng galos

Ikaw naman tong si tanga
Sabi mo sa sarili kaya mo pa
Kahit damang dama **** ang sakit na
Nagbabakasakali na kayo ay pwede pa

Ano bang meron sa kanya?
Na ang iwan siyay di mo kaya
Samantalang para sa kanya
Part time ka lang pala

Tinatawagan ka lang kung may kailangan
Binibisita lang pag walang mapaglilibangan
Hahalikan ka, mayat maya ay uutangan

Ganyan ba talaga ang iyong ideya nang pagmamahalan?

Gayun may gusto ko sa iyoy ipa alala
Na sa iyo may nagmamahal pa
Hindi ka ginagawang part time, at tunay kang inaalala

Sa iyong mga magulang na sa kanilay higit kapa sa ginto
Sa mga kaibigan **** bukas lagi ang kanilang mga pinto
Kaya kailan ka pa ba hihinto
Tigilan ang pagpapakatanga at magpakatino

Boredom kills
cheap thrills.
Nothing to do,
no one to *****.
No drugs
No *****
No smokes
No fun
Think I will sit
for a bit.
Think as I scratch and twitch.
Neurotic fears
****** fantasies
Sociopathic comments
Psychopathic actions
I don't care anymore.
The fuse has been lit
and there is no water for miles.
Bang bang *******
bang bang boom.
Amongst the rubble a bitter poem
A poet in trouble that shouldn't have been left alone.
Burnt
Charred
Dead.
Smells like...
Agony
Fear
Dumbness
Numbness
Aggression
Depression
Hate.
­Hate.
Hate.
Hate.

Tangan ang mga halik mo
Sa aking palad umaagos
Ang damdamin minsan ay umalab
Parang sigarilyong nauupos
Dahan-dahang nauubos
Kaya nga bang balikan ang kahapon
Binaon na natin sa kahon
Katulad ng mga dahon
Nalanta at di na makaahon
Kaya pa nga bang ibalik ang kahapon
Sa saliw ng mga puso natin
Ngayon ay uhaw sa pagsintang
Naudlot ng pagkakataon



-Tula III, Margaret Austin Go

Napa-ibig ako sa aking kinakaibigan.
Sa una siguro’y ang pakiramdam ay magaan.
Nagkakilala ng basta-basta, walang dahilan.
Siguro dahil na rin sa  mabuting kapalaran.

Isang araw’y nalaman ko,
Magkapit-bahay lang pala kami.
Lalong nagkalapit ang puso’t damdamin.
Makalipas ang isang taon ng pagkikilala,
Sa dami ng tambay, kain, at gala,
Sa problema ng tropa o kaya’t sa pamilya,
Sa ngiti at ngisi sa bawa’t asaran,
Sa halip na ika’y may pagkasira,
Sa iyong puso na palaging hinihiwa,

Naroon ako sa iyong tabi,
Unti-unting napapangiti,
Napapamahal,
Nahuhulog ang dibdib,
Sa iyong pagkatao’t diwa.

Naaalala ko pa noong ika-siyam ng Mayo,
Bago matapos ang taon ng pag-aaral,
Sa isang buwan magkakahiwalayan na,
Magkokolehiyo na’t iiwan ang mga pinagdaanan.
Umiyak ka sakin habang nakain pa ng pakwan.
Na natatakot lang magsimula ulit,
Na makaranas ng bagong landas,
Na magbago, at maging kung sino man.
Na mahal mo ang iyong mga kaibigan,
Na ayaw mo silang iwanan.

Sinabi ko sayo,
Ika’y minamahal,
Ika’y itinatangi.
Ngunit hindi ko masabi,
Na ako ang magmamahal,
Ako ang magtatangi sa’yo.
Kaya ako’y gumawa ng katwiran,
Na kaming mga kaibigan mo,
Ay naririto lamang.

Ang pag-ibig ay parang nota,
Sa musika ng tadhana,
Sa teatro ng buhay.
Ito’y maligaya,
Upang hikayatin,
Ang ating puso na makinig.
Ngunit hindi kang saya ang ipinaparating.
Kundi’ hirap, lungkot, at paghihinagpis.

Parang emosyonal na gitara,
Na minsan nasisira,
Napuputol ang kwerdas,
Nasasaktan ang kamay,
Nalulumbay sa tono,
Habang humihiyaw,
Kumakanta ng buong puso,
Para sa ating mga sinta.

Dumating ang Agosto,
Miyerkules ng unang linggo,
Sa ika-beintidos ko nalaman,
Na galing pa sa iyong dila,
Na ako’y huli na sa paligsahan,
Na mayroon ng nanalo sa laban.
Ang puso mo’y nasagip na ng iba,
Ika’y nagkwento ng matagal-tagal.
Ang ningning sa iyong mata’y,
Parang ilaw sa entablado,
Nakikita ko ang mga sumasayaw,
Ligaya ang aking nararamdaman,
Habang ang aktor ay ako,
Na iyong tinitigan ng husto.
Pinipilit makinig nang maigi,
Sa kwentong busilak ng pag-ibig.

Ngunit pagkatapos ng kwento,
Naiwan akong mag-isa.
Sumigaw ng wala sa tono,
Sa kanta na puro hiyaw.
Hindi ko inakala,
Na ang kanta ko’y ganito,
Naisulat na ang mga nota,
Ngunit bakit masakit sa tenga?
Sa simula ng ika’y makita,
Nagsimula na ang tugtog.
Ngunit hindi ikaw ang aking kasayaw,
Hindi rin naiwasang mahulog.
Kahit pigilan ko man ang sarili,
Ako’y nahatak ng iyong tunog.
Magaling ka sumagaw,
Kwento mo’y ako’y napaikot.

Napapaisip ako,
Anong nangyari,
Bakit natapos,
Ang ating kanta.
Ng wala man lang paalam.
Ika’y bumula.
Nawala sa aking buhay.
Na para bang multo.
Hindi ko malapitan,
Mahawakan,
Matawag,
Ni mabanggit ang iyong pangalan.
Nawala ang ating teatro,
Nagkahiwalagan ang magkaibigan,
Ang direktor ay lumisan,
Upang maiwasan ang drama.

Napapaisip ako ngayon,
Bakit ikaw pa rin sa ngayon!
Ikaw na multo ng nakaraan,
Ang aking minamahal hanggang ngayon.

Maraming taon ang nasayang, mga pangarap na biglang nabasag,
'di na maibabalik sa dati, para itong tinapay na sinira ng amag.
Matagal na kong nagtitiis, matagal na kong naghihintay
na muli **** ibalik ang apoy ng iyong pagmamahal.

Akala mo ba 'di ako nanghinayang sa mga binuong pangarap?
Sayang ang dala kong mantikilya,  ang tinapay sana'y  'di inamag.
Ang apoy na sinasabi **** sa akin ay nawaglit
hindi mo lang alam ikaw din mismo ang umihip.

Nagsawa ka na bang ihatid-sundo ako sa bahay?
Nagsawa ka na bang pakinggan ang mga drama ko sa buhay?
Hindi ko naman gusto na ikaw ay mapagod,
Nais ko lang na mapansin mo ko at sa ibang bagay 'wag kang masubsob.

Matapos ang isang nakakapagod na araw, ihahatid pa kita sa 'yong bahay,
Dahil pag hindi, paniguradong tayo'y mag-aaway.
'yon ang nakakapagod - ang away, lalo na't may problema din
ako sa aking buhay
na kahit kailan 'di mo napansin, dahil subsob ka sa ibang bagay

Sabi ko "ayoko na", sabi mo pagod ka na.
Tumakbo ako, mga luha'y naghahabulan sa paglabas,
mga tanong na walang sagot, "hahabulin ba nya ako? Hindi na ba nya ko mahal?"
'Di ako lumingon, gumulo aking isipan. Nais ko lang ay pigilan mo ko aking mahal.

Sabi mo, ayaw mo na, sabi ko, "pagod na ako",
Pagod na akong magpigil ng luha at maghabol sa iyong bawat
pagtakas at pagtakbo
Mga tanong na walang sagot, " Ayaw nya bang manatili?
Hindi na ba nya ako mahal?"
'Di ka lumingon, gumulo ang aking isipan. Nais ko lang ay huminto ka aking mahal.

Kung maibabalik ko lang ang takbo ng panahon,
Kung maibabalik ko lang ang takbo ng panahon,
'di na 'ko tatakbo, ako'y mananatili, sasabihin kong minamahal kita*
Hahabulin kita at pipigilan, sasabihin kong minamahal kita