Nakahinumdom ko,
sa una man gyud to
nga kitang duha nagakadungan pa ug baklay
padulong ngadto sa usa ka balay.
Naggunitay sa atong mga kamot
ug ming-ingon nga di gayud
boy-an ang usa’g usa.
Kuntito naman ko, ug gasalig ko
nga ikaw kanunay naa sa akong tapad.
Apan minglabay ang mga oras ug bulan,
paglingi ko usab sa akong kiliran
ikaw napanaw lang ug kalit
ug wa na ko kabawo asa ko ikaw makit-an.
Mingsulay ko ug tagad kay gihuna-huna ko
basin ikaw akong nabiyaan,
paspas biya ko mulakaw ug langay kay ka.
Apan wa man, sa pila na ka adlaw
nakong huwat-huwat, wa gihapon ka,
asa man diay tuod ka?
Ikaw man gud, langay kay ka.
Ug gapadayon na lang ko ug baklay,
pero hinay-hinay lang, para ikaw unta makaapas ra.

Sa paglakaw-lakaw nako,
Nakatagbo ko ug usa ka tawo,
ug mingsulay ko ug pangutana bahin sa imo,
basin ba, ikaw nakalabay na ug nakit-an ka niya.
Grabe, asa man diay tuod ka?
Ikaw man gud, langay kay ka.
Minglabay ang pila ka mga tuig, didto nako nakahuna-huna
basin ako diay gyud ang langay ba,
ug wa nako kaapas sa imoha.
Busa minglakaw napud ko ug paspas kaayo
para ikaw akong maapsan,
dasig lang, magkita ra lagi siguro tang duha.
Apan, ako tawo ra pud biya,
kapuyon ug uhawon pud ug inapas sa imo,
layo na kaya siguro ka ug naabtan.
Asa man diay tuod ka?
Ikaw man gud, gadali ra pud kay ka.
Ug sa dihang nakahapit na hinuon ko
ug laing balay para mupahuway, ug muinom ug tubig,
kapoy biya pud ug pangita nimo sa pila na ka tuig,
siguro, langay lang gyud diay ko,
kay katong tawo nga akong napangutan-an, dugay ko mituo,
nga ikaw pud diay nagtagad kanako,
nga ana pud ka, nga langay ra kaayo ko.
Magkita ra lagi siguro tang duha, hinaot puhon.

Naalala mo pa ba, noong magbukas ang Nagi?
Pagkahaba pa ng pila, umabot ng Yabu dati.
Kahit pa nga yata Yabu, ay kayhaba din ng pila
Araw-araw laging ganyan, kaya dapat maaga ka.

Sa katagalan pagdaka ay nagkaupuan na nga
Ang babae ay sisigaw, at susundan ng iba pa
Bigay todo ang pagbigkas, tila baga walang bukas
Rinig mo ang tinig nila kung ikaw ay nasa labas.

Sunud-sunod na araw pa, na kami ay nasa Nagi
Itanong mo pa kay amo, siya po ang aming saksi.
Kung paanong alas-onse'y, naghihintay na ng taxi
para sa pila'y mauna, at nang makakain kami.

Ilang buwan din siguro ang sa mundo ay dumaan
na ang pagdalaw sa Nagi ay biglang naging madalang
Na mula sa bawat araw, ito'y naging linggo-linggo
Kalaunan pa ay naging Enero, Pebrero, Marso.

Lumipas ang mga taon, at ngayo ay Pebrero na.
Ngayon na lang uli kami doon sa Nagi nagpunta.
Ang dating mahabang pila, ngayon ay tila wala na
Alas-dose na noon, tanghali na po partida.

Noong pumasok na kami'y sumisigaw pa rin sila
ngunit dinig mo sa boses na ang sigla ay wala na.
Kahit yung pitsel ng house tea na laging inihahanda
Ngayon baso-baso na lang, tapos manghihingi ka pa.

"Nakakain na po kami, puwede bang bukas na lang?"
"Mayroon na n'yan sa Mega, pati na sa Katipunan"
"Huwag ka nang magmadali, hindi na dapat agahan"
"Kahit anong araw pwede, kasi nandyan lang naman 'yan".

Tayo'y magaling lamang ba, kapag bago at simula
kapag bago sa paningin, kapag bago sa panlasa?
Na 'pag nilamon ng oras o kinasanayan mo na
ay tila pinagsawaan at pinagwalang bahala.

Kailan kaya darating, ang sa aki'y tinadhana
na sa aking pagtangkilik, hindi ako magsasawa?
Na kapag nakita ako'y ramdam ko ang galak niya
at ang puso ko'y lulukso marinig lang ang ngalan n'ya.

Malamang ay naglalaro ngayon sa iyong isipan
"Tungkol pa rin ba sa Nagi, ating pinag-uusapan?"
Huwag mo na itong isipin, sagutin mo na lang ako
may pila pa kaya ngayon, sa bagong tayong Ippudo?

Sa pila umasa ka na makakasakay ka na sa darating na jeep.
Pero sakto ikaw ung nasa likod ng taong huling makakasakay.
Ang saya mo pa kasi kala mo kasama ka.
Parang yung oras na akala mo kayo na para sa isa't isa.
Pero di ka na pala kasama sa jeep ng mga pangarap niya.
Naiwan ka.
Kailangan **** maghintay ng panibagong jeep.
Sa bagong jeep na yon ay mauuna kang sumakay.
Eksayted ka at masayang masaya dahil sa wakas makakauwi ka na.
Parang yung oras na gumising ka ng wala na sya pero magaan na ang lahat.
Bagong jeep ng pangarap na hindi na siya nakasakay.
Pauwi doon sa bahay na malapit ng mabuo muli.

Maingay. Siksikan.
Mainit. Nakaiinip.
Nakipila. Naghintay.
Isa. Dalawa. Tatlong oras.
Reklamo nila. Reklamo ng lahat.
Nainip. Umupo. Nakitabi.
Nag-ingay nang nag-ingay.
Maraming nagsidatingan.
Kanya-kanyang kwento.
Nagkwentuhan.
Umambon. Umulan.
Payong. Binuksan.
Nakisilong. Pinayungan.
Nagkwentuhan. Nagtawanan.
Tarangkahan. Bumukas.
Tulakan. Umuulan.
Tulakan. Sigawan.
Tulakan. Siksikan.
Siksikan. Naapakan.
Tulakan. Walang makapitan.
Pinakapit. Kumapit.
Tapak. Hagdan.
Umakyat. Inalalayan.
Humakbang. Umusad.
Pinauna. Pinasalamatan.
Nagapasalamat. Nagkangitian.
Umakyat. Sinundan.
Di nahagilap. Tinunguhan.
Di nalaman. Kinalakhan.
Di nalaman. Pangalan.
Naaalala. Ngiti. Labi.
Matang singkit. Matangos na ilong
Berde ang bag. Pula ang damit.
Sumbrero'y itim. Ulong maliit.
Umupo. Hinanap.
Hinanap. Hinanap.
Di makita. Di mahagilap.
Tanging maalala. Pagtulong twina.
Nakababagot na pila. Siya nakita.
Mahabang oras nakasama.
Salamat. Pila.
Sandaling nakasama.
Alaala. Siksikang pila.

Tam-is niyang paghiyom ang nagahatag kanako’g
kalagsik hangtud sa kahangturan.    


Gahum! O Gahum! Nga dalagita sama sa nagbagang kalayo sa kabatan-onan    
‘Di mapalong kon agi-an man sa mug-ot nga panganod o uwan,    
Sama sa usa ka punoan, aduna siyay gibarugan,    
‘Di matarog ug matangtang bisan igka pila mo pang tayhupan,    
Kini jud mga dalagita, kusog magpapitik sa dughan    
Ma-anaa man sa luyo o sa atbang, mahutdan gayod ka’g hangin bisag wala gadagan    
Ug in-ani ka-cool ang nag-inusarang dalagita nga akong gipanguyaban.    


Sa mga pulong nga akong gihandum sa kagabhi-ong itum  
Sama sa mga words nga akong gihandum, aduna kini gahum     
Words ug mga pulong, mabutang man sa taas o sa silong, kini tanan kay akong sagolon    
Mag-iningles man o sa ma-bisaya, gugma lang sa gahum nga babae akong maangkon      
She is undeniably adorable murag, life in cotton      
Babaeng angayan bisag unsa pa iyang sul-oton     
Kay aduna siyay own things nga maka-empower sa iyang kaugalingon.    




She’s an epitome of an empowered woman that looks at you with unbothered recognition;    
Like a walking sculpture beyond the measure of imagination and description.    
Her mind is filled with wonders, and her heart is a slate;    
born to be herself and not to solely procreate    
A capable woman that hits like a note    
A note that is enough to float your melodic boat    
One that accepts you even if you look like a goat.    


Sa nagtuyok-tuyok na mga pulong na gipuga sa akong utok    
Anaa pa sa akong mind, ug ni-retain, ang pahigugma niyang pagtutok,    
Aduna puy times nga musuol ang iyang katok,    
Pero bisag unsa kagahi ang iyahang dughan, naa juy times nga kini kay humok    
Samot na sa times nga ako maghinuktok    
samtang ikaw nalunod sa tam-is **** paghinanok    
Paghigugma ko kanimo sama sa usa ka ubo, kusog muugbok.    


Sama sa usa ka lyrics sa usa ka song,    
Di malipong ug paminaw sa naglatagaw kong mga pulong    
Ako mubalik ug Iningles para ikaw na naminaw;    
makakita pa ug preskong  silaw sa adlaw.    
Aduna napud ko pabalik, padulong na mag-iningles ug balik    
Sa hunahuna ako nalumos, pero dughan ko pa kay abtik    
Samot na ug ikaw ang mutunga, mupadayon kini ug pitik.    



An empowered woman, An empowered woman!    
Balak kong gitagik, kunus-a paman ni mahuman,    
Ay, ‘way kurat! Padulong nani sa katapusan,    
So fret not and relax! Higopi sa ug kape kay naa nata dapit sa katapusan    
To sum it all up, she is an empowered woman    
She is someone that believes nga aduna siyay padulngan.    
‘Di matarog bisag igka pila mo pa ihuyog.

Intro (1st stanza)
Sa lahat ng kung sino o ano ka man,
at maging sa lahat ng di mo tunay na pagkakilanlan,
madalas nga ikaw ang sa puso ko'y nananahan,
Sa iyong balikat ako ay iyong pinapatahan,
Sa twing Ako'y nababalot nitong karimlan,
Liwanag ka sa aking nagugulohang isipan.
pagsinta mo sa aking nararamdaman,
ang siyang tangi kong tangan-tangan!

1st refrain
kapag nais kong lumuha
laging naririyan ka
Sa pighati at saya
laging naroon ka
karamay nga kita
Ano man ang aking dala
wala pa man akong problema
ako na ay iyong hila-hila
sa lugar kung saan pila-pila
ang mga nakahain na di basta-basta
pagkat ang sisidlan,laman ay sobra-sobra!

2nd stanza
hindi tulad sa liwasan na aking pinanggalingan
doon sa may gawing silanganan
na di raw kailan man lumulubog ang araw
ngunit wala naman akong liwanag na matanaw
Subalit ngayon
binago mo
aking kahapon
Sinama mo ako
Sa iyong patutunguhan
pinanatili sa 'yong kandungan
bagamat ang haring araw ay walang masikatan
at kay panglaw man nga dito sa kanluran

2nd refrain
Maliwanag kong Naaaninag
ang pinaka-marilag na sinag
na tila ba nagsasabing,,,
halika dito sa aking piling...
hawiin mo ang ulap na tabing,
at tutuparin ko ang 'yong hiling.

adlib
DAMDAMIN MO'Y 'WAG NANG IKUBLI,,
SA AWITIN KONG ITO 'WAG KANG MAG-ATUBILI,,
BASAHIN MO ANG AKING MGA LABI
TIYAK DARATAL SA IYO  MATATAMIS NA NGITI
SABAYAN MO AKO SA AKING HIMIG,
'DI BA'T ANG MUSIKA'Y ATING TINIG.
NA TILA BA DAYAMI DOON SA KAMALIG.
SA BAGYO'T SIGWA WALA ITONG LIGALIG!

3rd stanza
'pagkat alam Niya may isang Ako
na mangangalap ng Kanyang piraso
upang sa muli nga'y mabuo
ang taglay nitong komposo
hanggang sa ang naturang Ikaw ay mapagtanto
na hindi lang Sila kundi pati na rin Tayo
ang sa Kanila ay siyang dapat magpayo
"ano man ang galit Mo sa Mundo,,,
at sa Iyong buhay ay di Ka makontento
'wag na 'wag kang sa Pagsubok ay magtampo
Tandaang Ninyo na ... Nasa Puso ng Tao
masisilayan ang Ilaw na nagpapatingkad
Sa Daigdig Natin na animo'y di na sumisikad
na halos hikahos ang MARAMI sa pagtingkayad
mamataan lamang Nila ang tanglaw sa pagsayad"

repeat 1st refrain except last 5 lines

chorus one
ohh Sanlibo't Isang Awit
sayo ako'y kakapit
hawakan mo nga akong mahigpit
sa twing mensahe mo'y kinakawit
mga damdamin na hugot
sa aking pag-iisa ay sagot
napapawi mo nadaramang poot
tuwa man o isang lungkot
ang hatid na iyong dulot
mga liriko mo sa akin ay nanunuot
dagliang naiibsan itong pagkabagot

repeat adlib

chorus two
Lalo't kapag ang 'yong melodiya,
sa pusong umiibig ay kaiga-igaya,
umasa kang ang iyong ritmo ay lampas ilaya.
di man pakawalan matataas na nota... tono mo ay malaya!
At patuloy kitang pakikinggan
taimtim ko ngang susundan
mga letra mo sa Dalampasigan
kahit pa kahit na paulit-ulit mo akong talikdan,,
batid ko naman ang koro mo'y walang hanggan
tangayin ka man at mapadpad sa Laot ng tagdan
di maglalaon muli kang dadaong sa may Pantalan
para ikumpara ang luma sa bago **** kasarinlan

repeat 2nd refrain
do the bridge (3x)
repeat Intro
repeat chorus one and two
repeat bridge once again in a fading away voices

BRIDGE:
sabihin man nila na ako sayo'y baLiw
ligaya kong natatamasa, di na magmamaLiw
wala man akong instrumentong isinasaLiw
itong Sanlibo't Isang Awit,alay ko sa'yo giLiw

Inspired By Sally Bayan
my very first particular song in its parts
that comes from the bottom of my heart

© solEmn oaSis

Sinasalipadpad* ang mga *kalat sa pulitika
Umaalingasaw ang baho ng iilang kandidato
Sa modernong botohan
Tila may iilang selyo,
May mga balotang sanay
Sa may agnas na kandado.

Binaha ang pila ng nanghihingi ng boto
Istratehiya ng isa'y musika sa mga bingi
At may mga bulag na nabibili ang dangal
Iisa lang sana ang daan
Pero may nagwawagayway ng limang daan.

Sa Pula at sa Dilaw
Andaming banderitas.

Alam nyo, kapwa ko
Magising tayo
Mamulat na tayo
Tama na ang bawian-buhay.

Itong Hari ng mga Pula
May tandem na Itim
Dugo't budhi ma'y kayrumi
Hindi kasi pinapansin
Ang Itim ang Hari ng Droga
Panay ang kalat sa Puerto Princesa
Ang Pula ang taga-walis
Tila anghel sa bawat sigaw ng masa
Naglipana kasi ang salapi
Mula sa bulsa niyang binulsa lang din
Nagkabaun-baon sa utang
Itong siyudad na wala noong bahid.

Binayaran pati ang dangal
Hindi lamang ng mga naturingang mangmang
Eh kasi pati yung may rango
Nagpatiwakal na rin
Nanlimos ng barya ng bayan.

Buhay mga kinitil
Kung ang salita ay bibitiwan,
Barilin nyo kami nang talikuran
Habang may hinagpis
Kaming Inang Bayan.

Magwagi ka man Pula
Hindi papayag ang Hari ng Sanlibutan
Patas siyang lalaban sa Bayan
Pagkat siyudad niya ito,
Kaya nga "City of the Living God."

Marami mang pakulo ang partidong Pula
Sana'y Ama, dinggin mo ang mga Anak
Kami'y maralita
Palimos ng pag-asa
Lalaban para sa hustisya.

Mga kamay Mo ang yumapos sa bayan
At basbas Mo'y sa Dilaw
Pagkat ang puso ang Iyong tinitingnan
Hindi ang pagkilos nang walang pagtingala Sayo.

Ikaw ang Maghari Ama

Usa ka bulan na ang nilabay
Sukad sa unang pag like nako sa imohang profile,
sa kamingaw sa kadlawn,
namasin lang nga makakaplag
ug babay mga susama nimo kaayag,
Akong kasakit, kagool, ug kalaay
Napulihan ug mga ngisi ug kalipay, pagkakita nako sa imong reply
Nakaingon jud ko ato ba "Ayay kini din.a jud ko mag sanaol nay ka chat😂"
Sa kamobo sa imong mga reply,
Wala ko ga huna² nha wala ka ganahi ug maong ako nisuway,
Nagpangayo ug account kay lagi mag personal message kunohay😂,
Pero sa tinud anay ,
Ganahan lang ko makakita ug uban pa nimo mga hulagway,

Samtang nagkataas ug  nagkadugay,
Akong nabati nga kitang duha nagkadevelopay,
Bisan ug tuod ako kanimo dle man takos ug angay,
Gidawat mo ang gugma ko sa walay pag dugay²,

Niabot ug pila ka adlaw nag inilisday ug nagIloveyouhay,
Bisan pag mga walay label ug wala gani callsign o tawganay,😂

Ug karon kay sumad nga adlaw,
Gikan adtong ako imohang gisugot ug gidawat,
Bisan tuod medyo mobo ra ang paghulat,
Worth it na kaayo ang tanan karun nga ako imoha na nga gidawat,
Magsaulog ta ug maglipay,
Pasensya kana kaayo intawn pinalangga
nga kung karun wala pa akoy madalit kanimo ug maihatag,
Isip regalo man o Gasa nga magtimaan sa akoang paghigugma,
Magtimaan sa pagpasalamat nga kita niabot sa usa ka bulan nga sumad,
Pero puhon ayaw kabalaka,
Basin deay kung kitay paboran sa panahon ug makakwarta,
Dle ko na gyud ikalimtan,
Ang mupalit ug mangita ug gasa nga kanimo akoang ihalad,
Kinasing kasing nga pilion para kanimo ihatag,

Bisan tuod usahay ako saputon,
Mutapol ug dle naka ganahan sampiton,
Pasensya na ka gusto lang gyud cguro ko nga ako napod ang lambingon,
Salamat kaayo sa pagka masinabtanon,
Salamat pod sa imong pagkamatinud.anon,
Bisan toud medyo ulaw ka usahay sa imong gusto isulting mga pulong,
Usahay man Maga duha² ka pero magpadayon,
Salamat sa gugma nimong gidalit,
Hinaot unta nga dle ka mausab o mawagtang ug pinakalit,
Kapoya na baya sigeg pangita ug pamugos
Akong love story murag salida,
Sige nalang pod ug balik balik ang eksina,
Malipay sa makadiyot pero mahugno napod ig abot sa pila lang ka simana,

Pasensya naka sa akong nahimong balak,
Wala nako nasayud kung sakto ba ang tanan nakong gipangsuwat,
Ahh basta kay naay magkaparehas nga
Words ang katapusan😂

Pero kini lang gyud ang dapat nimo timan.an

Magpabilin tikang higugmaon ug halaran,
Ako mahimo nimong taming ug hinagiban,
Bisan tuod ako gamay man ug lawas,
Andam ko ikaw nga panalipdan sa tanan oras,
Kinabuhi ug kusog alang kanimo lang,
akong kasingkasing imoha ra kanunay
Saligi pod nga kining gugma ko diha kanimo kay tinud.anay,


Karon, boot nako isulti sa imoha pag usab
Na ako, dili magbag-o sa akong mga saad
Dili teka biyaan, tinood ni walay sagol ilad
Ubanan taka ug dili nako buhian ang imong mga palad.
Dungan natong kab.oton ang tanan natong  mga damgo,
Puhon anh atong saulogon kay ang atoa nang mga anibersaryo.
Ug unta puhon magpabilin gihapon,
nga ikaw ug ako❤️.

this is truly a welcome break from:
freeing all the drafts -
which i imagined to be equivalent, or rather:
the 2nd parallel of the original adjecent -

i imagined it would feel like:
releasing doves with laurel branches firmly
lodged in their beaks -
just as the waters of the flood would recede...

but it truly felt like:
the inversion of the diarrhoea-constipation
"paradox"... because it felt like both,
but never giving me a clue as to
what was more prominent -

the sharp edge of a knife -
or the horizon when the sky becomes
the sea far away....

i'm not ashamed to throw this onto the fore...
it happened to me once...
but on purpose...
i wanted to compensate marquis de sade's
antic in a brothel when he implored
the ******* to turn the crucifix into
a ***** into his decapitated precursor
of a mary antoinette... puppet...

profanity in images and all the other seances
of the senses...
i wouldn't go as far as to make the crucifix
profane... or do anything profane
with it...

only the words...
hic (est) mea corpus - hic (est) mea cruor...
this is my body - this is my blood...
and i am aware the mead is the gods' ****
when they're in a good mood - all... jolly...
and that beer is the gods' **** when
laughter hits a dry run...
and that ms. amber or whiskey is but:
the blood of the gods...

i had to corrupt it...
to prove to myself: that i am not a god...
it was quiet simple...
once upon a time i was drinking
a glass of wine...
and as you do... on a whim...
i decided to **** into it...
perhaps all that drinking prior would
give me something to elevate the palette
of exploration that was to come...

hmm... at least that sorts out
hic: mea cruor... *** urinae...
but back then i did that on purpose...
and if only this was a desert scenario...
and i would have to drink my own *****
to survive...
well... i just thought: here's to starving
from a lack of better imagery...

i will come unto some Horace in a minute...
i don't know how i managed to find
this citation - it's only very losely related...
and yes i will showcase another draft from
May of last year...

but today i was unsure...
did i leave yesterday's pepsi max bottle
with only the stale pepsi left...
or did i forget to do the lazy sly wee whizz
jumping out of bed in the middle of
the night...
but i already poured this "cocktail"
over two shots of whiskey...
and i'm hardly desperate but...
my original intention of alligning myself
to the profanity of the crucifix...
i had to somehow make profanity
of the wine...

since i am... thinking how to compensate
being satisfied with wine...
how the ancient world was always
satisfied with wine...
the story of the 3 ambers of the north...
the beer, the mead and the whiskey...
all in a varying degree...
but i will not bow before the blood of a god
that's so... diluted...
whiskey yes... that can be blood indeed...
otherwise it's down in the trench
with gods' **** - mead if they are in a good
mood... beer if they are in a talkative mood...

thank god i wasn't thinking:
better salvage those two shots of whiskey
and drink this cocktail of the "ultimate" surprise...
and apparently eating a woman's
placenta is good for you...
as was... apparently once... breastmilk...
funny... give me the milk of a cow or a goat
and i'll show you: one dislocated thumb...
one dislocated distal + intermediate phalange
from the index finger of the right hand's
proximal phalange... no broken bones...

knock-knock... who's there? touchwood superstition.

it's not as bad as it sounds...
stale, yes...
but i am also known for sometimes
performing the antithesis of drinking tequilla...
*****... i'll sprinkle some cigarette ash
onto my hand... lick it... take a shot of *****
then throw one or two black peppercorns into
my mouth for the crunch...
each drinker and his own myths... right?
i call that the black cracovite...
cracow being so close to aushwitz...
and once it snowed and they thought it was
snowing... sure... ash from the furnaces
of aushwitz... here's my ode to... the dead...
in a drink...

hell better a cracovite than a cracowite, white?
i mean: right? seriously: low hanging fruit,
the elephant's testicles...

i will never understand this whole veneration
of wine: in vino veritas...
these days wine is better drank by women
and castrated monarchs of the clergy...
i had to check... so i ****** in my holy grail...
and guess what didn't come out
the other end? gods' **** (beer and wine)
or gods' blood (whiskey and wine)...
just this stale, almost bland...
water with a pinch of grape that has been
left to sit in a puddle on some
industrial estate in dagenham enjoying
the ripe downpouring of chemicals
that leave it with a rainbow of diluted
petroleum...

akin to: try shoving that sort of doughnut
into this kind of pile of ****...
not that i would...
but i have also been prone to test
99.9% spirits... or 96% absinthe...
with a locust mummified in the bottle's neck...
from Amsterdam...

i had to rethink: why become engaged...
when chances are...
to the displeasure of someone who read:
but never bought my work...
the self-editorial process...
the self-publishing process could be...
guillotined on a whimsical constipation
of a "dear reader"...
as it might happen...

again... Horace and the perfect example
of poetry with conversational overtones...
poetry as prosaic...
my god... paper was expensive back in old
Horace's days... surely you would need
something spectacular to write:
like a psilocybin trip account word for word:
wrong!
a certain don juan said to a certain
carlos castaneda: don't bring back words from
such experiences...
but of course: they did...
upon once upon a time loving the beatniks...
i started to abhor them...
getting drunk and smoking "something"
is one thing... exposing the altars of solipsism
of such experiences: words intact...
is a profanity...
each dream is individually curated
to the dreamer... the introduction of words
to relate back... for some next be disciple...
the "drugs" / portals of escapism are already
contaminated...

why wouldn't i: even if these are only
objective recounts of an experience?
perhaps because... they are subjectivelly null...
there are only the comparable heights of Gideon...
such experiences are best: kept to each individual's
right to enjoy... a freedom of thought...
and of silence...
each keeps a secret...
but what secret is left?
when the objective parameters have already
been stated?
i see no point... better down and finding
it at the end of a bottle...
or... ******* into a glass of wine
and drinking it...

they have been contaminated by words that
have been retrieved from such experiences
that (a) no one should talk about...
(b) surprise! the objective reality already
being stated as altered...
am i going to a ******* cinema with my body...
or am i going to a surprise
gallery with my thought?
doesn't matter... word contamination...
bigmouth struck his final last time!
at least the remains is what gives me
the labyrinth... the blood the **** you name
it the three sisters amber... for all i care...
it's readily available: make do...
with what's already been given.

me? i drink for that very special date...
monday 9 march 2020...
when all the orthodox jews get drunk...
that's one of those celebrations i wouldn't mind
being a part of... purim, festival of Lots,
funny... that period of history...
the Persian aspect of the hebrews...
never made it to the big screen...
seeing modern day Iran as day-old Persia
in muslim garbs...
we're still only seeing the: African adventure...
perhaps once the dust has settled...
we will get the Persian installement...
and then... oh... **** it...
we're all in it for the long run...
then when christianity is no longer useful...
the Roman bit of history...
and how the hebrews conspired with the greeks...
2000 years later we'll probably see
some prince of egypt cartoon movie
of the pristine romance and a mention of germany...
not yet... ****'s still to ripe to entertain
the universal child and children...
no screen adaptation from "their" time in Persia...
songs... we have songs!
Verdi's Nabucco - the chorus...
perhaps only in song from Persia and always
with movies and hieroglyphs when from Egypt...

but the festivity... of course! i'll celebrate...
cf. though... Puccini's coro a bocca chiusa -
the humming chorus...
before the band enigma... i am pretty sure my mother
would crank up the volume to at least
one of these songs... should they come on the radio...
i'm still to hear christopher young's:
something to think about - to be on air...
and to also be treated as a piece of classical music...
if wojciech kilar's dracula soundtrack can be treated
as classical music... what's wrong with a little
bit of hellraiser?!

perhaps, "again" is this desecration of the sacred not,
simply hanging in the background,
all, the, ******, time?
who is to celebrate wine giving it a god's blood
status in sips? one is expected to somehow become
drunk on the passion!
no one is here for crumbs of sips!
first they came for the loaf of bread...
and said you should fast and eat only a crumb...
then they came for the bottle of wine...
and said you should abstain and drink only a sip...
then they came for *** and by then
vatican was a monaco with better tax protections...

it's an investement: having to **** into a glass
of wine you're about to drink...
worse... you accidently "forgot" about
******* into some left-over pepsi max
and you're making yourself a cocktail
with one of the graeae ambers - 2x -
and you wonder: is this the proper state
of carbonated water, stale?
but i'm hardly going to bash the crucifix...
i'm here for the words...

the... transfiguration of the wine into blood...
and i say of my gods:
and here is their **** - beer and mead...
and here's their blood: the three graeae ms. ambers...
see no: clearer? no... happier?

i will get onto ancient roman poetics
with its conversational overtones in a minute!
first we have to settle the sacraments!
the metaphors and the sacraments!
i have no ivar the boneless claim of god...
season 6? to be honest...
i'd rather watch an english soap opera...
at least the intricacy of the plot remains...
even though it has been recycled
so many times...

i can't **** out the gods' ***** even if it was
stale beer... or ideal mead...
as i can't leisure a Seneca's bath filled
with the blood of the immortals...
problem solved... "problem":
as if it ever was...

why, Horace? a very short rhetorical retort:
if Dante had his Virgil...
why can i have my Horace, as guide?
again... what Roman poet could venture for
ambitions among the myths -
or extend his "consciousness"
to devastate the land and become
the mad Xerxes wanting the waves
of a sea whipped into submission?
why, Horace? if Dante could have his Virgil...

poetry... at least among the roman poets
there's no boxed in a box "without" a "box"...
the conversational overtones are ripe...
the almost complete lack of
character dimensions... beside their dimensions
from anecdotes...

to difuse wine, to desecrate the hic mea cruor...
**** in it!
then drink it...
or have one of my antithesis of a tequilla surprise
with me...
smoke a cigarette... drop some ash on the lick-part
of the space between the thumb
and the index metacarpal... lick it...
follow it with a shot of *****...
then throw some black peppercorns
into the hades of your gob
and we've arrived at the black cracovite...

and also the day when the orthodox jews
recant their story of their time
in Persia... the festivity of Lots...
when they become blind drunk and pretend to
have the sort of alcohol intolerence as
the Japanese... 1 shot! just 1 shot:
and hey! they throw their kippahs in
the air and we can all dance the ukranian 'opak!

looks good to me!
but only looks good...
when there's this plump drunk playing the accordion:
i.e. me,
and there's the sort of adrew rieu directing
an upcoming crescendo of a poliushko polie...
and we can all leave the auditorium
feeling, less than russophobic...
and then i can be told...
you young to be old yet still
profane pan-siberian peasant root!
indo-european leftover!
well... at least then i have been allowed
the scrap i'm supposed to see
before i showcase my *****, frost riddled fangs!
of the lesser wolf that i am:
as a rabid dog!

since the crescendo will come...
what better fathom of it...
esp. just beside a cemetery... twirling to the music...
ear-plugs out seancing my time in a grand
orchestral hall... plucked from the ears...
the crescendo is coming...
but... plucked... the orchestra of buffalo-sized
snowflakes... and... the worst kind of ballet...
a male soloist... doing his crazy
ukranian folk... maestro! the music never ever
dies! even in the silence of the universe!
however micro- or macro- this theatre will take
form... the music remains playing: uninterrupted!

but the snow was there,
the "ballerina" was also there...
the night was there,
the music was there -
albeit no grand orchestral hall -
couldn't ask for a better canvas
than a cemetery -
and all the heart's content!
comparative "literature"
to love like a muslim...
or to love like a sparrow...
or to love with a grudge like a crow...
mind you; site note...
i have been many a pigeons attempt
fornication unabashed...
i've never seen two crows attempt it...
perhaps they do "it" in the night
and never in the open?

crows... pedantic priests of the kingdom...
and where the widower king
and the widow queen among the swans?
where i and you will have probably left them...
admiring a family of ducks...

as asked by the serpent of the swan...
you and me of the same birth in a Fabergé egg...
me with serpentine spine...
while you: with a crooked neck?
silly... it really is...
of a being.... that was once
a t-rex roar... now a pickled brain
in pickle jar... boasting about being...
pure spine and tingles and...
the better part of what... becomes the mammalian
hibernation...
hibernating "hibernating" upon the
impetus of digestion...
a serpent would ask a swan about
a crooked neck?

because what would a **** sapeins look toward,
as he is always prone to to look elsewhere?
if not to borrow the fixed, rigid ontology
of other animals?
i better from the birds, solely...
the swans and the crows...
perhaps the fox...
rarely something that has lent itself
to being curated by man's leash and grip...
collective the known herd...
otherwise the refined bonsai tigers...
perhaps the fish without a knowledge
of a tide or a wave...

i call a dog the noble friend,
the swan the sombre monogamist...
the crow the priest...
the furry spider one's own reflection
dealing with aracnophobia...
the snake the old "say-what?"
or that pickled spine with a brain
the worth of brine juices...
the extinguished remnant
of a dinosaur's toothache... or some
transcendental exploration
of the carpals of the wrist
extending into the length of a spine...

i'm not going to cry over this one...
skål!
i feel disinhibited from writing a memorandum!
slàinte!
gasoline to the peddle and... off... we, go!

i am bound to get this translaton right...
at some point of hinging-on... i.e. beginning with...
and most probably at the opposite end
of having to finish...
hence "open bracket"... prefix-
and -suffix allowance given the archeological
excavation began with:

-seu pila velox molliter austerum studio
fallente laborem, seu te discus agit, pete cedentem
aera disco: *** labor extuderit fastidia, siccus,
inanis sperne cibum vilem; nisi Hymettia mella
Falerno ne biberis diluta. foris est promus,
et atrum defendens piscis hiemat mare: *** sale
panis latrantem stomachum bene leniet. unde putas
aut qui partum? non in caro nidore voluptas summa,
sed in te ipso est. tu pulmentaria quaere
sudando: pinguem vitiis albumque neque ostrea
nec scarus aut poterit peregrina iuvare lagois.
vix tamen eripiam, posito pavone velis quin
hoc potius quam gallina tergere palatum,
corruptus vanis rerum, quia veneat auro
rara avis et picta pandat spectcula cauda:
tamquam ad rem attineat quidquam.
num vesceris ista, quam laudas, pluma?
cocto num adest honor idem?
carne tamen quamvis distat nil, hac magis illam
inparibus formis deceptum te petere esto:
unde datum sentis, lupus hic Tiberinus
an alto captus hiet? pontisne inter iactatus
an amnis ostia sub Tusci?
laudas, insane, trilibrem mullum,
in singula quem minuas pulmenta necesse est.
ducit te species, video: quo pertinet ergo proceros
odisse lupos? quia scilicet illis maiorem natura modum
dedit, his breve pondus: ieiunus raro stomachus volgaria
-temnit.

it's translated, isn't it? no
stefan gołębiewski or no 1980 warsaw...
is to know...

- nec meus hic sermo est, sed quae praecepit Ofellus:
these are not my words, this said the simpleton
Ofellus - neither of which of us is a laurel-leaf
adorned Orpheus...

that via a living "game": stoking up an appetite
with this entertainment the appetite increaes...
as does one health...

sorry... pagans... bloodthirty people...
trouble with the translation...
apparently the mud slinging
***** and bricks are nothing new...

or when you "minus" the disk,
litter the distance, head with the wind into
competition!
after hardships of the body is good and
the meal is simple -
(apparently all of this is still "connected",
scratch of the ol' 'ed and we're fine...
we're ******* sailing!)
Falern will not hurt "us"...
seasoned by honey from Hymettis,
before the entré. Safaz left,
the sea rumbles, the zephyr of fish it protects,
storm, fishing made unsafe;
stomach grumbles, bread with salt:
excuisite; you do not have any better! why?
taste does not reside in the scent of dishes,
but in your self alone.
toil merely increases appetite's presence.
he who over-eats, will not know the taste
of an oyster, nor a turbot, nor chickpeas,
the northern bird.
perceptions take the scalp of the mountain
above the actual taste of the dishes
(one might scalp... but never eat the scalp)...
you will not take a chicken onto a tooth,
when you are given a peacock,
you will trust your delusion:
a rare bird, worth its own weight of gold,
a most rarified tail, how it sparkles
with subtle hues!
as if the tail were to lead -
and there was no head to be found!
do you allow yourself to judge the hue
of the feathers as precursor for the adjecctive:
that's it's "also" tasty? the meat, of course?
the old - judge a book by its cover...
is the oven baked... also as delicious / beautiful?
chicken meat... or peacock meat?
almost without difference.
therefore: light... albeit...
although only vanity lures the peacock
(to be compared to a poultry)...
let's go further... i want to know: after what
do you recognise this, that a pike
with its gaping mouth was left:
from the sea... or from the Tiber fished?
somewhere among bridges... or from some
conrete estuary? idiot-kin of the surname whim...
you admire a three-pound mullet!
do you take size... for the gauge of all measure?
when you... cut the bell?
then why... why... with disgrace
do you demand in appreciation:
elongating pikes!
evidently nature: this greater gave the proper
measure... and with it: the lesser weight -
an empty stomach will rarely -
being fed a simple thing - despise -
what is...

an empty stomach - rarely despises -
simple matters.

how true... i was allowing myself the time
it would take to drink,
and translate into the vulgate...
but... from no better source...
and i am still to add to this one of my...
"freeing of the drafts"...

as promised...
"draft"...

- a most confiscated man -
no italics included...

.the original draft:

binges, worth the count
of a liter of whiskey
per night,
for a year, if not more...
become so...
so unspectular...

          the world either
screams, or yawns,
generally:
it exhaust a desire
to toss a coin,
agitate the vocab.,

a grand canyon
huddling
in the "depths" of
a glass of water...

baron science
comes with his rubric
of bore,
      and:
i find myself,
most idle:
while the world
orientates
itself in keeping
itself busy,
bothersome,
always the prime concern,

the ant-colony coup,
the:
i always find friends
in the orientations
of an empty glass,
but prior to:

i drink
before no altar,
no mirror,
no confidante...

     pure flesh revels itself
in a blank's worth
of prior to dictum's
  allowance of, a page...

bothersome
the knot of the pretentious
anti- in scold of
the passing fancy:
expression...

            poker charm
of a love's affair...

_

i sometimes entertain myself
with ancients proverbs,
one slavic proverb reads:
better a sparrow in your hand
than a dove on your roof...

what, could, possibly be,
the interpretation?
care for the small joys in
your possession,
than, for the peace of your household,
which is, on the roof,
but not in your hands...

if i were paid? would i be more
honest?
probably not...
        what i see, is what needs
to be seen...
  em... simple pleasures talk...
once upon a time,
donning long hair, implied
you were a mosher...
a metal-head...
    now? three days +,
long hair, and you're not a
grunge fanatic?
  trans-, etc.?

   a man of simple pleasures,
i know what long hair,
jealousy, associated with
putting it in a french braid,
does to a camel jockey ego...
ruins and ruins as far as the eyes
can see...
    he replicates...
he grows his hair long...
at the same time boasting about
haivng a premature beard...
then you grow a beard yourself...
you start fiddling with it...
****, ***** on my face...
and then...
the "question" of a girlfriend
flies out of the window...
i'm happy with a beard,
thank you, very much,
i don't, exactly want to wish upon
myself, a female, company...

*** protest all you want...
the *** differences between men
and women, to my sort of understanding,
are, unrepairable...
     they were, never,
bound, to being, repaired...
savvy?
            i take my route,
a woman took her route...
  we're even...
                
      since what can only frighten a freed
woman, beside a monarch,
a free man?
                   a man with...
a gamble...
         i am a man with a gamble...
i don't like being told what
to be, or what to think...
like any man,
and like any man:
i don't like being forced
ownership over a being:
that can share my sense of freedom...
so...
    i find myself,
thrilled with relief,
at now having to answer to
a woman's subjugation...
like a woman, and, i have learned
from women: i like being
my objective's self...
rather than a "self" made subject...

i like that: thank you...
i can start feedings the pigs and the peasant
the diatribe life, and lie,
of: there being an existential cricis,
a need to reproduce...
and i, and i am, being demeaning
in this, way, for a justified reason...

once the peasants attack you:
you attack, the peasants...
you demean them in the same way
they demeaned you...

once upon a time i thought:
greater good came from the number
of innocents being salvaged
than for the few great of grand bearing
being salvaged...
even if bound to an ill will:
an ill command,
of a will, predisposed to pretend
actions of the blind...
but now i see...

   the many: if beside fulfilling
their petty deeds,
having to stand outside of those,
petty deeds,
  have ambitions equivalent
to their emotions...
            akin to something worth,
pity, akin to something
worth: as little as a rat's heartbeat...
petty, primitive bull-*******...
and all the amount of sorrow,
or pity,
or mercy...
              that, these, ******* allow...
are worth the same response
Pontius Pilate gave...
       there isn't enough of water,
in this world,
to wash my hands, clean,
of these people...
   even if innocent blood plagues
them,
    not enough waters have run their
due course,
to... release me from the indentation
of memory upon my mind...
and i am plagued by an elephant's
memory...
        we've reached the conclusion
of: some people...
  just do not see an insult,
             past the insult's eloquence!

i am a most conflicted man,
i binge watched vikings
for a while now,
and right now, i'm ready for
an extraction of what i have learned...

believe me: i am not someone
who has the sort of ego-presence
to fate myself in the role
of the protagonist...
     i'm too pedantic to have to
market my body and deeds,
for the fates tio see,
and history to ascribe fame unto me...

even homer was off too war
with troy,
   and blessed he became...

because? time morphs,
the longer something is kept,
the more, "unreal" is becomes,
a fairy-tale...
esp. now, with the onslaught
of journalism...
two things in this world
are insomniac,
money never sleeps,
and, now, apparently,
journalism doesn't sleep either:
well, given its ******
bed-fellow of political liars...
why should it?

             Rolo... a semi-minor character...
but i feel his angst at the already
fervent dichotomy,
(dichotomy, modern variety variant
of schizoid-affective...
or bilingual in turn)...

            music...
                    all these modły...
gesticulations of prayer,
phantom conjuring,
               lunatics with candles
at high-noon...
                  i am fated by music,
i am perverted by music,
i am swayed by music...
who is the god, patron,
of music?
who is the angel (demi-god),
patron of music?
         i do not seek the highest
influencer...
the minor one...

   when Archangel Sandalphon
met St. Cecilia...
but as such, i am, conflicted...
even though, this is the first time
i have heard of Sandalphon...

Rome, never reached my peoples,
the Vikings did...
   weren't the ugly vikings the founders
of Kiev?
  so they must have passed via
the Polen (field) land, no?

feelings are not important,
facts don't care about your feelings...
granted...
but i'm not hear for facts,
contra, feelings,
i'm here for the rivers...
what i feel, what my heart yearns for,
needs to attain an equilibrium
with my mind...
for that: i need to clarify my feelings,
to hush my heart, silence it,
in order to listen to my mind,
and the mind, needs to feed into
heaving the heart: to do,
what, the heart, desires,
autonomous to what the heart
"thinks", is right...
                    that's how it was forver
going to work...
consolidated...
and yes, i much envy the punctuation
of king Ecgberht,
a man of cunning: much admired...
abstract thinker...
        and a reality...
        pun-ctu-a-tion...
the delivery of one's speech...
   much admired, as much as...
                the crude brawl possession...
the chief protagonist of the story?
as important as is: the required from
Atlas... burden upon burden...
a man burdened with the illusion
of freedom...

so why am i conflicted,
but becoming less and less so?
    it was always the music...

songs...

           chavelier, mult estes guariz...
wardruna - helvegen...
           da pacem domine...
             agni parthene...

you know... there's much more beside
being a jazz enthusiast or
a classical music snob...
         there's folk... there's religious and pagan
chants...
if there's one thing to benefit from,
in terms of the Byzantine context...
the chants...
        let the barbarians do the thinking
from now on: you do the sing-along...
no people ever reinvented themselves
from an ancient glory...
   new blood had to come to the fore...

like today...
       i spoke with my father and my mother...
about the names of apples...
we must have talked for an hour,
we named so many lost "breeds" of apple...
nouns i will not write,
nouns i wish death to write down,
i want Samael to have,
beside the book of my deeds in hand,
i want him to have
my dictionary in hand,
my knowledge of the sacred script,
i want to listen as he recites me the words
i've used,
notably today's conversation
            about the many types of apples...
e.g.: shogun apples...
             kox...
                    szare renety...
          papierówki...
                    marabella prunes...
that's all i ask of Samil.

Pila ka kagabhi-on ang mga nilabay,
Dughang natagak na gibalik ug tapok
sama sa mga sanina sa ukay-ukay;
gilibutan sa kahibulongan ug katingalaan,
nangitag bubong na akong masandigan;
nangitag mga pulong na arun akong madula-dulaan.
Utok na sige'g kahinuktok,
aduna ba'y buwak na wala'y tunok na makatusok?
Puno sa mga pangutana,
apan kini wala nimo tubaga.

Maaghop na pagduyan sa hangin,
Mangatik diay ang mga buwak?
sama sa usa ka tunokon na buwak;
mga tam-is na labtik sa ilang mga dila,
nagpagawas ug hapsay na mga sturya,
sama sa mga linya sa usa ka salida.

Pila ka gabii nang wala pa natulog,
naghuwat nalang ko sa bituon na mahulog,
Ikaw akong kalipay ug ang akoang tabanog,
Sa imong gugmang init, akong panit kay nasunog.

Jis phul ne koi galati hi nahi ki, Use kis baat ki saza diya ja rha hai,
Es duniya me aane se pahle hi kyu use maar diya ja rha hai,

Ai Khuda kyu aise janwar ko tune banaya,
Ek chhoti kali ko pet me hi maar khud ko insaan btaya,

Na maaro us phul ko jisme us bhagwan ka hai waas,
Ek din aisa aayega jab ** jayega puri shristi ka naas

Arey nasamjh insaan sirf bete ki hi aas lagaoge,
To phir maa, behan aur dulhan kahan se paoge,

Mata-Pita ki galati ki saza us chhoti kali ko diya jata hai,
Ek chhote se andhere ghar me hi use maar diya jata hai,

Wo kali bhi baar baar unlogo se karti pukar,
Hey Maa-Baba mujhe pet me hi mat maar,

Ye duniya ek baar mujhe bhi dikha de,
Apne amrit ki ek ghunt mujhe bhi pila de,


Nanhi si jaan tou hai bekasoor,
Maar kar hi aakhir kyu milta hai pathar dilon ko suroor,

Wo bhi dekhna chahti hai duniya,
Janam lene se pehle hi Jaan gawani padti hai oo gudiya,

Apne hi hathon ukhed dete hai apne hi aangan ka phool,
Kaisa hai ye bereham logon ka usool,

Kismat wale hote hai wo insaan,
Jinki kokh mein dete hain betiyan bhagwaan,

Beti hai ishwar ka hai en anmol uphaar,
Jeene ka us nanhi jaan ko bhi hai adhikaar,

Sharam aati hai logo ki is ghatiya soch par,
Taras aata hai unpar
Jo apne hi ansh ka dete hain maar
Devi ka karte hain jo tiraskaar,

Banao ek naya usool
Beti ko karo qubool

Jeevan ka hai ye adhaar
Banta hai inhi se sansaar,

Likh us phul ka dard hamari aankhen bhar aai,
Teri banai duniya me O mera khuda ye teri kaisi khudai..
Ye teri kaisi khudai...


Collaboration by Manish Shrivastava and Sonia Paruthi

"Isang stored card po."
Sabay abot ng 100piso.
Pinasok sa makina "toot".
Bumaba sa hagdan.
"Hay, nakakpagod."
Nakita ang mahabang pila ng mga taong nagaantay.
Napa-buntong hininga.
5...10...15minuto wala pa din.
Ako'y lumingon sa kanan't kaliwa.
Inobserbahan ang mga taong iritable na sa pagaantay.

Sa kaliwa, nakita ko ang isang lalaki,
Postura, nakasalamin at kagalang galang ang suot.
Mukha nagtatrabaho sa isang malakingkumapanya at may mataas na posisyon.
Abala sa pagtingin sa relos na rolex ang tatak.
Ako'y napatanong sa sarili ko,
"bakit niya mas piniling pumila dito kung saan malulukot ang suot na barong?"

Sa kanan naman ay isang studyanteng binata,
Naka-uniporme, maangas ang dating.
May naksaksak na earphones sa magkabilang tenga at sumasabay ang indak ng mga paa.
Nais ko sana makihati sa musikang kanya naririnig.

Sa likod ko ay isang babae,
Napapamura na sa inis.
Mukhang malalate na sa opisina.
Naka-make up at nakheels.
Gusto ko siya bulangan,
"Ate, kalma lang. Hindi mapapabilis ng pagmumura mo ang pagdating nian."

At sa wakas dumating na,
Ang hinihintay ng lahat.
Inihanda ko na ang sarili,
dahil sigurado ako ay maitutulak, masisiksik,
matatapakan at masisiko sa loob ng train ng MRT.

Sa sikip at kakapalan
ng iniwang usok,
mga langgam ay
di magkamayaw dito
sa kahabaan ng pila.
Hibik nang hibik nang
pumasok sa kaliwa
at sa kanan ng ika'y
nagaabang at tulala.

Tanda mo ba nang
dito'y nagkabungguan,
nakipagtitigan,
at nagtawanan sa
kawalan ng
ating kalikuran?

Sa hirap ng buhay
sinabi mo ang
iyong naranasan
at nangakong
hindi malilimutan ang
dating pinaggalinan.

Sa paglipas ng
apat na buwan
kahit bulong ay
hindi naaninag.
At ako'y nalinlang
sa pangakong
hinayaan mo na
dito'y matapaktapakan.

daw hindi magpakita
sa akon ang katuyo
diri sa dulom
daw ako man kadumdom
sa pila ka tion
nga ako gapanago

hindi na pagpugsa
ipiyong ang mga mata
kay wala man pinagbag-o
kung ako bulag
sa kalipay o sa gugma

na-anad na sa lamig
sa ulunan nga basa
gadugay lang ang mga tuig
ako lang diri gyapon isa

talagsa na lang gid
katilaw sang pahuway
basi di ko gutom amo kabudlay

gihulid ko na ang pala
di gyapon ko katulog

makutkot na lang ko asta ma-aga

Hi, happy graduation, orayt. Unang una sa lahat, nagbalik na si ma long kag pro gyapon sya pero fzd pa rin ang sa rankings haha. Joke lang, seryoso na, gusto ko mag apologize kasi yeah, insensitive ko. Hindi ko man madeny na ganun talaga ako most of the time. At the same time gusto ko rin mag apologize kasi di kita natulungan sa times na may problema ka. Tbh. Di ko alam na may usapin pala kayo sa twitter kasi di na ako masyado naga twitter lately at di ko rin talaga alam kung paano ka tulungan kasi naniniwala ako na every relationship has its own unique language kumbaga, kayo lang nag-iintindihan dalawa  may times talaga na yung mga things na sinasabi ng ibang tao, di talaga ma-apply sa situation nyo kaya may times na ginatry ko nalang na makipag-kumpitensya sayo lalo na sa pingpong. Makita ko bi meg na once nakabakol ka na, makakadlaw ka man, may moment gid na daw makalimtan mo problema mo sooooo sorry if di nakahelp ang gi try ko na way kay daw di man ako ganun ka challenging na opponent. Tbh, gina envy ta ka kay dasig ka makalearn sang mga bagay, lalo na sa sports. At the same time athletic ka pagid so ez **** lang para sa imo na. Maka-inggit na all-around ka, kay ako mabudlayan gid na maabot nang mga makaya mo.
Salamat sa pag hambal sang reason bai. Mga pila na man gidDkami ka bulan ga hunahuna sina. Wala na ko iba pa na mahimo kundi mangayo sorry. Tapos, gusto ko ihambal sa imo na tani makita ta pa ka, hindi sa uste, hindi sa manila, kundi sa mga ospital na. Di ta man makalimtan, kay ngaa man abi diba? By the way, salamat sa pag tiis sa akon na kapartner sa doubles, wala gyapon ta pildi biskan wala ta ga sturya that time. Oh yih.
Lastly, gusto magpasalamat sa memories especially this high school kay isa ka sa 51 ko na mga manghod kag magulang. Then isa ka sa mga special ko na friend kay may side ko na ikaw lang makagets. So salamat gid kag gusto ko ni i-end nga daw


Manjo

Isa sa bumuo ng limamput-isa,
Ang carry ng batch kung sports fest na,
Nagkaroon man ng sigalot nitong hulihan,
Ang turing ko pa rin sa iyo'y kaibigan.

Alam kong magiging matagumpay ka,
Alam kong maaabot mo ang mga tala,
Alam kong patuloy kang magniningning,
Di sana sumuko, yan ang aking hiling.

At kung sakaling may problema ka,
Huminga nang malalim, ipikit ang mata,
Dahan-dahang imulat, tingnan muli ang problema,
Subuking lutasin nang mahinahon at handa.

Hindi lahat nagtatapos sa magandang ending,
May mga panahon talagang **** sa feeling,
Pero lahat nang ito'y mga kabanata lang,
Di pa tapos ang storya, magpatuloy ka lang.

Parating maging positibo,
Di ka nag-iisa sa laban mo,
Nandyan ang pamilya mo,
Na hinding hindi ka iiwan, andyan lang sa likuran mo.

cuál es el alcance
de estas ondulaciones
que se me adelantan
cuando brinco a traves del
lago de la vida.
sin saber a cual orilla
mi ola llegará.

en la sopa
la verdura es carne
como la carne es verdura.
somos así
en este mundo
goteamos como mocos,
contactos fluidos interminables,
respiramos el mismo aire
que ha sido respirado por milenios.

emitimos lentamente nuestros pigmentos
dentro del remolino de la vida,
en este mundo de arte arremolinado.
cada uno tiene su propio color,
y no podemos evitar mesclarlos.

como un tubo de pintura
sin una tapa
que cae dentro de una cubeta,
y cuyo color, en vivo, entra en erupción,
e impregna su entorno.

disiparse pero nunca desaparecer.

como sangre en la pila
se arremolina con substancia
vibrante y brillante.

esta extensión fina de la vida
se disuelve lentamente hasta la claridad.

se hace, no nada,
sino menos de algo
y parte de más.

sale por el desagüe
pero a donde
desde allí?

.and i wrote this... back in January of... perhaps this year... a disclaimer: bones and prose... to have reached a traction of nearing 1.4K readers elsewhere: i don't expect the same numbers here... of that i am imploring... but i want to remember something: i probably misjudged celebrating the worth of Dickens' Pickwick Papers... the moment i heard it was... an imitation of Don Quixote - it was fun to read... before i was reading the papers via the gresham publishing company edition from... oh the 19th century... that's before the book started falling apart from actually being re(a)d: no matter the decency of binding... flimsy papyrus in the end... good enough to look at when stacked on a shelf and an artifact for the eyes... so i decided to finish reading the papers... 2nd hand penguin modern... as ever... why do they write these synopsis spoilers... even a mere allusion to: 'the pickwick papers are the english don quixote'... you know... when reading this book without a synopsis-of-allusion... i very much enjoyed it... but since i have re(a)d Don Quixote... and... frankly... the ballet by the royal opera house was par excellence... now i don't feel so inclined as to be motivated enough to celebrate Dickens anymore... notably to boot there was that essay by Milan Kundera.... as any continental european: not much of english literary adventures is given much thought: it appeal to the everyman but... that's my problem too... Shakespeare is great... when recited... not when read... you require good acting to appreciate shakespeare... a stand-alone dynamic of me: reader of Shakespeare? it's not a selling point... it doesn't feel right! shakespeare? isn't that a household noun akin to chair... hammer... why would it need a capital S(igma): to focus on... what... exactly? shakespeare, hammer, nail, towel... fridge-freezer... fork... muhammad ibn abdullah ibn abd al-muttalib... hey-zeus ben josephus... flour... cheese... i was going to enjoy the pickwick papers to the end but then the disclaimer that it's an imitation don quixote tale... and suddenly the fire - of eagerness... became a stalemate of cinders and stealthy coals... no, clearly the milan kundera essay didn't help either: who would want to reread don quixote: i know some people do reread books... i don't understand my grandmother in that respect... or... i remember when it school we were governed by repetitions of rubric... i hope: prose is where allowances for voyeurism / exhibitionism come to the fore... third party details summoned... that sort of "thing"... but of course i wanted something original to come to the fore... a proverb... it might be persian but it might be absolutely original from circa the baltic region: in between all that's west and russia... a corridor of peoples and nations that... given the greenwich mean time would have to incorporate Greece... and most probably Egypt... and Israel... it reads: all in capital to escape this myopia claustrophobia fudge of paragraph: BETTER A SPARROW IN YOUR HAND, THAN A DOVE UPON YOUR ROOF... years later a proverb would have to be disguised in cosmopolitan spreschen by some "****" of a bachelor... with his 'categorical imperative'... ah... a proverb isn't... that? i like the nuances of proverbs... blindly walking to metaphors... or not expecting a rigidity of life dictated by the already creasing formality language tools: dear sir, yours faithfully vs. yours sincerely... ms. vrs. mrs. informally email: hello! ****-wit! rather than... penned to paper and carrier pigeon bound... stamp! stamp! lick! dear... besides... as you get older and drinking is still a quenching of "thirst" you allude to nicknames for certain spirits: ***** becomes a headache of pravda (truth) while whiskey becomes ms. amber... beer is notoriously gods' ****... along with cider and mead... etc. what is a black cracovite... oh... you know... just an alternative to a tequila shot i invented hearing the story about... once upon a time in cracow... it was snowing... it was snowing a soot-esque sort of snow... the lonely chimney of aushwitz... wa puffing up in all its glory... in english it can translate to: well... what haven't i to thank for... or the jews... to thank for... that these lands are the remains of... at least children might be inclined to play games at the foundation of pyramids... we sure as hell did... near Ypres... in world war I trenches... i can't imagine what games children might invent in these... teutonic strongholds of totenkopfschwatzen... i would gladly send each brick by brick to the rightful owners of these camps: 1000 years from now it might be disguided that... under the auspicious rule of king Casimir's ghost these were "our" original intent... it ruins the land but preserves the memory of a people more invested in a newly established state of the Levant... yes... i need to figure out the paragraph: i need to revisit it more often: this slender-manning of a verse esque casccade doesn't aid me: i need to replica congestion and myopia and all that's cosmopolitan "nice"... what is a black cracovite... for years i wanted to land in the old capital when visit my grandparents... warsaw was always too far removed... like london already is... back toward glorifying Cracow and some elder supreme of the Piast dynasty... that this is written in english and not in native... well... it shouldn't have been written by an englishman with all his darwinistic / anglican / atheistic / rational / ayn rand borrowed sensibilities... a black cracovite as far as i can tell is... a spin on a tequila short... one requires smoking a cigarette... the ash is deposited on a licked space between the thumb and index finger... the ash is licked... a shot of ***** is made ready... what replaces the bite of a lemon is a grit of black pepper... yes... i have to invest in a paragraph more: for all its congestive phalanx remedies: i posit this the most redeeming: remedying... closure... it's far removed from airing out grievances when words cascade... now i should have concerns for contending... imitations... cheap-sell-offs of these words... outlandishly left to the open cringe of... simply-leash: i'll probably trail off on a ***-note, a falsetto... absolutely necessary... one cannot feed too many expectations without feeding those necessarily in pursuit of sustenance... be gone! countess bathory-veneer!

this is truly a welcome break from:

freeing all the drafts -
which i imagined to be equivalent, or rather:
the 2nd parallel of the original adjecent -

i imagined it would feel like:
releasing doves with laurel branches firmly
lodged in their beaks -
just as the waters of the flood would recede...

but it truly felt like:
the inversion of the diarrhoea-constipation
"paradox"... because it felt like both,
but never giving me a clue as to
what was more prominent -

the sharp edge of a knife -
or the horizon when the sky becomes
the sea far away....

i'm not ashamed to throw this onto the fore...
it happened to me once...
but on purpose...
i wanted to compensate marquis de sade's
antic in a brothel when he implored
the ******* to turn the crucifix into
a ***** into his decapitated precursor
of a mary antoinette... puppet...

profanity in images and all the other seances
of the senses...
i wouldn't go as far as to make the crucifix
profane... or do anything profane
with it...

only the words...
hic (est) mea corpus - hic (est) mea cruor...
this is my body - this is my blood...
and i am aware the mead is the gods' ****
when they're in a good mood - all... jolly...
and that beer is the gods' **** when
laughter hits a dry run...
and that ms. amber or whiskey is but:
the blood of the gods...

i had to corrupt it...
to prove to myself: that i am not a god...
it was quiet simple...
once upon a time i was drinking
a glass of wine...
and as you do... on a whim...
i decided to **** into it...
perhaps all that drinking prior would
give me something to elevate the palette
of exploration that was to come...

hmm... at least that sorts out
hic: mea cruor... *** urinae...
but back then i did that on purpose...
and if only this was a desert scenario...
and i would have to drink my own *****
to survive...
well... i just thought: here's to starving
from a lack of better imagery...

i will come unto some Horace in a minute...
i don't know how i managed to find
this citation - it's only very losely related...
and yes i will showcase another draft from
May of last year...

but today i was unsure...
did i leave yesterday's pepsi max bottle
with only the stale pepsi left...
or did i forget to do the lazy sly wee whizz
jumping out of bed in the middle of
the night...
but i already poured this "cocktail"
over two shots of whiskey...
and i'm hardly desperate but...
my original intention of alligning myself
to the profanity of the crucifix...
i had to somehow make profanity
of the wine...

since i am... thinking how to compensate
being satisfied with wine...
how the ancient world was always
satisfied with wine...
the story of the 3 ambers of the north...
the beer, the mead and the whiskey...
all in a varying degree...
but i will not bow before the blood of a god
that's so... diluted...
whiskey yes... that can be blood indeed...
otherwise it's down in the trench
with gods' **** - mead if they are in a good
mood... beer if they are in a talkative mood...

thank god i wasn't thinking:
better salvage those two shots of whiskey
and drink this cocktail of the "ultimate" surprise...
and apparently eating a woman's
placenta is good for you...
as was... apparently once... breastmilk...
funny... give me the milk of a cow or a goat
and i'll show you: one dislocated thumb...
one dislocated distal + intermediate phalange
from the index finger of the right hand's
proximal phalange... no broken bones...

knock-knock... who's there? touchwood superstition.

it's not as bad as it sounds...
stale, yes...
but i am also known for sometimes
performing the antithesis of drinking tequilla...
*****... i'll sprinkle some cigarette ash
onto my hand... lick it... take a shot of *****
then throw one or two black peppercorns into
my mouth for the crunch...
each drinker and his own myths... right?
i call that the black cracovite...
cracow being so close to aushwitz...
and once it snowed and they thought it was
snowing... sure... ash from the furnaces
of aushwitz... here's my ode to... the dead...
in a drink...

hell better a cracovite than a cracowite, white?
i mean: right? seriously: low hanging fruit,
the elephant's testicles...

i will never understand this whole veneration
of wine: in vino veritas...
these days wine is better drank by women
and castrated monarchs of the clergy...
i had to check... so i ****** in my holy grail...
and guess what didn't come out
the other end? gods' **** (beer and wine)
or gods' blood (whiskey and wine)...
just this stale, almost bland...
water with a pinch of grape that has been
left to sit in a puddle on some
industrial estate in dagenham enjoying
the ripe downpouring of chemicals
that leave it with a rainbow of diluted
petroleum...

akin to: try shoving that sort of doughnut
into this kind of pile of ****...
not that i would...
but i have also been prone to test
99.9% spirits... or 96% absinthe...
with a locust mummified in the bottle's neck...
from Amsterdam...

i had to rethink: why become engaged...
when chances are...
to the displeasure of someone who read:
but never bought my work...
the self-editorial process...
the self-publishing process could be...
guillotined on a whimsical constipation
of a "dear reader"...
as it might happen...

again... Horace and the perfect example
of poetry with conversational overtones...
poetry as prosaic...
my god... paper was expensive back in old
Horace's days... surely you would need
something spectacular to write:
like a psilocybin trip account word for word:
wrong!
a certain don juan said to a certain
carlos castaneda: don't bring back words from
such experiences...
but of course: they did...
upon once upon a time loving the beatniks...
i started to abhor them...
getting drunk and smoking "something"
is one thing... exposing the altars of solipsism
of such experiences: words intact...
is a profanity...
each dream is individually curated
to the dreamer... the introduction of words
to relate back... for some next be disciple...
the "drugs" / portals of escapism are already
contaminated...

why wouldn't i: even if these are only
objective recounts of an experience?
perhaps because... they are subjectivelly null...
there are only the comparable heights of Gideon...
such experiences are best: kept to each individual's
right to enjoy... a freedom of thought...
and of silence...
each keeps a secret...
but what secret is left?
when the objective parameters have already
been stated?
i see no point... better down and finding
it at the end of a bottle...
or... ******* into a glass of wine
and drinking it...

they have been contaminated by words that
have been retrieved from such experiences
that (a) no one should talk about...
(b) surprise! the objective reality already
being stated as altered...
am i going to a ******* cinema with my body...
or am i going to a surprise
gallery with my thought?
doesn't matter... word contamination...
bigmouth struck his final last time!
at least the remains is what gives me
the labyrinth... the blood the **** you name
it the three sisters amber... for all i care...
it's readily available: make do...
with what's already been given.

me? i drink for that very special date...
monday 9 march 2020...
when all the orthodox jews get drunk...
that's one of those celebrations i wouldn't mind
being a part of... purim, festival of Lots,
funny... that period of history...
the Persian aspect of the hebrews...
never made it to the big screen...
seeing modern day Iran as day-old Persia
in muslim garbs...
we're still only seeing the: African adventure...
perhaps once the dust has settled...
we will get the Persian installement...
and then... oh... **** it...
we're all in it for the long run...
then when christianity is no longer useful...
the Roman bit of history...
and how the hebrews conspired with the greeks...
2000 years later we'll probably see
some prince of egypt cartoon movie
of the pristine romance and a mention of germany...
not yet... ****'s still to ripe to entertain
the universal child and children...
no screen adaptation from "their" time in Persia...
songs... we have songs!
Verdi's Nabucco - the chorus...
perhaps only in song from Persia and always
with movies and hieroglyphs when from Egypt...

but the festivity... of course! i'll celebrate...
cf. though... Puccini's coro a bocca chiusa -
the humming chorus...
before the band enigma... i am pretty sure my mother
would crank up the volume to at least
one of these songs... should they come on the radio...
i'm still to hear christopher young's:
something to think about - to be on air...
and to also be treated as a piece of classical music...
if wojciech kilar's dracula soundtrack can be treated
as classical music... what's wrong with a little
bit of hellraiser?!

perhaps, "again" is this desecration of the sacred not,
simply hanging in the background,
all, the, ******, time?
who is to celebrate wine giving it a god's blood
status in sips? one is expected to somehow become
drunk on the passion!
no one is here for crumbs of sips!
first they came for the loaf of bread...
and said you should fast and eat only a crumb...
then they came for the bottle of wine...
and said you should abstain and drink only a sip...
then they came for *** and by then
vatican was a monaco with better tax protections...

it's an investement: having to **** into a glass
of wine you're about to drink...
worse... you accidently "forgot" about
******* into some left-over pepsi max
and you're making yourself a cocktail
with one of the graeae ambers - 2x -
and you wonder: is this the proper state
of carbonated water, stale?
but i'm hardly going to bash the crucifix...
i'm here for the words...

the... transfiguration of the wine into blood...
and i say of my gods:
and here is their **** - beer and mead...
and here's their blood: the three graeae ms. ambers...
see no: clearer? no... happier?

i will get onto ancient roman poetics
with its conversational overtones in a minute!
first we have to settle the sacraments!
the metaphors and the sacraments!
i have no ivar the boneless claim of god...
season 6? to be honest...
i'd rather watch an english soap opera...
at least the intricacy of the plot remains...
even though it has been recycled
so many times...

i can't **** out the gods' ***** even if it was
stale beer... or ideal mead...
as i can't leisure a Seneca's bath filled
with the blood of the immortals...
problem solved... "problem":
as if it ever was...

why, Horace? a very short rhetorical retort:
if Dante had his Virgil...
why can i have my Horace, as guide?
again... what Roman poet could venture for
ambitions among the myths -
or extend his "consciousness"
to devastate the land and become
the mad Xerxes wanting the waves
of a sea whipped into submission?
why, Horace? if Dante could have his Virgil...

poetry... at least among the roman poets
there's no boxed in a box "without" a "box"...
the conversational overtones are ripe...
the almost complete lack of
character dimensions... beside their dimensions
from anecdotes...

to difuse wine, to desecrate the hic mea cruor...
**** in it!
then drink it...
or have one of my antithesis of a tequilla surprise
with me...
smoke a cigarette... drop some ash on the lick-part
of the space between the thumb
and the index metacarpal... lick it...
follow it with a shot of *****...
then throw some black peppercorns
into the hades of your gob
and we've arrived at the black cracovite...

and also the day when the orthodox jews
recant their story of their time
in Persia... the festivity of Lots...
when they become blind drunk and pretend to
have the sort of alcohol intolerence as
the Japanese... 1 shot! just 1 shot:
and hey! they throw their kippahs in
the air and we can all dance the ukranian 'opak!

looks good to me!
but only looks good...
when there's this plump drunk playing the accordion:
i.e. me,
and there's the sort of adrew rieu directing
an upcoming crescendo of a poliushko polie...
and we can all leave the auditorium
feeling, less than russophobic...
and then i can be told...
you young to be old yet still
profane pan-siberian peasant root!
indo-european leftover!
well... at least then i have been allowed
the scrap i'm supposed to see
before i showcase my *****, frost riddled fangs!
of the lesser wolf that i am:
as a rabid dog!

since the crescendo will come...
what better fathom of it...
esp. just beside a cemetery... twirling to the music...
ear-plugs out seancing my time in a grand
orchestral hall... plucked from the ears...
the crescendo is coming...
but... plucked... the orchestra of buffalo-sized
snowflakes... and... the worst kind of ballet...
a male soloist... doing his crazy
ukranian folk... maestro! the music never ever
dies! even in the silence of the universe!
however micro- or macro- this theatre will take
form... the music remains playing: uninterrupted!

but the snow was there,
the "ballerina" was also there...
the night was there,
the music was there -
albeit no grand orchestral hall -
couldn't ask for a better canvas
than a cemetery -
and all the heart's content!
comparative "literature"
to love like a muslim...
or to love like a sparrow...
or to love with a grudge like a crow...
mind you; site note...
i have been many a pigeons attempt
fornication unabashed...
i've never seen two crows attempt it...
perhaps they do "it" in the night
and never in the open?

crows... pedantic priests of the kingdom...
and where the widower king
and the widow queen among the swans?
where i and you will have probably left them...
admiring a family of ducks...

as asked by the serpent of the swan...
you and me of the same birth in a Fabergé egg...
me with serpentine spine...
while you: with a crooked neck?
silly... it really is...
of a being.... that was once
a t-rex roar... now a pickled brain
in pickle jar... boasting about being...
pure spine and tingles and...
the better part of what... becomes the mammalian
hibernation...
hibernating "hibernating" upon the
impetus of digestion...
a serpent would ask a swan about
a crooked neck?

because what would a **** sapeins look toward,
as he is always prone to to look elsewhere?
if not to borrow the fixed, rigid ontology
of other animals?
i better from the birds, solely...
the swans and the crows...
perhaps the fox...
rarely something that has lent itself
to being curated by man's leash and grip...
collective the known herd...
otherwise the refined bonsai tigers...
perhaps the fish without a knowledge
of a tide or a wave...

i call a dog the noble friend,
the swan the sombre monogamist...
the crow the priest...
the furry spider one's own reflection
dealing with aracnophobia...
the snake the old "say-what?"
or that pickled spine with a brain
the worth of brine juices...
the extinguished remnant
of a dinosaur's toothache... or some
transcendental exploration
of the carpals of the wrist
extending into the length of a spine...

i'm not going to cry over this one...
skål!
i feel disinhibited from writing a memorandum!
slàinte!
gasoline to the peddle and... off... we, go!

i am bound to get this translaton right...
at some point of hinging-on... i.e. beginning with...
and most probably at the opposite end
of having to finish...
hence "open bracket"... prefix-
and -suffix allowance given the archeological
excavation began with:

-seu pila velox molliter austerum studio
fallente laborem, seu te discus agit, pete cedentem
aera disco: *** labor extuderit fastidia, siccus,
inanis sperne cibum vilem; nisi Hymettia mella
Falerno ne biberis diluta. foris est promus,
et atrum defendens piscis hiemat mare: *** sale
panis latrantem stomachum bene leniet. unde putas
aut qui partum? non in caro nidore voluptas summa,
sed in te ipso est. tu pulmentaria quaere
sudando: pinguem vitiis albumque neque ostrea
nec scarus aut poterit peregrina iuvare lagois.
vix tamen eripiam, posito pavone velis quin
hoc potius quam gallina tergere palatum,
corruptus vanis rerum, quia veneat auro
rara avis et picta pandat spectcula cauda:
tamquam ad rem attineat quidquam.
num vesceris ista, quam laudas, pluma?
cocto num adest honor idem?
carne tamen quamvis distat nil, hac magis illam
inparibus formis deceptum te petere esto:
unde datum sentis, lupus hic Tiberinus
an alto captus hiet? pontisne inter iactatus
an amnis ostia sub Tusci?
laudas, insane, trilibrem mullum,
in singula quem minuas pulmenta necesse est.
ducit te species, video: quo pertinet ergo proceros
odisse lupos? quia scilicet illis maiorem natura modum
dedit, his breve pondus: ieiunus raro stomachus volgaria
-temnit.

it's translated, isn't it? no
stefan gołębiewski or no 1980 warsaw...
is to know...

- nec meus hic sermo est, sed quae praecepit Ofellus:
these are not my words, this said the simpleton
Ofellus - neither of which of us is a laurel-leaf
adorned Orpheus...

that via a living "game": stoking up an appetite
with this entertainment the appetite increaes...
as does one health...

sorry... pagans... bloodthirty people...
trouble with the translation...
apparently the mud slinging
***** and bricks are nothing new...

or when you "minus" the disk,
litter the distance, head with the wind into
competition!
after hardships of the body is good and
the meal is simple -
(apparently all of this is still "connected",
scratch of the ol' 'ed and we're fine...
we're ******* sailing!)
Falern will not hurt "us"...
seasoned by honey from Hymettis,
before the entré. Safaz left,
the sea rumbles, the zephyr of fish it protects,
storm, fishing made unsafe;
stomach grumbles, bread with salt:
excuisite; you do not have any better! why?
taste does not reside in the scent of dishes,
but in your self alone.
toil merely increases appetite's presence.
he who over-eats, will not know the taste
of an oyster, nor a turbot, nor chickpeas,
the northern bird.
perceptions take the scalp of the mountain
above the actual taste of the dishes
(one might scalp... but never eat the scalp)...
you will not take a chicken onto a tooth,
when you are given a peacock,
you will trust your delusion:
a rare bird, worth its own weight of gold,
a most rarified tail, how it sparkles
with subtle hues!
as if the tail were to lead -
and there was no head to be found!
do you allow yourself to judge the hue
of the feathers as precursor for the adjecctive:
that's it's "also" tasty? the meat, of course?
the old - judge a book by its cover...
is the oven baked... also as delicious / beautiful?
chicken meat... or peacock meat?
almost without difference.
therefore: light... albeit...
although only vanity lures the peacock
(to be compared to a poultry)...
let's go further... i want to know: after what
do you recognise this, that a pike
with its gaping mouth was left:
from the sea... or from the Tiber fished?
somewhere among bridges... or from some
conrete estuary? idiot-kin of the surname whim...
you admire a three-pound mullet!
do you take size... for the gauge of all measure?
when you... cut the bell?
then why... why... with disgrace
do you demand in appreciation:
elongating pikes!
evidently nature: this greater gave the proper
measure... and with it: the lesser weight -
an empty stomach will rarely -
being fed a simple thing - despise -
what is...

an empty stomach - rarely despises -
simple matters.

how true... i was allowing myself the time
it would take to drink,
and translate into the vulgate...
but... from no better source...
and i am still to add to this one of my...
"freeing of the drafts"...

as promised...
"draft"...

- a most confiscated man -
no italics included...

.the original draft:

binges, worth the count
of a liter of whiskey
per night,
for a year, if not more...
become so...
so unspectular...

          the world either
screams, or yawns,
generally:
it exhaust a desire
to toss a coin,
agitate the vocab.,

a grand canyon
huddling
in the "depths" of
a glass of water...

baron science
comes with his rubric
of bore,
      and:
i find myself,
most idle:
while the world
orientates
itself in keeping
itself busy,
bothersome,
always the prime concern,

the ant-colony coup,
the:
i always find friends
in the orientations
of an empty glass,
but prior to:

i drink
before no altar,
no mirror,
no confidante...

    pure flesh revels itself
in a blank's worth
of prior to dictum's
  allowance of, a page...

bothersome
the knot of the pretentious
anti- in scold of
the passing fancy:
expression...

            poker charm
of a love's affair...

_

i sometimes entertain myself
with ancients proverbs,
one slavic proverb reads:
better a sparrow in your hand
than a dove on your roof...

what, could, possibly be,
the interpretation?
care for the small joys in
your possession,
than, for the peace of your household,
which is, on the roof,
but not in your hands...

if i were paid? would i be more
honest?
probably not...
        what i see, is what needs
to be seen...
  em... simple pleasures talk...
once upon a time,
donning long hair, implied
you were a mosher...
a metal-head...
    now? three days +,
long hair, and you're not a
grunge fanatic?
  trans-, etc.?

  a man of simple pleasures,
i know what long hair,
jealousy, associated with
putting it in a french braid,
does to a camel jockey ego...
ruins and ruins as far as the eyes
can see...
    he replicates...
he grows his hair long...
at the same time boasting about
haivng a premature beard...
then you grow a beard yourself...
you start fiddling with it...
****, ***** on my face...
and then...
the "question" of a girlfriend
flies out of the window...
i'm happy with a beard,
thank you, very much,
i don't, exactly want to wish upon
myself, a female, company...

*** protest all you want...
the *** differences between men
and women, to my sort of understanding,
are, unrepairable...
    they were, never,
bound, to being, repaired...
savvy?
            i take my route,
a woman took her route...
  we're even...
              
      since what can only frighten a freed
woman, beside a monarch,
a free man?
                  a man with...
a gamble...
        i am a man with a gamble...
i don't like being told what
to be, or what to think...
like any man,
and like any man:
i don't like being forced
ownership over a being:
that can share my sense of freedom...
so...
    i find myself,
thrilled with relief,
at now having to answer to
a woman's subjugation...
like a woman, and, i have learned
from women: i like being
my objective's self...
rather than a "self" made subject...

i like that: thank you...
i can start feedings the pigs and the peasant
the diatribe life, and lie,
of: there being an existential cricis,
a need to reproduce...
and i, and i am, being demeaning
in this, way, for a justified reason...

once the peasants attack you:
you attack, the peasants...
you demean them in the same way
they demeaned you...

once upon a time i thought:
greater good came from the number
of innocents being salvaged
than for the few great of grand bearing
being salvaged...
even if bound to an ill will:
an ill command,
of a will, predisposed to pretend
actions of the blind...
but now i see...

  the many: if beside fulfilling
their petty deeds,
having to stand outside of those,
petty deeds,
  have ambitions equivalent
to their emotions...
            akin to something worth,
pity, akin to something
worth: as little as a rat's heartbeat...
petty, primitive bull-*******...
and all the amount of sorrow,
or pity,
or mercy...
              that, these, ******* allow...
are worth the same response
Pontius Pilate gave...
      there isn't enough of water,
in this world,
to wash my hands, clean,
of these people...
  even if innocent blood plagues
them,
    not enough waters have run their
due course,
to... release me from the indentation
of memory upon my mind...
and i am plagued by an elephant's
memory...
        we've reached the conclusion
of: some people...
  just do not see an insult,
            past the insult's eloquence!

i am a most conflicted man,
i binge watched vikings
for a while now,
and right now, i'm ready for
an extraction of what i have learned...

believe me: i am not someone
who has the sort of ego-presence
to fate myself in the role
of the protagonist...
    i'm too pedantic to have to
market my body and deeds,
for the fates tio see,
and history to ascribe fame unto me...

even homer was off too war
with troy,
  and blessed he became...

because? time morphs,
the longer something is kept,
the more, "unreal" is becomes,
a fairy-tale...
esp. now, with the onslaught
of journalism...
two things in this world
are insomniac,
money never sleeps,
and, now, apparently,
journalism doesn't sleep either:
well, given its ******
bed-fellow of political liars...
why should it?

            Rolo... a semi-minor character...
but i feel his angst at the already
fervent dichotomy,
(dichotomy, modern variety variant
of schizoid-affective...
or bilingual in turn)...

            music...
                    all these modły...
gesticulations of prayer,
phantom conjuring,
              lunatics with candles
at high-noon...
                  i am fated by music,
i am perverted by music,
i am swayed by music...
who is the god, patron,
of music?
who is the angel (demi-god),
patron of music?
        i do not seek the highest
influencer...
the minor one...

  when Archangel Sandalphon
met St. Cecilia...
but as such, i am, conflicted...
even though, this is the first time
i have heard of Sandalphon...

Rome, never reached my peoples,
the Vikings did...
  weren't the ugly vikings the founders
of Kiev?
  so they must have passed via
the Polen (field) land, no?

feelings are not important,
facts don't care about your feelings...
granted...
but i'm not hear for facts,
contra, feelings,
i'm here for the rivers...
what i feel, what my heart yearns for,
needs to attain an equilibrium
with my mind...
for that: i need to clarify my feelings,
to hush my heart, silence it,
in order to listen to my mind,
and the mind, needs to feed into
heaving the heart: to do,
what, the heart, desires,
autonomous to what the heart
"thinks", is right...
                    that's how it was forver
going to work...
consolidated...
and yes, i much envy the punctuation
of king Ecgberht,
a man of cunning: much admired...
abstract thinker...
        and a reality...
        pun-ctu-a-tion...
the delivery of one's speech...
  much admired, as much as...
                the crude brawl possession...
the chief protagonist of the story?
as important as is: the required from
Atlas... burden upon burden...
a man burdened with the illusion
of freedom...

so why am i conflicted,
but becoming less and less so?
    it was always the music...

songs...

          chavelier, mult estes guariz...
wardruna - helvegen...
          da pacem domine...
            agni parthene...

you know... there's much more beside
being a jazz enthusiast or
a classical music snob...
        there's folk... there's religious and pagan
chants...
if there's one thing to benefit from,
in terms of the Byzantine context...
the chants...
        let the barbarians do the thinking
from now on: you do the sing-along...
no people ever reinvented themselves
from an ancient glory...
  new blood had to come to the fore...

like today...
      i spoke with my father and my mother...
about the names of apples...
we must have talked for an hour,
we named so many lost "breeds" of apple...
nouns i will not write,
nouns i wish death to write down,
i want Samael to have,
beside the book of my deeds in hand,
i want him to have
my dictionary in hand,
my knowledge of the sacred script,
i want to listen as he recites me the words
i've used,
notably today's conversation
            about the many types of apples...
e.g.: shogun apples...
            kox...
                    szare renety...
          papierówki...
                    marabella prunes...
that's all i ask of Samil.

p.s. after completing a walk in the woods:
a walk most adventurous in it being solitary...
i thank the forest for my solitude...
i started knocking on a dry piece of wood
still attached to the earth and roots...
in a forest: knocking on a tree...
i perceived the door
upon re-entering
traffic and hardened grit of road stuff...
let's replicate this...
me... you... alone...
let's both abide by needing
superstitious elevations of:
not truth alone... hardened and dim-witted
by objectivity...
truth tailored with metaphors...
all the nuance we can hope to find...
i need to... aloofness... solitude...
i need you, forest...
more than i care for noon
and proof of body that's this extension:
leash! shadow! noon!

                    smyč! cień! południe!

Kung ikaw pirme 'kong madamgohan;
ayaw nako'g pukawa pa.

Ang hapsay nga pagtulog ug paghulog
sa makatintal nimong mga mata.

Busa ayaw sa unta ko'g pukawa;
muhangyo'g pa ug pila ka minuto
para lang gayod makita ka.

Hoy ikaw ! Oo ikaw!
Ikaw na walang alam,
Ikaw na walang pakiramdam
Makinig ka! May sasabihin ako
Sana pakinggan mo kasi minsan lang 'to
Minsan lang ako gagawa ng isang tula,
na alay sa isang tulad mo.

Magsisimula ako sa umpisa
Sa mga panahong wala pa akong gaanong nadarama
Noong unang beses kitang nakilala
At unang beses ko ring nakita,
Kung paano ngumiti ang iyong mga mata
At kung paano ito kumislap
tulad ng mga tala Sa umaga
Idagdag mo pa yung magandang kurba ng iyong mga labi
At matamis **** mga ngiti
Na kay sarap pagmasdan
Na kay sarap titigan
Nung mga oras na yun,
Parang ayaw na kitang tigilan
Pero hindi. Saglit lang.
Ano to?
Uulit na naman ako sa isang siklo ng katangahan?
Hindi! Ayoko nang masaktan.
Ayoko nang masaktan ng paulit ulit
Pagod na kong makaranas ng sakit
At syempre,matitinding inggit
Kaya pinili kong itigil ang lahat
At pigilan ang nararamdaman
Nagtagumpay ako nung una
Pero kinalaunan?
nagpatuloy pa rin ang baliw kong puso
Kaya nga kapag nakikita ka na, puso'y napapalukso
Hinihiling na sana tumigil ang oras,
Para nanjan ka lang.
Pagkat ikaw lang ang tanging  lunas
Sa puso kong matinding lungkot ang dinaranas
Hinilhiling na sana wag ka nang lumisan pa
Dito ka lang sa harap ko.
Yun bang tititigan hanggang kelan ko gusto?
Pagmamasdan ang bawat paglabas nung dimples mo
Hihintaying kahit minsan,mapatingin ka rina pwesto ko
At kahit saglit, mapansin mo ako.
At alam mo ba?
Nagkaroon din ako ng dahilan sa pagpasok ng maaga
Hiahabol ko kasi yung pagkakataong makasabay kita sa pila
Syempre para ako yung unang makakita sayo
Sa ganung paraan feel ko nakalamang ako
Alam kong hindi pwede at walang pag - asa
Kaya sige. Hahayaan na kita sa kanila
Tahimik na lang kitang pagmamasdan mula sa malayo
At papanoorin ang magandang mga ngiti mo.
Sana dumating yung araw na hindi lang laging ikaw yung aking nakikita
Mula sa malayong lugar na pinagtatanawan ko sayo.
Alam kong matatapos din ang pantasyang ito.
Sana lang dumating agad yung panahon na yun.

Y aún así te voy a escribir algo.

aunque no quiera.

aunque no pueda.

porque eras frágil, y porque yo te ame como a nada.

the sea lived on you
in all lenguages
en todos los idiomas.

y albergabas una esperanza de esas que obligan a escribir bellas elegías

but you fade
in my hands
en mis manos.

tristemente/penosamente/vulgarmente

como se acaba una pila en un objeto que nadie usa

sin más ceremonias, sin nadie quien llore por ella

nadie lloró por ti mar embotellado

ni siquiera yo

I wonder if you felt something
sorrow or abandonment
or bitterness towards me

I don’t blame you
no te culpo.

enterré a tus hermanos en una ciudad extraña en los mausoleos de heroes desconocidos

lejos de su padre y de su madre

luego borré todo vestigio/todo sentimiento/todo signo

pero a ti

I will mourn you forever

porque fue mi error llevarte conmigo para exhibirte como quien lleva una medalla, como un trofeo

cuando no eras más que un estandarte de mi derrota.

Sa atubangan sa balay
Kita nagtagboay
Nagkita sa ilalom sa tulay
Didto ta nagdinasmagay
Ug didto gipatay
Hing uli nag-agaay

Pila kabulan ang hing labay
Kitang duha nag-iponay
Sud-an permi ang kamunggay
Hinay-hinay wa nay timplahay
Ug kitang duha nagpinistihay
Mas maayo pang magpinatyanay

Naguol si tatay
Kay giuli ko nimo sa balay
Sugod ato wa nata nag-ambatanay
Puro na ta bungulanay
Gawas sa siplatay
Ako nagmahay-mahay

Wa dyud nasayop si nanay
Mas maayo pa ang magbunlay
Naay matanom bisan gamay
Kaming tanan mangalipay
Kaysa sa mangilay
Kay naay katagbo sa tulay

Ako diay si Badiday
Apelido ko Diniay
Isog pagka pinay
Di kabalo mo tagay
Ang kusog mo kiay
Sa mga problemang lumalabay

Alto soy de mirar a las palmeras,
rudo de convivir con las montañas...
Yo me vi bajo y blando en las aceras
de una ciudad espléndida de arañas.
Difíciles barrancos de escaleras,
calladas cataratas de ascensores,
¡qué impresión de vacío!,
ocupaban el puesto de mis flores,
los aires de mis aires y mi río.

Yo vi lo más notable de lo mío
llevado del demonio, y Dios ausente.
Yo te tuve en el lejos del olvido,
aldea, huerto, fuente
en que me vi al descuido:
huerto, donde me hallé la mejor vida,
aldea, donde al aire y libremente,
en una paz meé larga y tendida.

Pero volví en seguida
mi atención a las puras existencias
de mi retiro hacia mi ausencia atento,
y todas sus ausencias
me llenaron de luz el pensamiento.

Iba mi pie sin tierra, ¡qué tormento!,
vacilando en la cera de los pisos,
con un temor continuo, un sobresalto,
que aumentaban los timbres, los avisos,
las alarmas, los hombres y el asfalto.
¡Alto!, ¡Alto!, ¡Alto!, ¡Alto!
¡Orden!, ¡Orden! ¡Qué altiva
imposición del orden una mano,
un color, un sonido!
Mi cualidad visiva,
¡ay!, perdía el sentido.

Topado por mil senos, embestido
por más de mil peligros, tentaciones,
mecánicas jaurías,
me seguían lujurias y claxones,
deseos y tranvías.

¡Cuánto labio de púrpuras teatrales,
exageradamente pecadores!
¡Cuánto vocabulario de cristales,
al frenesí llevando los colores
en una pugna, en una competencia
de originalidad y de excelencia!
¡Qué confusión! ¡Babel de las babeles!
¡Gran ciudad!: ¡gran demontre!: ¡gran puñeta!
¡el mundo sobre rieles,
y su desequilibrio en bicicleta!

Los vicios desdentados, las ancianas
echándose en las canas rosicleres,
infamia de las canas,
y aun buscando sin tuétano placeres.
Árboles, como locos, enjaulados:
Alamedas, jardines
para destuetanarse el mundo; y lados
de creación ultrajada por orines.

Huele el macho a jazmines,
y menos lo que es todo parece
la hembra oliendo a cuadra y podredumbre.

¡Ay, cómo empequeñece
andar metido en esta muchedumbre!
¡Ay!, ¿dónde está mi cumbre,
mi pureza, y el valle del sesteo
de mi ganado aquel y su pastura?

Y miro, y sólo veo
velocidad de vicio y de locura.
Todo eléctrico: todo de momento.
Nada serenidad, paz recogida.
Eléctrica la luz, la voz, el viento,
y eléctrica la vida.
Todo electricidad: todo presteza
eléctrica: la flor y la sonrisa,
el orden, la belleza,
la canción y la prisa.
Nada es por voluntad de ser, por gana,
por vocación de ser. ¿Qué hacéis las cosas
de Dios aquí: la nube, la manzana,
el borrico, las piedras y las rosas?
¡Rascacielos!: ¡qué risa!: ¡rascaleches!
¡Qué presunción los manda hasta el retiro
de Dios! ¿Cuándo será, Señor, que eches
tanta soberbia abajo de un suspiro?
¡Ascensores!: ¡qué rabia!  A ver, ¿cuál sube
a la talla de un monte y sobrepasa
el perfil de una nube,
o el cardo, que de místico se abrasa
en la serrana gracia de la altura?
¡Metro!: ¡qué noche oscura
para el suicidio del que desespera!:
¡qué subterránea y vasta gusanera,
donde se cata y zumba
la labor y el secreto de la tumba!
¡Asfalto!: ¡qué impiedad para mi planta!
¡Ay, qué de menos echa
el tacto de mi pie mundos de arcilla
cuyo contacto imanta,
paisajes de cosecha,
caricias y tropiezos de semilla!

¡Ay, no encuentro, no encuentro
la plenitud del mundo en este centro!
En los naranjos dulces de mi río,
asombros de oro en estas latitudes,
oh ciudad cojitranca, desvarío,
sólo abarca mi mano plenitudes.
No concuerdo con todas estas cosas
de escaparate y de bisutería:
entre sus variedades procelosas,
es la persona mía,
como el árbol, un triste anacronismo.
Y el triste de mí mismo,
sale por su alegría,
que se quedó en el mayo de mi huerto,
de este urbano bullicio
donde no estoy de mí seguro cierto,
y es pormayor la vida como el vicio.

He medio boquiabierto
la soledad cerrada de mi huerto.
He regado las plantas:
las de mis pies impuras y otras santas,
en la sequía breve de mi ausencia
por nadie reemplazada. Se derrama,
rogándome asistencia,
el limonero al suelo, ya cansino,
de tanto agrio picudo.
En el miembro desnudo de una rama,
se le ve al ave el trino
recóndito, desnudo.

Aquí la vida es pormenor: hormiga,
muerte, cariño, pena,
piedra, horizonte, río, luz, espiga,
vidrio, surco y arena.
Aquí está la basura
en las calles, y no en los corazones.
Aquí todo se sabe y se murmura:
No puede haber oculta la criatura
mala, y menos las malas intenciones.

Nace un niño, y entera
la madre a todo el mundo del contorno.
Hay pimentón tendido en la ladera,
hay pan dentro del horno,
y el olor llena el ámbito, rebasa
los límites del marco de las puertas,
penetra en toda la casa
y panifica el aire de las huertas.

Con una paz de aceite derramado,
enciende el río un lado y otro lado
de su imposible, por eterna, huida.
Como una miel muy lenta destilada,
por la serenidad de su caída
sube la luz a las palmeras: cada
palmera se disputa
la soledad suprema de los vientos,
la delicada gloria de la fruta
y la supremacía
de la elegancia de los movimientos
en la más venturosa geografía.

Está el agua que trina de tan fría
en la pila y la alberca
donde aprendí a nadar. Están los pavos,
la Navidad se acerca,
explotando de broma en los tapiales,
con los desplantes y los gestos bravos
y las barbas con ramos de corales.
Las venas manantiales
de mi pozo serrano
me dan, en el pozal que les envío,
pureza y lustración para la mano,
para la tierra seca amor y frío.

Haciendo el hortelano,
hoy en este solaz de regadío
de mi huerto me quedo.
No quiero más ciudad, que me reduce
su visión, y su mundo me da miedo.

¡Cómo el limón reluce
encima de mi frente y la descansa!
¡Cómo apunta en el cruce
de la luz y la tierra el lilio puro!
Se combate la pita, y se remansa
el perejil en un aparte oscuro.
Hay az'har, ¡qué osadía de la nieve!
y estamos en diciembre, que hasta enero,
a oler, lucir y porfiar se atreve
en el alrededor del limonero.

Lo que haya de venir, aquí lo espero
cultivando el romero y la pobreza.
Aquí de nuevo empieza
el orden, se reanuda
el reposo, por yerros alterado,
mi vida humilde, y por humilde, muda.
Y Dios dirá, que está siempre callado.

Con una cuchara
arrancaba los ojos a los cocodrilos
y golpeaba el trasero de los monos.
Con una cuchara.

Fuego de siempre dormía en los pedernales,
y los escarabajos borrachos de anís
olvidaban el musgo de las aldeas.

Aquel viejo cubierto de setas
iba al sitio donde lloraban los negros
mientras crujía la cuchara del rey
y llegaban los tanques de agua podrida.

Las rosas huían por los filos
de las últimas curvas del aire,
y en los montones de azafrán
los niños machacaban pequeñas ardillas
con un rubor de frenesí manchado.

Es preciso cruzar los puentes
y llegar al rubor *****
para que el perfume de pulmón
nos golpee las sienes con su vestido
de caliente piña.

Es preciso matar al rubio vendedor de aguardiente
a todos los amigos de la manzana y de la arena,
y es necesario dar con los puños cerrados
a las pequeñas judías que tiemblan llenas de burbujas,
para que el rey de Harlem cante con su muchedumbre,
para que los cocodrilos duerman en largas filas
bajo el amianto de la luna,
y para que nadie dude de la infinita belleza
de los plumeros, los ralladores, los cobres y las cacerolas de las cocinas.

¡Ay, Harlem! ¡Ay, Harlem! ¡Ay, Harlem!
No hay angustia comparable a tus rojos oprimidos,
a tu sangre estremecida dentro del eclipse oscuro,
a tu violencia granate sordomuda en la penumbra,
a tu gran rey prisionero, con un traje de conserje.

Tenía la noche una hendidura y quietas salamandras de marfil.
Las muchachas americanas
llevaban niños y monedas en el vientre
y los muchachos se desmayaban en la cruz del desperezo.
Ellos son.
Ellos son los que beben el whisky de plata junto a los volcanes
y tragan pedacitos de corazón por las heladas montañas del oso.

Aquella noche el rey de Harlem con una durísima cuchara
arrancaba los ojos a los cocodrilos
y golpeaba el trasero de los monos.
Con una cuchara.
Los negros lloraban confundidos
entre paraguas y soles de oro,
los mulatos estiraban gomas, ansiosos de llegar al torso blanco,
y el viento empañaba espejos
y quebraba las venas de los bailarines.

Negros, Negros, Negros, Negros.

La sangre no tiene puertas en vuestra noche boca arriba.
No hay rubor. Sangre furiosa por debajo de las pieles,
viva en la espina del puñal y en el pecho de los paisajes,
bajo las pinzas y las retamas de la celeste luna de cáncer.

Sangre que busca por mil caminos muertes enharinadas y ceniza de nardo,
cielos yertos, en declive, donde las colonias de planetas
rueden por las playas con los objetos abandonados.

Sangre que mira lenta con el rabo del ojo,
hecha de espartos exprimidos, néctares de subterráneos.
Sangre que oxida el alisio descuidado en una huella
y disuelve a las mariposas en los cristales de la ventana.

Es la sangre que viene, que vendrá
por los tejados y azoteas, por todas partes,
para quemar la clorofila de las mujeres rubias,
para gemir al pie de las camas ante el insomnio de los lavabos
y estrellarse en una aurora de tabaco y bajo amarillo.

Hay que huir,
huir por las esquinas y encerrarse en los últimos pisos,
porque el tuétano del bosque penetrará por las rendijas
para dejar en vuestra carne una leve huella de eclipse
y una falsa tristeza de guante desteñido y rosa química.

Es por el silencio sapientísimo
cuando los camareros y los cocineros y los que limpian con la lengua
las heridas de los millonarios
buscan al rey por las calles o en los ángulos del salitre.

Un viento sur de madera, oblicuo en el ***** fango,
escupe a las barcas rotas y se clava puntillas en los hombros;
un viento sur que lleva
colmillos, girasoles, alfabetos
y una pila de Volta con avispas ahogadas.

El olvido estaba expresado por tres gotas de tinta sobre el monóculo,
el amor por un solo rostro invisible a flor de piedra.
Médulas y corolas componían sobre las nubes
un desierto de tallos sin una sola rosa.

A la izquierda, a la derecha, por el sur y por el norte,
se levanta el muro impasible
para el topo, la aguja del agua.
No busquéis, negros, su grieta
para hallar la máscara infinita.
Buscad el gran sol del centro
hechos una piña zumbadora.

El sol que se desliza por los bosques
seguro de no encontrar una ninfa,
el sol que destruye números y no ha cruzado nunca un sueño,
el tatuado sol que baja por el río
y muge seguido de caimanes.

Negros, Negros, Negros, Negros.

Jamás sierpe, ni cebra, ni mula
palidecieron al morir.
El leñador no sabe cuándo expiran
los clamorosos árboles que corta.
Aguardad bajo la sombra vegetal de vuestro rey
a que cicutas y cardos y ortigas turben postreras azoteas.
Entonces, negros, entonces, entonces,
podréis besar con frenesí las ruedas de las bicicletas,
poner parejas de microscopios en las cuevas de las ardillas
y danzar al fin, sin duda, mientras las flores erizadas
asesinan a nuestro Moisés casi en los juncos del cielo.

¡Ay, Harlem, disfrazada!
¡Ay, Harlem, amenazada por un gentío de trajes sin cabeza!
Me llega tu rumor,
me llega tu rumor atravesando troncos y ascensores,
a través de láminas grises
donde flotan tus automóviles cubiertos de dientes,
a través de los caballos muertos y los crímenes diminutos,
a través de tu gran rey desesperado
cuyas barbas llegan al mar.

Enamorar nunca me gustó. En-amor, como
si fuera un lugar al que llegar. Amor, el nombre de uno de esos países que el planisferio no le dedica más de dos gotas de tinta, jugando a la escondida entre isla e isla. O Amor, una escultura tallada a mano en la cima de una montaña solamente a un ferry, tres combinaciones de subte, un avión y medio y mil novecientos treinta kilómetros de donde yo estoy ahora. O Amor, lo que reseña tras reseña me prometió que es la mejor suite de este hotel. Una habitación a la que entro dejando los zapatos afuera, golpeando la puerta con dos nudillos y no más, asomando la cabeza como preguntando si puedo pasar o ya está ocupada (siempre esperando encontrarme a alguien cambiando las sábanas, al dueño mismo, a la huésped anterior que se llevó la llave de souvenir y vuelve cuando no hay nadie más que haga bulto para mantener la habitación llena).
Que si alguien más saca un pasaje de ida para ir al Amor y quedarse a vivir o si pasa de visita cada vez que tiene días de vacaciones, puede ser.
Yo nunca fui al Amor, nunca estuve en él, porque mi amor no tiene bandera ni llave ni cima.
Amor, el nombre de pila del cartero que espío desde mi ventana mientras se acerca a la puerta de la casa enfrente. El único Amor que conozco, que trabaja de ocho a cinco pero que no llega a tu puerta hasta las seis, porque en el medio se queda sin nafta, dobla en la esquina que no es, lee mal la dirección, duda de si tocar el timbre o hacer palmas, y que cuando le abrís la puerta te tiende una pila de sobres con mi letra. Amor,
el que te dice, hay una chica que te sigue escribiendo. No sabe hacer otra cosa.

Pila ka bulan ang gihulat na mutuyok,

akong paghulat kanimo,

Sama sa paghulat ko sa mga bituon,

Bituong hapsay na ang pagkatulog,

kuwang nalang kay ikaw ang mahulog,

Ang kainit sa buntag, ug ang kabugnaw sa gabii,

Naghulat sa kahangturan, kunus-a man ko nimo matagaan ug silbi?

ang mga minghoy na tuyok sa naghilak na bulan,

dili makaapas sa imong makidlatong dagan,

sa akong paghulat kanimo,

Kuhaon ko ang kidlat ug ihapak sa imong agtang na grabeng kasipat,

Wa nani lain padulngan, padung nako pagkabuang

Guniti ko, guniti ko’g tarung,

Kay murag kusog kusog baya akong pagkahagbong.

Ek Ehsas woh bhi hai
Aur ek Ehsas tu bhi hai
Woh todta hi chala ja raha hai
Tu jodta hi chala ja raha hai

(A feeling was that - which was him...
A feeling is that - which is you...
He kept on breaking
You kept on mending)

Woh kal ki meethi khushboo liye
Mere wujood ko tilmila raha hai
Tu aaj ke haseen waade ke saath
Kadam se Kadam badha raha hai

(He was using the fragrance of the sweet past
And making my existence shatter
You are here with me with a promise of today
Moving ahead with me walking hand in hand)


Woh khud parast apni marzi ke
Zakhm dhaaye ja raha hai
Tu hamdili se un zakhmon par
Pyar ka malham laga raha hai

(That self worshipper in his own will
Went on giving me wounds
You have only compassion to give
And are healing my painful wounds with your undying love)

Woh apne lafz zubaan pe meri
Rakh kar chalna chah raha hai
Tu honthon ki chuppi par meri
Man hi man muskaa raha hai

(He placed his words on my tongue
And made me say what he wanted to hear
You are happy with the silent curving of my lips
And your heart is contented with only my happiness)

Woh beete dinon ke safhon ko
Bhooli kitaab se chura raha hai
Tu dil pe gade hue lafzon ko
Rahat e jaam pila raha hai

(I can’t translate this very well...
He was stealing the pages of days gone by
From a book which was long forgotten
{And trying to make an impact by using matters which pained in the past}
You are nurturing the words of my heart
With nourishment of contentment and everlasting happiness)

Woh apne "ain" ke aaine mein
Tasweer purani dikha raha hai
Tu haath mera haathon mein liye
Naye rangon se Saja Raha hai. ..

(He showed in the mirror of his eyes a picture faded and eroded
You are taking my hand in yours and painting a picture full of beautiful pictures of life
{showing me the beautiful side of life})

Ek Ehsas woh bhi hai. ...
Aur Ek Ehsas tu bhi hai. ....

(Afeeling was that - which was him...
A feeling is that - which is you)

En la cúspide radiante
que el metal de mi persona
dilucida y perfecciona,
y en que una mano celeste
y otra de tierra me fincan
sobre la sien la corona;
en la orgía matinal
en que me ahogo en azul
y soy como un esmeril
y central y esencial como el rosal;
en la gloria en que melifluo
soy activamente casto
porque lo vivo y lo inánime
se me ofrece gozoso como pasto;
en esta mística gula
en que mi nombre de pila
es una candente cábala
que todo lo engrandece y lo aniquila;
he descubierto mi símbolo
en el candil en forma de bajel
que cuelga de las cúpulas criollas
su cristal sabio y su plegaria fiel.
¡Oh candil, oh bajel, frente al altar
cumplimos, en dúo recóndito,
un solo mandamiento: venerar!
Embarcación que iluminas
a las piscinas divinas:
en tu irisada presencia
mi humildad se esponja y se anaranja,
porque en la muda eminencia
están anclados contigo
el vuelo de mis gaviotas
y el humo sollozante de mis flotas.
¡Oh candil, oh bajel: Dios ve tu pulso
y sabe que anonadas
en las cúpulas sagradas
no por decrépito ni por insulso!
Tu alta oración animas
con el genio de los climas.
Tú conoces el espanto
de las islas de leprosos,
el domicilio polar
de los donjuanescos osos,
la magnética bahía
de los deliquios venéreos,
las garzas ecuatoriales
cual escrúpulos aéreos,
y por ello ante el Señor
paralizas tu experiencia
como el olor que da tu mejor flor.
Paralelo a tu quimera,
cristalizo sin sofismas
las brasas de mi ígnea primavera,
enarbolo mi júbilo y mi mal
y suspendo mis llagas como prismas.
Candil, que vas como yo
enfermo de lo absoluto,
y enfilas la experta proa
a un dorado archipiélago sin luto;
candil, hermético esquife:
mis sueños recalcitrantes
enmudecen cual un cero
en tu cristal marinero,
inmóviles excelsos y adorantes.

Juan! Juan! Sa diin na ang palangga ko nga Juan?
May dapat vlah ikaw mahibaluan
Ako sa imo may kinahanglan

Simple malang ang akon ginapangayo
Nga ako ang pagapilion mo
Pila ang gusto mo nga ihatag ko?

Sige don…indi timo maghinulsol kaja ah
Para man ja sa imo ikaayo kg ikasadya
Di vlah gusto mo nga mag-umwad ka?

Indi ka? Sige guys, kamo na bahala sa iya
Himua ang tanan para siya akon makuha
Ang dungog, pag-apin kg boto niya

Hahahah! Juan! Juan… Akon ang boto mo!

-sometime in 02/2016
(Dumarao)
*for Lit. Day 2016

O da, bila sam bas debelo dete u jednom periodu detinjstva. Moji bas nisu bili takticni, umesto prvo da me posalju u zagorje a posle na more da se malo istrosim plivanjem, oni bi me prvo vodili na more a onda davali babi.A tamo u zagorju u jednom selu blizu varazdinskih toplica sve domace. Vrhnje sa sirom, mlad kackavalj baba pravila od komsijskog kravljeg mleka koje sam inace pila svakog dana i to tek pomuzenog sa temperaturom krave. Domaca jaja, domaci hleb, slaninice, kobasice, razne pite i slatke i slane pecene u sporetu na drva. Iz baste paradajza, krastavca i paprika. A davali su mi i da popijem po malo vina domaceg koje je babin brat pravio i koje je stajalo u nekoliko bacvi u podrumu kuce, a koje su me cesto slali onako da povucem na crevo pa pretocim u flasu. Verujem da je mami bio sok kada bi me videla nakon mesec dana u promenjenom obliku, zapravo bila je besna na svekrvu poprilicno. Kod kuce bih uglavnom doruckovala ili vecerala sama za stolom, i to je bila prilika za mastu, a mastala sam da imam sestru ili brata. Napravila bih sendvic za sebe a i sendvic za imaginarno drustvo, naravno oba sendvica bi zavrsila u meni. S kim ti sada jedes? Rekli mi a da nisam ni pitala nego doslo samo po sebi na temu BG Kaze: "imamo dve sestre koje stalno dolaze ali ne pricaju".

*mh sep 2017