ABAD LIKES CATS

After Watching The Iron Men

It starts with the assurance that you can/know know/_ everything.
When you learn the torrid taunt of the assumed gets you hanging, all you can know is there: a grant.
Each thing composed turns you out, a thing you make sense with is a failed past. You desire beasts. You get.
For example you find yourself wanting to learn how to write movie reviews and you realize the basics is to get the details from IMDB and then keyword it up, make sense of its SEO, China, Honduras tragedies. Its pain!

Then you know that everything can be known you guess but then you move on and what is the point of the game when you don't think it's for the winning and then you suddenly think oh my god the intention is to muck, bland, mystify, be an arty, disguise your inuncanninity, portend the sorrows of a brooding fellow.

Longfellow is an author.

Then you intend to rumble it up, syntax it different, make sure you are unintelligible and you give justice to jargon and then the files went missing. Whoever got it, Aliens of concern? When you rode the bike you actually met my father who killed your father. I was raped by the priest's rapist. You failed to count the only one who matters in the queue, in the list, in the roll call. The counters are never counted.

Creating Exceptional Events

Oh man the night of shining lightning terrifies the Mormons in the field. There is motion disturbance.
Tragellic pneuoimpotence tries to tryst with the books of involvement, the listing for the using, the mob's guide.
These terrors are tiny cancerous, clearer music has not caused as magnified as such trading, smiles are endless in this hell. Smelled lips. Unused ones. Tortured tongs, used gods. All of these are in plural.

"Once a binibini, always a binibini."

The Departed: the movie. The departed: the binibini. Clues: tethered to an SEO syntax, all notes shot through places in the actual hand-shaking of a monarch and the czar lost in the arms of a George Bernard Shaw, a man of letters, the righteous evil fled to the world to maneuver a divide. Lincoln. Payers. Taxes, slaves. All of these are in plural form.

Music like Poison.

The Quiet City

 -For Adrienne Lee

I will walk the block and try my luck
If there I can buy some cigarette pack
Then maybe brew you a dark sugared cup
And try not to think

Then cup my hands for it takes four arms for
Two people to strike a few matches more
Or click, click, click the lighter's sudden flick
In the city.

Tonight my friend a sleep's a detour sign
And there apparently are seven kinds of time
Sodium are on. Language speed is faster than
Saying out your name

The Trial of A Trader Who Never Went Beyond The Basic Algebra of Nine Times Nine

And books try. And money try
To save tables and money carries in it
The ornament of transition, the disqualified feel of math
and diction, the lunar call of test

There I see the lint afloat the warmer breath.
Flay the arrows because no disturbance is allowed in this watch.
I can feel odor of look, bend of down. Behind me an epiphany of monitors
Unused screens, still plastic. The plasma are not awake, they recreate their
Still show like birth. Some sitting is required, your waiting should never deter me my walk,
my racqueerering of files, my embace of bees, my detected sorrow.

All luminous the screena form
Falsetto to my assiduous input
There is no output
Enought to unporn

There is no porn
To stop me to input

There is no output in ins.

Parallel Universe: A Song From Tom Hooper's Les Miserables. In The Tune of Les Miserables Musicale.

Part I:

Me: I am such a representative.

The Them: Nexus of an anxious people of unluck.

Chorus: Extract3x, fit it out like a mother, wheel of derelict, make sure you to have visions, I have stories, I have lions, the quick fun is delayed, this is a tiresome lay-out. This is a

.
Me: At the end of the day you live nothing, you live longer. I have no hold of cities. There are chymeres and slave bosses who take in their tale the death as a point.

Chorus: There is a struggle, there is a war. And we're all but just a mere dying. What is the point what is the point, sleeping round?  And there's gonna be pay to hell at the day of the end!


Jean Badian: There are unused words - Who am I? - monocles, ambivalent fused potions. There is an Aljur Abrenica I could kiss, I once almost wet on. Plagiarists are off-duty todaaay.

Chorus: There is a struggle, there is a war. And we're all but just a mere dying. What is the point what is the point, sleeping round?  And there's gonna be pay to hell at the day of the end!

Pantene: The saint pays its/their own fare (Conductor: Plitihan ang Sto. Ninyo plitihan?) I am a witness of a baby, a baby of wan, all these notions and mores of uncaring, blankly of Alexander McQueenish, brain wirely, Wisdomish, truthed.

Cavert: Nobody sullies the bible qua the uncertain. Nobody lives. Grace of a breathless cryingthe. Breadth of lifing an illiterati. Banshee the snake, laughter then duck. Women of hope, mayor of muck. Millions forbid metal for their trite intent. I citizenize. I rice.

Part II.
Setting: World class poverty, CPILS=Syphilis.

Cose, the big version of Cosette, as in like when islet is small verse of isle: Nobooody buys the weird-looking fish.Why would I pray to myself?

A Scream of Forbidden Violence

After he told him he's sleeping with another guy, he the toldee screamed to himself:

Phenomenal troglodyte to the rescue! Rhythm of pose, practice of neons, same systems of a drunk!

Let us be worshipfullizingly detailed in sclera examinings. Let us tether tractions tunic-wearing teeth tithe.

Pharmacological dictate, neophysical nice, anxious of failing, a stubborn attacking at a dawn. Missions fleece

Around me a nicer beetle react to a pedalling neophyte: where is that

Thing to dive on when all details downs?

It is asset and flock and timing and dim.

It is Shiva of insects, terramites of tooth, The Them, The artifice found in a mouth that says. I NO.

There is no I NO in space, there is two crashes in a night and the moving is a necessity. A coffee shop is

Read like a David's poetry. Garner estuaries, gentries are yours, orange is nothing, green is mute.

The Only Poetry About The Last Pacquiao Fight

"Nganong maguol man ko

nga daghan naman ang daog?"

-Perpetua D. Tandoc, philosopher

There is

something

ironic in any

of the Manny

Pacquiao fights.

However,  it's harder

to  appreciate this because

he is a taken for granted boxer 

and his fight is expected to end

with the presumed Pinoy triumph.

It is no longer the case last Sunday.

Spectacular and disappointing are words

flooding out from the viewers mouths.

It is not surprising to grieve with drivers

you don't know. So many people claim

about how low seeing Pacquiao fail on TV

makes you feel, but that was nothing com-

pared to witnessing him sleep from a punch

like a dead thing from screens that are as

communal and big as the disappointment itself.

Isn’t it hard to watch someone you respect fall

in the arms of a friend? Reading James Salter is the thing

you compare to the grief you feel for him. Only a Pacman

Fight  can make you cry this way. Needless to say,

the pain is a play.

Impressed or depressed,

you the spectator of fallen

Gladiators are entertained.

Confused or convulsed

by vicarious pain, the axed

Attacks are still a taxed

Game of blood you enjoyed

in the greed of buffets

Dearest Singapore

This is most serious
Stuff, truant
To an authority
No government supplies.

This is where putative, obstreperous,
thick, petulant, topoi, cover, etiology,
occlude, gams, algolagnia, and
Debauch are words
You don't think about
Too much.

This is the part I tell
Something about you
Being an assassin
Because your swift crazy clean
Marauding roads are front
To a thankful just beheading
(Hang them people who misconstrue
A statistic of monarchies)

Hang them
Before a public. Misuse everything
Foucault has
Said about loving
I have
Not read him. Great depths
Are only for
A church. You cannot misfire.
Your shots are blank and tact as black
Marble baby eye.
Tie knots to doors by railways
To remind them you're there
Not as a machine. No cry
Is enough to detour a silent shiver
All technologies have led you
To consider. Earphones
Are phalanx,

Real? It is I

Who is not.

Dearest Singapore I
Letter by letter take
You for granted
As complete thankless tectonic
Flat issues of day.
I take my supper, slice
My eye and die in your sun-
Less blues. Cosmopolitan
Teams: hard work!

Pay me thousands
Of tax-free tax and real equities.
Pay me with senile dogs
Who can no longer be
At my beck and call?
Pay me with cats
Who have done their full neglect
Of my feeding? Trade my decay
With your casual flirts of new rugs


Trade my international
With local sundials, deducible income,
stocks and theory games.


Dearest Singapore why
Have you not forsaken
My wanting?
Why have you 
told yourself to endure
The weight every capital levies? To buy
Myself is commodity
I cannot wont, too. Two is not a number
That's still true.







Dearest Singapore, this is the part
I
Type something trite
To offset the previous
Intention of writing
Subtle brilliant takes on how
You appear glad
but gray

This is the part
I say something
Like, "But no! You can also be
A structure of gay dailies.
You are stabilized by-
Product of a beheading
Nobody needs."





It is fodder
And ravage that dictates. We kill
One, we clean more. Two masks in halloweens cost, boo hoo hoo Who doesn't pay for hullabaloo?"


















So why not dearest Singapore, why
Not learn from/for
Deadly dead lilies,
live sarcophagi, the math
of Beth, wraiths of wrath,
The alphabet?

Depression: A Comedy

Fish flower a horn: flowerhorns
Die. Did
You eat
My brocolli, my mother? My mother: what
is brocolli...a name, an aim, a maim
I schizophreniaize?
All an un-un, a non-non
Among amang, I talk
Nay, took, Nay, ANG Pan!
An I for un-I, a toot for a toot. Atot
Oy! See Boa Now! Co-
vert operations from Lamar
Afar, tanks: you're welcome
To give
To me
Today
A talk: attack
Bags: bugs in slang, slung
About a mouth
Who's spicks. Speck: to talk. Talk: past of take, getting
Toknoweachotheralittletoolate-a line align, anni
Hilate. Innate. We're late. Be late=vagina. Summate,summit.
Relate-Relit: see boa now for relate. Pa saw load
Of cush in mama's bush. Uncle Fingers
A Sauce: saws mar you, seep = see boa now! See boa now!

Curses

Unmarvelled presentations blacken a wall.
They have spent into an extravagance of eyes
Far more worthy our affect is this minute fault
This arranged linear on a plate,
It's planar and harsh. Beautiful, in a word.
Jest however you want, my belief in cheap is nothing
To this, to think I enable fakings of scripture

An imaged foretelling in curses is even told out loud
My friends, merit these propellers' last action
Their tedious tenure is to pay off
To a ghost, it's given. To bisons, it's real
Delay my hanging, I can sieve more dust. I become an aging
Vulva, like a republic on hold. I admit, I awaken
In you birthing pythons unwilling to skin
Of alternatives what shall my face fake?
Where in assault can dying be clay?
It moves me that I am queried, addressed, centered.
But your set targets move swift and I, a failed arrow
Only hit what hurts

A Request To No One

These sensual pentagons guard and blend with the night.
You, maker of luck, how have you come to such retort?
Have you not known of such selfish?
Such selfish let a mother live.
Prayers become their own silhouettes, so dare no question.

Makers of signs have not given up, even if the loci of hearts heigthen their gloom.
(10. It would be very cruel to yourself if you come up with nothing.)
Do you care for such squalor? Do you feel like it's about as dear as day?
The honesty you seek shuns still the reality you forsake.
Movement harbors secrets. Stillness stutters. To whom is the point?

Where can you go where there is not an inkling of search?
Where in the hope can you lengthen a walk?
Pure breed, oh pure breed blood. Let your signals be of radar.
Your stars come no nearer than the eye of the left, so please be clear.
Say something declamatory. Be thrift and torrid and plain.

The Writing

A writer's life is to deny
The end is where you go
She doesn't tell what she makes up
No one should ever know


She sometimes says she has a pen
She rarely ever does
She knows what time to say what, when
She knew what never was

A timer's aim is to tell time
A writer keeps it still
A daughter's son forgets a birth
A writer never will

The sky blames no one for the sun
It is what is written
No father wishes for a son
Who writes because it's sin

Smoking

There are three ways to do this.
First, we meet. Second, you weep
Then we make out and delay a sleep

The third is a series.
You wake up and see if I'm there
Or if I'm not where you should go.
Then there's a dinner of steak
and I remember how far
the edge of this sea
from where you are
and I picture a day without you
and forget it is
before I ignite a cigarette
that shouldn't be lit.
Your body fills my thoughts,
your mouth mine.
I think of kissing your eyes
in the middle of a sea
I do not own, like you now,
unreachable by smoke

What Comes Next

Do you not care when I say that
I'll be forever gone
There is no saying what comes next
Why can't we have more fun?

You dare not give yourself to me
My world, you say, is old
How can you say that to my face
Have you ever been bold?

You cannot even risk a kiss
You are always afraid
It will turn out like you've foretold:
Everything is to fade

Tonight desire has reached its tip
You can fall by my side
I can't now say you never did
Remind me that I died

Watching You

Don't you like when it rains this good
And you don't have to say
What one's dares not to?

When it's this cold
and you have thought
There is better outside
Will you run through the wet?

That you're the only one to see
And talk to

When it is this is it wrong
And to ask from whom everything comes:
Can I not watch?