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Lxvi Jul 2022
we watch the new days estimate
of our certain ending date
gloom tycoons in our bedrooms
we sweep away then, with our brooms
the lingering woven webs
left behind by E-celebs
surely just one could never ****
but endless days will leave you ill
that which hurts can hold no candle
to yesterdays latest scandal
oh woe to earth for her bed made
on all the ***** we never gave
another day, another grave
forsake, fortake, and all for keeps
for smokes, for jokes, for he who reaps
no game won through inaction
simple math, no more subtraction
no name ones, few attractions
simple path, no more distractions
simplify, sublime, substantial
freeze and seize, they are financial
baba
#ba
Jeff Santana May 2015
Babalik pa ba?
Ako pa ba'y aasa?
Na ikaw ay babalik kapag ako ay nag-antay

Kay hirap tanggapin
Na ngayon ay hindi ka na sa akin
Nakasandal, nakatabi buong magdamagan hanggang mag umaga

Ipaliwanag mo kung bakit ba
Dahil ako ay umaasa pa
Na ika'y mahagkan, makayakap
Muling makausap
Bawat sandali

At kung makita kang kasama siya
'Di maiwasan na ako'y manghina
Magmamanhid ang katawan
Gulong-gulo na ang aking isipan

Babalik pa ba?
Alam mo namang ikaw lang ang aking iniisip
Mula pag gising at pag-sapit ng dilim

Tila suntok sa buwan
Hinahanap ka kung san-san
Na lang ako napapadpad ngunit di ka parin matagpuan

Babalik pa ba?
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
You choked on chariots raw. Red egg yolk suppers, churned of the milk oceans this morning you kept.
The lintel of stone turned toward dusk. Some great dynasty of submissive spirits catering your morning
Out on a cart of muse, forms of heaven cannot even hear you. You are a soporific knot in the tale of your Old womanhood. In this infinite Tuesday morning your small black eyes, like an oil tanker toppling over The intense azure sea- shipwrecked, and lost.

Departing from your childhood you slurp Coca-Cola from a silver straw. From the corner store and inside Winter yawns. There is no face, only strikingly beautiful black hair. The body under you is at home in all
My hand's fingers have to fill. All the clothes that you could carry for the two-way adventure. There are
Never enough bubbles between your lips and the glass bottle you have. Only the score of the whistleblower. And the poor symphony you had prayed for into the dial-tone phone, the deep Wilderness, that stiff forever-ago budding from your coffee cup. Neurogenesis lifted from your Fingerprints and emblazoned into this lump of human ingenuity. The hopeless octave that cut us all short.    

Every short story that was left untold. There are the brief deaths recoiling in your spiritual architecture. The ****** of morphia has bourn me awake. Inside you are often unscathed, vanishing as some of Tonight's parts assemble you, on you blue is a beautiful color. The sweet retreat that gave you life or the bountiful deaths that counted you too cutely by your side. You are the sun in my black coat. Here is my sea, your sea, you'll see.
Written for Anna Farinola

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