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Sa dami ng mga trabahong tumambak dahil hindi mo pa nagagawa
Mga papeles na nagpatung-patong na
Yung lamesa **** inaagiw na dahil hindi mo alam kung saan at paano magsisimula.
At mga istoryang di mo pa maisulat dahil nangangapa ka pa.
Isama mo na rin yung katrabaho **** nakakairita na sa tenga.
Dahil crush niya daw si Justin Bieber
At paborito niyang frappe sa Starbucks ay Caramel.
Kahit mukhang ang afford niya lang ay Nescafe “Oo nga pala, French Vanilla” na iniinom ni Toni Gonzaga.
Pero wala siyang pambili ng sarili niyang tumbler.

Tangina.

Idagdag mo pa ang mga patay na oras na sunod-sunod ang mga buntong-hininga
Nahuli ka pa ng boss mo na nakatulala
Kaya hayan at napagalitan ka pa.
At dahil contractual ka, yung limang buwan na kontrata mo
Biruin mo, baka mapaaga pa ang endo.

Aminin mo na ang pagpatak ng alas-singko
Ay may kakaibang dalang saya.
Na parang sumagot na ng “oo” yung matagal mo nang nililigawan.
Nakulayan na rin yung mga pinlano niyong outing na buong akala niyo’y hanggang drawing na lang.
Parang pagbabalik sa Pilipinas ng kasintahan **** kumayod sa ibang bansa.
Parang ibinalita sa TV na hindi traffic ngayon sa EDSA.
Himala!
Kaya ang pagsapit ng alas-singko ay kakambal ng paglaya.


Wala sa’yo kung sa bus man ay tayuan
O kaya sa dyip ay makasabit man lang.
Basta makauwi ka lang.

Nakakasabik pa rin ang ideya
Na ang bawat pag-uwi
Ay kasing banayad ng mayroong sasalubong sa’yong ngiti
Mga ngiting papawi sa kangalayan ng mga binti.

Mayroong yakap na nakaabang
Ang mga bisig na nagmistulang pinakapaborito **** kulungan
Dahil doon mo nararamdaman ang tunay na kalayaan.
Mula sa pang-aalipin sa’yo ng lipunan.

Nakahain na rin ang hapunan.
“Mahal, ano ba ang ulam?”
Sabayan natin ito ng mahabang kwentuhan.
Simulan natin sa simpleng kamustahan.
Dahil pagkatapos, ay aabangan mo na naman ang alas-singko kinabukasan.
Cyril Blythe Apr 2013
“El Rabio”

Saturday 6-4
Hello again white pages. I’m writing this on Sunday for Saturday because I came seven hours away from dying yesterday, I was a little busy. I know I need to write this now or I’ll start to forget certain details so, here we go.

I woke up at 5:30 for my 6:00 breakfast. The air in Lima is always wet and sharp in the morning; it is incomparable to any type of Alabama morning mist. The morning mist in Lima is tainted from the 8 billion people who live here and curse it with their waking breath, it curses them back with sharp gray stings of water on their, our, faces as we leave the shelter of the tin roofs and adobe walls. As I walked into the kitchen, Madre Tula scolded me, again, “¡Estás tan flaco como un frijole mi amor! Ven. Ven aqui. ¡Comé!” Which, if you forget your Spanish years from now when you are reading this basically means she thinks I’m too skinny and need more meat on my bones. Madre accomplishes this by feeding me, every single morning, a piece of torta, a bowl of cualquier con fruta, and a ham and quail egg sandwich. It’s always delicious and yesterday was no exception. The NesCafe coffee yesterday burnt my tongue. I gulped it down in a heated hurry because of how tired I was. I gave Madre un besito and left to walk down the street to get the girl interns, Dylan and Lindsay, from their house so we could catch a combi (bus) to Salamanca to work the yard sale for our church with our missionary leaders, Mike and Lauren Ferry.

We made it to the yard sale safe and got straight to work. There was already a huge line of locals waiting to be the first ones in the gates to buy what the American missionaries were selling. After setting up tables and moving hundreds of boxes for about an hour Lauren came sprinting up to me and said, “You got bit by a dog?” I tried to laugh and make a joke about it being just my luck but she interrupted, “This is really serious, Cyril. This is a dang big deal.” I was instantly immersed into a stage of cold adrenaline as she continued, “Cyril, you need to go to the hospital. NOW. People die from this. We’ve had to send interns home for the rest of the summer for scratches from dogs in Salamanca.” She continued to tell me that I needed to catch a combi and find the nearest hospital immediately. The sides of my vision were clouding black and I sat down, I was suddenly very cold.

I think I was in shock and my brain was trying to refuse what it was being forced to process. Rabies. Rabies? Really? That **** dog. It was foaming and all the locals ran from it. I don’t know why I thought if I just stood still it would run past me. I remember the locals screaming Spanish, Quechua, or Aymaraat at me that I was helpless to translate with my two semester of Spanish at Auburn. That **** dog was brown and its lips were foaming. After I kicked it off me and climbed up on a wall of someone’s house I remember wiping the foam off my bloodied legs. Why the hell did I not think, “Oh, that’s probably a bad thing, right?” No. I was just too embarrassed by having made a ****** spectacle of myself in front of the locals to even think about the inherent dangers of rabies.

“Cyril?” I remember looking up from my racing thoughts. Somehow I had ended up sitting on the ground with my head in my hands. I was shaking as I looked up and saw Mike, Lauren’s husband, offering me a hand. He asked me to try and remember exactly what time I got to Salamanca yesterday and when I was attacked. I thought about it and remembered I was running late so I kept checking my watch. It was around 3pm. “****,” Mike said. When you hear a missionary cuss is when you know you’re totally ******. “Stand up, come on.” He helped me to my feet. “Cyril, listen. If you don’t get the first booster shot within 24 hours you die. There is nothing anyone can do. You have about seven hours left. You need to hurry, don’t be scared.” When he said that I remember laughing. Mike gave me a concerned eyebrow furrow as he led me, by the arm, over to one of the other missionaries working the yard sale, Mrs. Sarah. He explained the situation to her and I watched the Peruanos spilling in the gates and milling through the rows of tables and missionaries selling old books and trinkets. One lady that walked in had a monkey with yellow ears on her shoulders. I remember worrying it could be rabid too.

“Cyril?” Mrs. Sarah smiled at me, “You’re going to be okay honey. Lets go.” We left the yard sale. I remember anxiously watching the monkey sitting on the ladies shoulder and as we walked past it, it **** all over her and started to rub it in her hair. I swear it was smiling at me. Mrs. Sarah hailed a combi and we headed for Clinica Anglo-Americana. The taxi driver asked if we were okay and Mrs. Sarah told him about my situation. He fingered the rosary hanging from his rear view mirror and said over and over again, “Dios mio…pobre, pobrecito.” I understood that much Spanish. Even my taxi driver thought I was going to die.

We pulled up to the hospital and told the guard with the AK-47 why we were there and he waved us in past the spiked metal gates. Inside the hospital looked more like a bed and breakfast than the place where I would be given a second chance at life after rabies. The walls were whitewashed and the Untied States, Peruvian, and British flags draped down from three golden flagpoles by the front door. There were beautiful pink and yellow flowers everywhere that scared away the painful Peruvian morning fog that permeated my memory of the rest of that morning. We paid the taxi driver; he patted my hand and drove off.

Inside, I was encouraged to explain why I was there—in Spanish of course— to the friendly nurse waiting in the entrance. I was furious. Time was wasting; it was not the time for me to practice subjuntivo or pluscuamperfecto. I mangled out a few awkward sentences and the nurse’s jaw dropped. Mrs. Sarah erupted into belly bursting alto laughter. The rest of the waiting room was empty. I was so confused, terrified, and angry I didn’t know what else to do except sit. So, I sat on the closest wooden bench and felt a tear peer over one of my eyelids. Mrs. Sarah and the nurse were twittering in rapid Spanish and I kept thinking, “Six hours. I have six hours left to live by now.” Mrs. Sarah walked over, put her arms around me and explained that I had told the nurse the reason I was in the hospital was because I killed a dog in the streets yesterday. I smiled.

“Señor Blythe?” A doctor appeared and frantically motioned for us to come into his room. I walked in and it looked just like any other doctors office except the tray of scalpels, huge needles, tweezers, and vials of purple medicine beside the bed that he motioned for me to lay down on, “Acostarse.” Mrs. Sarah told me to relax. Humorous. The doctor and his two nurses wiped down the bite marks on each of my legs with three pungent and strangely colored gels in quick succession. I swear I hear a sizzling noise. The doctor picked up the scissors and I winced, but he only used them to open up a white packet from which he pulled out a huge thick roll of rough, wet gauze, which he used to wipe my legs clean. It numbed my legs. Then, of course, he grabbed the biggest needle on the table and used it to stab both legs; directly into the bite marks. If he hadn’t already scrubbed them so hard they were scab-less the needle would have cracked the crusted scabs back to flowing red. Rabies vaccines are not fun.

After a few more vials of life were shot into me the doctor wrapped up my legs in weird smelling gauze I was told not to shower and that I had to return to the US within 3 days to receive a “monohemoglobin shot” that they didn’t have in the hospitals in Lima at the time. I sat up on the bed and asked Mrs. Sarah, “So, am I going to live?” She smiled and nodded her head and the nurse answered, *“Si, mi amor, por supuesto.”
Nur Almaz Mar 2016
I am your mamak kinda girl,
roti telur, roti planta,
banjir, sambal lebih.

I am your HS Cafe kinda girl,
nasi putih makan,
ayam goreng, kuah campur,
sayur, kentang,
nescafe ais bungkus.

I am your warong kinda girl,
nasi goreng kampung,
telur goyang.

I am your Kelisa manual kinda girl,
anything that moves is fine,
as long as we get there in one piece is good.

But I am also your, "how are you?" kinda girl,
where I expect you to tell me stories,
share insights,
and discuss your day.

I am also your, "random question..." kinda girl,
where I expect thoughts and opinions,
discussions and deep conversations.

I am also your, "tahu tak..." kinda girl,
where I want to tell you my thoughts and opinions,
for us to discuss further in our deeper conversations.

Because I am more than just "that kinda girl".

I am more than an introduction,
or rising action,
I am the ****** to your tale and
I expect a falling action,
which eventually leads to our resolution.

I am a simple girl with simple satisfactions,
but I only have one motivation,
I cannot tolerate mediocrity when it comes to ideas and solutions.

I expect love, power, and compassion,
because it is with you that I expect my conclusion,
which will eventually lead to our next destination,
a new exposition.
Robin Carretti May 2018
We are stuck  in a turmoil
Her pantry
All red tape
Her can good's
on him?
It's my pleasure,
And he's as painful
Spinning wheel seizure

So tinny
tiny Tim foil
Long neck-------- giraffe
Life too short he's the
end of the kabob stick
My pleasant passenger
is lovesick
Mom's lips he rattles
His eyes of the
snake
Like Arby's smoked ribs
So pleasantly
on his tab
The Webster hub
passenger drinks
Pub

Bet Ya baking Trump
truffles hum?

((Nescafe Escape))
Carmello  latte- James
Bondman another passenger
Mr. Sandman twins
of duct tape
it says

((Where I End))

Where I begin
her money vault

The piano player
Billy Joel the strangers

My own flesh
and blood
Cousins and
Arsenic and lace
poison

Threw them
over the threshold
Elvira siesta greyhound
My pleasant
passenger

Secretly pulling teeth_

mistletoe at birth
Caught in his fire
from Bruce
Springsteen
birth

The messenger
singing
Fiddler on
the roof

Matchmaker
make me a
(Outer Rim)
space station

The orange juice
his
Pulp Fiction
The argument
Please let there be
Yankee fans
Take me out
Don't  ball me out

The game with my nephews
Buy me some cashews
and
Crack-Up Jacks
My pleasant passenger
I don't care if
he ever comes
back
Mary Mack dressed
in maternity black
The funeral came with her
right-hand
messenger

Newborn
life assignment
Bravo applaud

Not everything is
so pleasant
Contradicting
My pleasant
passenger
Couldn't
comment nothing was delicious----?

Rebirth reassignments
Come at me
consignment place
Second hand or
twice around
Another passenger
coming to town
I screamed he
had no face
bandages

Robin Hoods**
The passenger gobble up
seconds poor our goods__--
The first rich
Why can't everything run smooth and pleasantly a home run or how girls just want to have fun. There is a dark side taking the pleasant passenger ride
that first cup of coffee
in the morn
get the day off to a great dawn
as I sit and slurp
my coffee now
I think to myself
Nescafe beans
are just WOW
kirk Oct 2017
What the hell has happened to the adverts on our TV screens?
When Our teeth shined with Sensodine, Colgate and Mccleans
Kinder made surprising eggs and Heinz Meanz tinned Baked Beans
Fairy Liquid lasted longer, houses cleaned with Mr Sheens
Daz Automatic, Surf and Ariel washed clothes in our machines
Which brings me to that buff hunky guy washing Levi jeans

Winalot and Pedagree where good food for our dogs
Robinson's Jam old icon was mascot Golly wogs
Fudge fingers where just enough to give our kids a treat
Not even a Black Hole could eat three Shredded Wheat
Gillette was the best shave, that a man could get
Happiness was achieved, with a cigar called Hamlet
Surfing was the mark of a man, the fragrance of Old Spice
Brut had an unbeatable smell even Henry Cooper smelt quite nice
You know when where Tangoed when your slapped in the chop
Magic begun when we heard the fun of Snap Crackle and Pop
"Hey I'd love a Babycham" in that cool smooth cocktail pub
Biscuits had a lot of chocolate when you joined their Club
The Honey Monster told his mummy to tell us about the Honey
Taking it easy with a Caramel from that **** Cadburys Bunny
Leonard Rossiter and Joan Collins had Cinzano on a plane
The secret lemonade drinker sneaked downstairs for R Whites again
If you know what's good for you, you would eat Weetabix
Chimpanzees did all kinds things for the taste of PG tips
Turkish Delight had eastern promise her hair he had to stroke
You where in love for the very first time when you drank a Coke
If you had a Mars a day we where helped to work, rest and play
A secret agent risked everything because the lady loved Milk Tray

The quest of a silent messenger in case you had forgot
Seeking for the timeless taste of the larger of Lamot
Carling had the three in one with the cowboy in the west
From love songs to soap powder Black Label was the best
Searching for Fly Fishing  J R Hartley got downhearted
Good old Yellow Pages is where he should have started
Garath Hunt had Nescafe he shook the coffee bean
With Una Stubbs and Sarah Green and even Diane Keen
The cute Kid with the glasses he was strong and tough
The Milky Bars are on him, the best where good enough

What do we get on our screens in our modern time
All of the ads are terrible their broadcast is a crime
All you are providing is the same old ******* grime
Ramming the same thing down our throat like an hourly chime
Its the same as TV programming there's nothing that is prime
With all the cheap reality shows there boring and just slime

What is it with the crap Go Compare to many in this set
The PPI's and Clear Score there all a public social threat
Too many online Bingo sites it seems they took all they could get
All these loans and gambling its no wonder people are in debt

Cillit Bang it sounded good when used by Barry Scott
Boy that stuff can't really work cos he had a ****** lot
I don't think it was all that good and not so very hot
If its in the cheep shop I may give it a small shot

The Gtech cordless vacuum it simply has no class
With its 40 minuet run time I think id rather pass
It doesn't seem that powerful I know this may seem harsh
Break free from the Gtech Air Ram and ram it up your ****

And all those crap insurance ads I really do despair
Especially that ******* opera singer singing Go Compare
With his stupid ****** false moustache, Tuxedo and black hair
Get rid of this obnoxious guy and nobody cares where

All those ****** ******* adverts they have on nowadays
nothing like the larger ads or the man with the milk trays.
all you get is insurance ads none of which that pays
or loans that you don't ******* want or any of their strays

Get rid of all these ****** ads put them on the shelf
I don't mean to appear arrogant, I could do better myself
Stop melting our minds, we cant shield our minds in stealth
To many poor folks sat at home with messed up mental health
All you execs make millions your only interested in wealth
And reinstate some proper ads stop thinking of yourself

So bring back all the old ads they where more amusing
Inventive and informative more things for the choosing
Not like they are today all boring, some confusing
Monotonous and self obsessed you only end up snoozing
Always going with the flow with all the same ads cruising
Come on all you ad execs its the public that your losing
Blessed Regalia Jul 2017
Sakim ako ee,
Ayoko masyadong mag isip,
Ngayong malapit na ako,
Sa tuktok ng aking mga panaginip.

Mas malakas ka pa kasi sa nescafe
Magpa-gising. . .
Mas matindi ka pa sa kopiko,
Magpakabog ng dibdib. . .

Delikado. . . . .
Baka kung kelan malapit na ko sa tuktok
Tsaka pa madulas pabulusok
At ang masakit?
Hindi yung pagbagsak e,
Yung katotohanan na
Hindi ka man lang mag iintay
Kahit  k a u n t i ,
Para ako'y saluhin.

Ang masaklap?
Hindi yung mawala yung mga taong pinaghirapan ko,
Pero, yung malaman ko na:
Kahit ano pa man
Ang mapabayaan ko,
Walang magiging tayo.

Kaya eto ako, masaya.. .
Masaya pala, na mag isa,
Pero mas masaya kung may,
Makakasama ako sa twina,
Yung kahit hindi ikaw,
Basta handa siyang maging ikaw,
Sa pwesto ng puso kong,
Dati, ikaw ang sigaw.
Super late post from 2015
Catherine Feb 2014
I sip and wait for the drop of semi-congealed Nescafe to hit my shrunken bag of a stomach.
Cigarettes and caffeine. How typical.
How obvious - is that the right term? - that these have become my survival remedies.
I am weak, sometimes stumble absentmindedly on the pavement, the jagged teeth like slabs catching my feet out.
People glance at my paled face. An echo of before, a walking vision of someone exhausted, ill or plain oblivious to the own destruction of their body.
They think that I am drunk.
I awkwardly regain my pace, feeling that child like shyness creeping back into my demeanour.
Then I run one tired, bacteria ridden finger along my blunt jaw. Ah. It feels good.

Inhibitions forgotten, perseverance in check.
My system turns its volume to mute as I sip more of the gloopy energy.
Hush now, I whisper internally.
Drawl on that stick of cancerous paper. Now every 30 minutes or so it takes its place between my dry, starved lips.
I am often described as quite a quiet, wet person. In this case, my strength is inward. I find tears for rebuke. I inspire concern and questioning but I do not feel their love in these remarks.
I turn the beauty of their words into hatred. I am in control. This is my body.
This is my mind.
This is my soul.
Only I can speak to that spiritual beast that I keep locked away in the caged remains of my skill.
How dare you question my choices I scream!

My strength to 'outdo' them is renewed. The beast grows while I shrink. He feeds on my sense of self pity and self worth. More. More.
I shrink from my own invention. I hide from it. I can only go on so much longer before I cannot face him anymore.

Frontal. Temporal. Back. Whatever lobe you want, he now sinks his contrastingly fleshy claws into them.
This cage has four sides to it; all now useless to me. All now given over to this beast. They reflect into the whirlwind of my conscience. Conflicting. Opposing.

Nature versus man.
Natural versus the mind.

Theres is no key to the lock on my cage.
Recovery. Falter. Healing. Falter. Faith. Rejection.
Back and forth. Back and forth.

What is the point?

My main stream of thought to anyone who questions my diet of caffeine and nicotine, my withering appearance, my paranoia fuelled actions, my distinct inability to accept their concern is;

You liars.
Steve Page Jun 2022
I breath in to find my inner Geezer
ready to speak with a more common vernacular.
I channel my South Londoner
and ensure I have my chipped mugs
ready out on the counter.

I pull the Nescafe and PG Tips forward
from the dusty recesses of the top cupboard
and locate the white sugar, checking that I have
at least five heaped teaspoons’ worth
for the coming encounter.

Later, from behind the net curtains,
I see him sizing up my roof from his van
and I wait for him to walk up the drive to push the doorbell.
Oh, no, THE DOORBELL!

And, too late, what credibility I had pieced together cringes
at the anticipation of the Batman themed doorbell ring,
which until that morning had seemed an appropriate ice breaker.
Arvon writers retreat.  An exercise on describing an invited stranger in the house.
Al Jun 2019
March 21st 2017 -

Early to rise... breakfast served.  We face one another.  Hazel eyes meeting blue.  Idle chit-chat accompanies the Nescafe. The morning post sits unopened. Tomorrow everything will change. But for now we remain innocent.
Ken Pepiton Oct 27
-------be it cool of the day, or twilight, last star, first, ---------
I appear,
back at my theory
that it's a game, not simulated,
actual factual competition
with machines,
like us, told that the knowledge
of good came
with the knowledge
of evil, and that's fundamental
the child's story, culturally required,
by commonalities enforced, at least,
since Frank Capra, we suspect,
as far back as
Edison, the plan, in Tesla's day,
was evident to any with a wit
of intelligence,
ears everywhere,
even then the bums net
worked as it works
to this day, see, we,
measures, see,
anything smaller than
a jug, is a bottle,
and a bottle is plenty,
to night, dark side
of today, still some say
at the third star we wishta see t'night,
this night of certain cultural acceptance,
what ifery, afeared in Pentecostal circles,
five weeks, five points, five senses, plus
this sixth,
you use to test poet's licenses.
Ai, aught, indeed,
we might wish a way we might, feel
the function
of the riches
of the wicked,
laid up, as it were,
in the word
of God, go see,
for the just, iust to think, used to
think, for just an instance of just is.
These mingled wines,
these recycled ***** dreams,
from the era of spirits at war,

the second great awakening, they
who write the anointed chronicles,
ai, yes, aye, indeed, we take time,
and we make time, we use time
to make knowing happen, once
and again, at second glance, we knew
knowledge towb ra' was all good.

the riches of the twisted,
for that's what wicked always means,
twisted
in order
to intwine the agreements,
see, we both, me and you, I and thee, indeed
the same knowing needful
for agreements
to function, drunk,
on a strand
of otherwise,
sure, each line prepositioned
pure, and mere, completely as if
what any drunk shall swear is true,
as when we play a video game, and ****
perfectly strange entities we are supposed
to pretend, as ender did,
in training, also known as education,
under the auspices
of old city minds
metasocial,
after all's been said and done,
held
in memory, inscribed
on the skin, processed
during drunken rejoicing,
inclusion experiences, some
came slow longing
for the order
of qwerty and capslock
breathing deep on high
no commas, or commas
between/ and .
that, granted,
with fairy godmother grace,
makes good sense,
when you exposed your child
to the Stravinsky suite, did you
ante or anti
cipitate
the effect
of such exposure,
after three generatoins? Today
imagine how many children, boys and girls,
succumb
to the tradition
of any Disney,When you wisht
upon a star, you were eight and I was nine.

this is the world that turned to color
as Oz did for our parents, all magic, indeed
essentially sublime, subtler than any beast.
is Wonderful to us, We are entranced,
by the sound, of musings, entrapped,
Marching silver dimes, at Christmas,
next year, Polio was gone, I helped
indeed, did we not all help as kids,
faced with a mission, fill this card, beg,
watch
wait, see
the iron lungs all breathe their last,
and we are survivors facing Nuclear war.

Outa our way, we say, turn on
tune in, drop out and bloom in dotage…
emotionally impressed to move on up

by a mountain mind,
in a family opposed,
to face fakest facist fanciest facis ever
on the backside
on the Phrygian cap dime
blade bound, handle bound, barrel staves,
enclosing the loosened will
to merry make,
roll out the barrel, let's make hearts
merry,
it's Christmas, all's forgiven, honest, wait
and see, suffer it
to be so now, deeper

we must make us pretend we went and saw

all that ever was stacked
for value, whying
science, and literal liars, prospering, stupid,
for the economy,
politically strategic intell,
it's swell,

let's have another cuppacoffee,
let's have a Nescafe',
eh?
O, sure, someday, we all can relate,
the idea, Instant Coffee, pre Kuerig,
pre death
of the jelly fish eating things,
all destroyed
in the jelly fish take over.
Wishing life lacked stupid rich people... we had fun with superstitions
I can never forget the day
When we went to a radio RGMA
And I brought thee Nescafe

Oh our Vice President would be
Forget my hateful words not meant to be
Forgive me please & accept me into thy city & thy party

Accept me once again, Sec. Mar Roxas
Do not throw me off thy righteous bus
To the straight path again I must.

-08/19/2012
*My Twilight Poems Collection
My Poem No. 189
Ryan O'Leary Jul 2020
Rather than turning
Hagia Sofia back into
a Mosque, the Turkish
president would have
done his own nation
and the world at large
a far better service if he
had banned Nescafe ™.

— The End —