Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Mostly Done

the part of it
    that doesn't fit
      is filled with spite and wit

the part of what
    you do not shut
      is one who will get mad.

the part of who
   you do not shoo
     will come back in divorce.

then you the one who took the run
    will never own the sun.

Tuesday, July 05, 2016


They true when they fall through and they went fool to the you of moo.
They went shout out and the fool of trues, then they find out that they were new anew
They were bet at ass and felt through flame-blot eye. Then  they cue it in, and the sigh came high
And when you felt the down came out, and when we sat all through it out

You will be called to the Messiah and bend
Whatever felt we never could not send
To the will of the design and when of the way, and they told you bolt it in and find it all
Then the music would've that we couldn't have had.

You might never have had it when you took it all at book.
You say you don't care at the drop of a hook.
At the pin of a sin you take all it all in
Then the hustle of the fin of the lover of the wind

And it all came out fall and it all went it all.
Tiggle it with it all and call it even at all.
Then you face at the work and you wink at the cook,
and the clap of the walk to the end of its falk
Ain't nothing be that all we could never have be tall.

And we never should we talk to the nevers of the walk.
And the laugh of the dark, and the queen of the spark

Will feel it to the rush to the what of the telling of what's true.
Too much of the seed that we never could not heed.
Too much of the lead that never meant to be bleed.
Anybody here must bend to will it to the end, anybody
Found to the bend of the colored tree wind. You must never have
All. All that you could not be told not to do have you in your neck
Screaming to an entry, data to the hook. Data to the manger, and have it for the soak.

They tame you down to the hook, and genius out you are.
Then forks fall to floors and we know not of look of fall
And know we not of answers, and dry we took to win
And so much is to saying what done is not to win.

We fact it all out. We tether one in. We miss out the barker, we took it right it in.
And fall of the form and rise of the high
I see at like a knife one, The leaf afall a sky,

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

Wedding Ring, Wedding Vow

I will love you in the breaks of things, in the statements of youth.
I will love you in the sight of a man cruising through your skin.
I will love you in the heat of wins. I will love you to the aching of my limb, depth of my terrain,
and I love you to the limits of my vein, and to the pain of my heist, and all its money to rain.

I will love you to my breaking, and fleeing, and denying fault. I will love you
to what I not know how or why and to why I cannot say, and to what I cannot give.

And I love where there is no one to say to what,
and if be this fight a boxing with the king
then love is the glove I wear to your ring.

Monday, June 08, 2015

A Poem From Rachel

Love and Work
In an uncurtained room across the way
a woman in a tight dress paints her lips
a deeper red, and sizes up her hips
for signs of ounces gained since yesterday.

She has a thoughtful and a clever face,
but she is also smart enough to know
the truth: however large the brain may grow,
the lashes and the earrings must keep pace.

Although I’ve spread my books in front of me
with a majestic air of I’ll show her,
I’m much less confident than I’d prefer,
and now I’ve started pacing nervously.

I’m poring over theorems, tomes and tracts.
I’m getting ready for a heavy date
by staying up ridiculously late.
But a small voice advises, Face the facts:

go on this way and you’ll soon come to harm.
The world’s most famous scholars wander down
the most appalling alleyways in town,
a blond and busty airhead on each arm.

There is an inner motor known as lust
that makes a man of learning walk a mile
to gratify his raging senses, while
the woman he can talk to gathers dust.

A chilling vision of the years ahead
invades my thoughts, and widens like a stain:
a barren dance card and a teeming brain,
a crowded bookcase and an empty bed...

What if I compromised? I’d stay up late
to hone my elocutionary skills,
and at the crack of dawn I’d swallow pills
to calm my temper and control my weight,

but I just can’t. Romantics, so far gone
they think their lovers live for wisdom, woo
by growing wiser; when I think of you
I find the nearest lamp and turn it on.

Great gods of longing, watch me as I work
and if I sprout a martyr’s smarmy grin
please find some violent way to do me in;
I’m burning all these candles not to shirk

a night of passion, but to give that night
a richly textured backdrop when it comes.
The girl who gets up from her desk and dumbs
her discourse down has never seen the flight

of wide-eyed starlings from their shabby cage;
the fool whose love is truest is the one
who knows a lover’s work is never done.
I’ll call you when I’ve finished one more page.
Rachel Wetzsteon, “Love and Work” from Sakura Park. Copyright © 2006 by Rachel Wetzsteon. Reprinted by permission of Persea Books.

Source: Sakura Park (Persea Books, 2006

Tuesday, June 02, 2015

This Is For The Prisoners

 You will be talking to a queen
And turn all your lies in

You will know that they have been watching you
and your cell is the three-fourth century of your life

Your cigar is a symbol for shadow
And your shadow your only friend

Inside it you will be shattered
By the swing of light from noon to night

I am afar. I am writing.
The kittens are asleep, you will be, too
And the justices that the country bows for

Know nothing.

Monday, March 02, 2015

Emperador Light

Ang tinidor akong gisumpayan
Ang Emperador akong gipunit
Kaning duha akong pakamatyan
Para mupilit sa inyong panit

Ang kamatuoran kung ngano ko
Ang taw nga pirmi lang gyud manapat
Dili man ko dapat nga masuko
Apan wa ko kabaw unsay dapat

Ang akong nahibaw-an kay kani:
Namaligya ko ninyo ug isda
Ang akong uyab nangitag lami
Nangita siyag lain nga mas bata

Ang bata nga iyang gusto karon
Mao ang laki nga akong gukdon

Monday, October 13, 2014

The Second Death of A Cat

Exactly, they test it, death on the mouth of a cat.
Finished lesson is timed. Finished math is time.
You do not know friendly, my friend. You do not understand reverie.
You feed into your order anything but delight. Your mother tells you your packed.
When you've lived long enough to hold a gun in your mouth, your mother will pack your food.
Nobody knows. Nobody knows the area between sun and soon. Nobody moons.
Night is cried for, night is wide, night. Night is foolish in its pure promise.
We do not die, cat. We do not die alone without murder.
We are honesties lost in a pill.
We are molecules timed.

We farther out there justify our noon-time breaks and our lies are fulcrum.
Our dead deeds die the moment we come
And we come back aloof into having night squats in our caves.
We do not die, son. We do not do
Our deeds the way them disasters tell.

We stare at our black whole eyes like a rancher out to retire
And when our caskets open up back to their owners
We bloom blood.

Tuesday, September 09, 2014

Lions and Midgets

Come to the door and pray
Don their new ones at bay
Done to the point of saving
And lies
Written to their bones

Why is the air its own air
And lies lick each others' temper?
Why the brutal killings
Of a cat's food

Become reason for a love to behave?

Monday, April 21, 2014

More or Less An Excuse Letter

Hi Lalaine,

I dare to write this because I believe that through the doom and through what you aptly termed as "destruction" I caused you is still a most rare and foreign strain of forgiveness and understanding that might bring us not together -dear God, no, I cannot bear the shame- but to where we should be as two people who'd once shared a struggle to figure out what the happiness we once felt about each other's lives and naked bodies meant. It is also the hope of this ambitious letter that you can see me in a lens apt for a person who was handed a most terrible card in the form of a mental ill.

And I can have the guts to write this because although I do not have to tell you that I am clearly a mind gone kaput and terribly out of the path of sanity, you deserve to be told that I was misdiagnosed of Major Depression by Dr. Dira-Mendoza in Perpetual Succour but am now more correctly diagnosed with Bipolar 2 by Dr. Siozon of Manila Medical Center. You cannot blame me if I say that the disease must be the only explanation to everything - from my very being to the last minute of my being with you.

From the suicide attempt I vaguely confessed to you to the series of self-destruction I slashed upon my left wrist to the grandiose dismissal of my potential as an intelligent force of good to the words I wanted to punish you with and to my disappearance from my family and friends and through the series of ended relationships after you that keep on retaining the same pattern of self-destruction and hatred that I had with yours, it should be tempting to say that it was plain bad chemicals that ran my life, but it feels unfair to put it like that. However, I owe it to myself to have my salvation no matter how little of that I believe I deserved, so I choose to believe that it's mostly the illness that got me here. 

Survived by my Seroquel and Rivotril and the few remaining people that have endured my panic attacks and wrathful episodes of thrashing my things at them, I am still here, wishing for the most modest form of your mercy. You're now married, and that must be happiness, the kind I would also love to have when we could see each other again as friends, maybe with Maje.

Fortunately not you,
Richard Abad

Sunday, January 05, 2014

We The Think

we are no different from a crow. our skin as blank as black
but hide no mimic in our voice, and track the fields with crack
as high our fly is our love's rest. for crude crew cocks cry I
but by the fall our drop knows length and wealth we have we die

You're prettier fumed, teasers of bones, gadgets for trites, pantless
our magic, how much is a lie? hindi: a deity. hindi: a no.
I could be wrong, humor's a song.  radius's conflict: unmothered too long, icon's
a hope, comets are kite, industry's A.I. must cannot deny
Harvest has wombs, Jacob is deer, industry's harvest can't just you say hi?
I, like a lie, eye an a live
Lover of leeway, a Yahweh of mine.
Yahweh: a saviour. Yawi: a key.

Everything happening offering a ring, stickity sow, look at me now, baby B's bowel
be hacking it, how?

Thursday, January 02, 2014

The Blanket

I dream of thrown blankets in the air
and of you disrobing me, telling
I am not a lie

I open to my eyes replied to by truths
and stop confusing what's not love
when we started wanting a king
and you I lost under my wing

Saturday, December 14, 2013

I Will Come

Borne in me a regions of stalactites
Quagmire looming in corners of a tried heal
Honor rolls from the commerce and institute of dusts
Commence into wheels that which reach nuts

We feel a deny, amid a matter a mostly more comes.
Divide the shenanigans as fools, traded, deal, whiteless, sell.

Maybe the house needs a furnace to cater an ash.
Maybe this "I should go" makes sense in the next lady with a carafe.
All I know for sure is that I
type, while memos in our office

left on floor from where is my semen

Thursday, November 14, 2013

Dead Air

only the blind see nothing in Tacloban

you, however, witness
the old dog of a dancer
eaten by the rapist
who saved a drowning
mother's pedophile
son, a priest. you, a prisoner
who returns to the cellar,
know everything is God's
because His jokes are so funny
it cuts a kid's throat

you go to a church and but keep millions
in banks for no one to use.
The motherless mothers are sheltered
but know that wrath knows no good

a surgeon cuts through the eye
in rescue of his love
who lives and breathes
her dead dog's air

reminding us
we're next

Tuesday, November 05, 2013

The Passing

I saw Jesus on the cross on a hill called Calvary"Do you hate mankind for what they done to you?"He said, "Talk of love not hate, things to do - it's getting late.I've so little time and I'm only passing through." - Passing Through, Leonard Cohen

Black shirt on a boy is a father of your son
Woman in toes wears a nurse is you are
Feet and steps and miracles distance you apart
Then collonades block view I see you hold not
Hands are different hands are apart
Him in the shirt black him in the party last
Him with the face, him bypass me by a store
We passed each other by, we the we slept together
line users, we the ones who you are who made a piss
While I cover you from the moon where you are
reject my saying that this kiss is cause
you showed a sign I should make a kiss
and you in the tent I make an arm as a pillow
and riots of nights come back to us for storm
And whether this might not be there anymore
I see you front gate and enter glass
I see that you’re not held hands as we were, still

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Street Children As Actors

Great problem in the holder of the cupper of the man is when to buy
The light you hold in the lighting system in a programmer's life

Then when you do remember ways how to forget the man who bought
a sachet of powder juice, a lady sitting on a water tank selling dead duck egg

dies from love

and all the while the streets puke of children mimicking a slaughtered cow
while the image of eden sanctions those who pay full-time duties to chapels

While the manger functions much as an institute of reflects and named heroes
ready to be forgot day your night and sly the pay and make for use

Such Icarus abuse. And what's when daylight turns to grave
As you, a discover, move rummage the stalls
Of those who think dying there are an act

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Teacher and Student

we pass each other's rooms and culls each others ticks and prays for one's own plumps and breaks each other's wish. But may this month can go, this break forsakes not me. I live my treat when you

Decide the kiss is free.