the story of her skin allowed no man to use mouth or pen to immortalize her, in between the moon and dinnersteaks, there was no route that would lead her home there was no book that told, no poem that favored her, no mornings that gave justice to her complexion, no roses could compare no ballad could ever be sung to revive her thus, this was the story of her skin: untrue and unreliable, as...
She sought to write on water so that the sea could keep her stories safe so she went to the beach every Sunday and sat where the sand was fickle, where it was either thirsty or wet she would whisper to the wind through songs she made up in her head ‘I could be naked, I could be alright’ and the sea always spoke to her in little pebbles and hermit crabs
She had a poignantly vacant, vulnerable quality that made her a reflection of...– Andy Warhol on Edie Sedgwick
We run back and forth (Scene 2)
There was a thousand cigarette butts lying dead on the floor. Smoke replaces light in the evenings, the only markers for lips waiting to be kissed. Citizens run, counting money, counting the times they forgot their keys inside the refrigerator. Then all of them stop for a bum. No one denies another of a light. It’s a universal truth that our intimacies remain subtexted in every shared puff. The...
We run back and forth (Scene 1)
What about the puddles of water on the asphalt, arrogantly stepped on by business men, cursed at by women with high heels and tight skirts. Trickles of water are dragged along by leather shoes and wheels. All they do is wait to dry up. What ever happened to the song of the sky, falling slowly on days our trees become thirsty. Our weeks have gone cold, the sound of the city buses help us forget...
n. pl. jel·ly·fish 1. a. The romantic waves of its arms remind me of how dancers make love with a song. b. or how future lovers slowly meet in passing. You catch a glimpse of someone’s face and look away to contain the sudden intensity, look back. The face is gone. The image whispers to you in every other word you hear from passers-by. “Daffodil… Abruptly… Tip-toe… Tongue… Cake…” Till every...
I’m not a concept. Too many guys think I’m a concept or I complete them or I’m...– Oh my darling, Clementine
Place I’ve always misplaced things keys and books, and gadgets with the span of losing and finding stretched out for weeks at a time sometimes, I misplace people leaving them in the wrong places, or the wrong memories I saw you on a street smoking, Then I saw you on the rooftop of my old building, You said you liked smell of basil You were hiking with me to the top of Mt. Makiling, you were...
How can you ever disappoint me For a home, we had a tent made out of blankets. It was as raw as the way you grab my wrist in the middle of the crowd. Do not get lost. There was a bowl of prawns for lunch which made it easy to forget etiquette. Eventually the story of your skin played out along my fingertips like a ballad. Inside the tent you were immortal, leaving no room for pillow-talk. I...
Manila traffic is the culprit I rolled down the window to expose myself. The racing wind crept through my hair like how your fingers used to. Blinding headlights rushing towards me give me a migraine. I reach out for a pill that isn’t there. By instinct, I reach out only to touch the empty seat beside me. your skin was always so tender If I stay away from the reflex to touch, maybe it...
Whenever it rains, you will think of her -Neil...
“Dying is an art. Like everything else, I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I have a call.” ― Sylvia Plath, Ariel
And being so young and dipped in folly -Edgar...
there was a blank billboard outside the window. stacked in a field of uncut grass. blow the wind blows like how I exhale a long traffic of smoke. the wind blows through my hair, through the long afternoon made up of little words and a thousand gestures. on the bed, he was sleeping. I take off my clothes as it was a clouded atmosphere. I look out the window. I tap the cigarette with my finger,...
Ars Poetica Archibald MacLeish A poem should be palpable and mute As a globed fruit, Dumb As old medallions to the thumb, Silent as the sleeve-worn stone Of casement ledges where the moss has grown — A poem should be wordless As the flight of birds. * A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs, Leaving, as the moon releases Twig by twig the night-entangled trees, Leaving, as...