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's next kiss't at 3.

Thursday, October 24, 2013

Reverse Plagiarism

And I quiet reference quite my time
and then I realized
To quick mast self found none in yore
but that lifts me up yours eyes I've leaned
That match of piece in flight must bane

all this time
In true I flight my wings to traits
Must match the range from your cleavage
That cure what whys that might that men

I was reading a book by E.E. Cummings
And dear so long you're not on when
That which you wrote felt more than what
This match has seen I'm yours all then

but was in fact at all written
But I desire that truth can't blend
And now too late your wedding's been

by John, my neighbor

Friday, October 11, 2013

The Analysis of The Most Vivid Thumbler

1. You say Stupid People Should Stop Asking stupid questions to know that you're not of them and yet you know you are in a struggle against yourself believing that you really are not. You are intelligent, strugglingly.

2. You put weekends as a salvation for the week of threatened limits and tapped time. You believe in nothing but that which gives profit to your minute, not wasted to a love.

3. You say nothing about your man, your data in a public attentional. You hide your worst Pornographies, your telegrama scientifica. A mood is hid.

4. You say things like, Stress Is Caused By Giving. You say you do not give a fuck as a chant to yourself to get off yourself.

5. Struggles to forget, and sympathy for the Media. All this in a form of delight, fun, sanctioned control of a Me Me Me! More me to the radio, more me to the bit. More me and me, and together let's be me.

6. That's essentially it. Let's be me! Let's be me! Surround my digitals, and my hides, and my controlled limits and anthemic tropes. Survive my daily choice, survive the dreamscape found in light! In the end it resolves itself.

Remembering The Yellow Light Bulb

Make heaven for me. Deleted transcriptions monitored by the useless tenants from the den.
Make heaven for me. Riches abandoned, threatened fame famished from the aisles. You worship
Nothing but the stamina in your types. Had you not considered escaping you would have waned
To a felt train glory. Transfer the lions from her den; all the vibes are not there.
Transfer the attention. Transfer units of recourse.
There is a girl in front whose attention I was taken to, taken now. I am taken
To things resembling what had been done. Memos written for someone: no longer read.
Things that walk. Things that type. Blame the stamina of this and that.
The riots have conquered. All soldiers declare triumphant scores for their modern mothers' aplomb.
She gets out of a door. You sit down and pretend. Minute by minute the timing thickens.
Remember the yellow light bulb that broke. Remember the tests, the University tours. The what was.
You with your spoon and the chopsticks you do not use. You with the silence, the plumber's anthem.
You in the touch of a softcore. You with the vain.
The pliant's reconaissance starts from the intentional dead lights. Treaties of a Falcon. Remainders
of pages unread. While you in a continuum fails a search for phantoms. Known treaties.
Hidden Sundays. All the Mondays you're after shall blight the reddened flux. And timid trials.
And marriages forced, and wanting trims, and sudden lent, and painful traits. All around you is a self
Sanctioned to get/

Thursday, October 10, 2013

King of No Meaning

1
He who believes that no one panics, 
that jargon let out is paltry, is a politician.
He, innominate, has MBs and GIGs of unwatched ecstasies, 
ejaculates, mother peniled on a mouth.
He whose talent is mania pays prayer a due.
He the dictator resolute in command, charters a new land: 
a woman. I see a white man ignore a kid behind the glass 
wall, or a man who sees nothing
On his left because he might be a straightist.

2

Words for citizen traumatized by luck. Synagogue heroes, 
mirror image of mouths. A man makes an assignment while 
selling cigarette butts, arcane JPGs of suicidal Egyptian kings,
cow lung, a registry of lies translated by a Spanish midget, 
tutorials on how to make halos for saints.

3

You are teller of conceit, but dine in yourself you cannot
I help in your reach, movement in your trial, steps to knowing none
I am humbled by how you seat and make shadow lighten and try as you go
Your face that of a majestic welcome, face that binds chemicals, confuse moods
tailor submissions, and fail the heart. That you said which will happen not, that you are not here, 
that you should in the hand of a trained enemy makes me borne you a child

4

In the jeepney to the kingdom, there are two holders of light, 
two carriers of air, a woman with silvered scabbard, and the blind 
scribe. They're all sitting, and treating each other's space
as distance between levity and scorn and into the night, they 
guard the city's landscape, awaiting a moon to tell them a truth.

5

A man reading a text in the streets, crying. Mother keeps 
a spider for her kids to play.

6

In heaven the couple I see in front will kneel down 
and every Friday will propose to each other in turns.



7
I program germs that launder nations, tailor uniforms for rapists, defend arguments of the homeless, hear you not one bit talk about your father's repose. A guard in the museum walks to his post with noodles on his right arm that hides the view of a Koi struggling for freedom but only to land in the second tier of the pool.

8

Fields of mental attitued, the sorrow brought by hollow bee. Measures made for coffins unto itself form a card. An imagined reason, a liaison officer of God. This knows no past fury, this right here whirlwinds unto itself. I am right in full detail. I am culled by day.

9

I don't care if you don't date me. I'm already sleeping with God.
Jesus of a strategy, humming for a sin, humming for a cause. Manager of a manger
is no wiser than a thief. Failure cons the mean.

10

Need to text to other networks but zero balance? Don't forget with SOS (insert your part here)


Wednesday, September 25, 2013

This Sadness Conquered

happiness isn't equated with momentary pleasure. Suffer a little bit, but go find the nearest jolibbee to cope with it. Run, run the sadness out, chase it to the sun of its math.a

center is amde. No doubt. There are infinite possibilities, but you can center. Choose one, this data, this assumption. You will be happy detached from reason, attachment to feeling; the central issue is the value of feeling.

Focus out. Do not maintain the illusion of bliss eternal, bliss moment by moment. Concern your sadness
to a method of your own. Believe that there is no conspiracy. Believe that there is no alien, that truth is like I don't know but you will still know. It is in the between.

Do believe that there is Irag. DO believe what is water. There is thesis, there is rank. Pretension all over this is good. This is promise, a reach, climb to the power of tomorrow. There is a point.

There is a point that you will suffer a day.
The happiness is worship, suffer the pain, suffer the daily grind.

You will be taken out of context of lonely.
You are connected, to a conflict inside is nothing. So hard so hard: conquered.

How will you do how will you do?
Start with the no awkward at kk it. Start with the acceptance, the treatment. The reality is that you have
doubt that anything exists outside you. That there is one. That there is more than just like What If

You are the only one who saw this. There's time, when like, there's time, like when you know
That nothing is there. How can you feel the one outside you without feeling it too?

The secret is worship, the secret is worship, worship the Oh Lord The Tomorrow.
The Lord of Tomorrow.
The Lord of Fries.
Of Routine. Of Conquered Boredom. Of tulips and mad.
The Lord of Terror Conquered. The Lord of Now Sharpened to Nothing.
Ballast killed: you the ballast, you the sad. Sadness get away!

Sadness, says the 5 year old lady, you owe me nothing but you stick!
Get away!

I will forever deny the product of you, sadness. You are nothing
Compared to the hope of like the Now The Tomorrow! Day by day, day by day
Day by night, there is concept new and not proud and felt by me in the context of like
There's a forever listing of possibles. There is one here though that is not denied.

Day by day, there is a laugh, minute, minute. It is enough. Find that one.
Find that one and then sleep and run and visit and it will pass. This sadness will pass
Your papers please.

Thursday, September 19, 2013

See That One

There's talk of synagogue, plan of body.
There's talk of isotopes, retreat, attention to cats.
And then he say: "Of course I'm hero
of the unquestioned answers.

Of course I am blight in your waiting.
Fleeting the innocence, arrest from answer.
Lions tamed, bisons lame. Plain sorrow lost to a ride.

This scripture I'm writing
Knows no keeping of time

This area of defeat
Harbors no sets.

jury for the Luster
defend no one from the last

Lost tickets, ladies mentioned
in mouths unsucked.

Your body is stretched
Prone for worship. My trite limbs
Kill for your shallow.

I write nothing for the killer of the limb.
I close my eyes and attend the nature of the south.

Clear the pathway: the medicine has a toll
Our lives lost lust for lively leads.

I mouth your ins.
Suggest theories of fragments, neons unlit. Remembered pools.
A girl in time of a fall, girl in hold of cup, girl in waiting, girl wet.
Girl in lawns, on chair, in short-lived principle. Girl in mind, skirt
Swift like mania.

Girl of win: dull face: body of ugly, untamed day. Wanting, full of wanting
Of face of none yours. In full take of a stand: that one is nothing

If you think of yourself.
Oh creator of naming. Oh sellers of fish to the witch.
Upset me,: make me a new
Engineer menstruated knives
and in lieu of this: show me a crying architect.

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

On Ursula Le Guin's Feature on Paris Review

Anger at Ursula Le Guin.
You talk in the form of a scandal extraction, thing in the light darkened to a fighting
You hide it, and call upon the delight of you above. The caller of attention, teller of people
That the only way out is to find a piece, tell of it, make sure it's real
Astonish the illusory. Deny it all you want. Function like a bishop, lay like a chess
Pieced together formed like dung, light in the black space. Light in the closed eyes.
When furnished falsettos glare upon you, make no sense of it.
There's charm in this, but the sense? AMiss.

Enter your typing, enter your pick.
You need the issue to pick at, because what else function is for
If you have no flock to carry. You read and more
Shit. Comes out of. You.

You want a following, you listener of dreamscape
Radio station in the midnight clock.
YOu talk in the lobby of waiters.
You listened by no one, talk. YOu listened by not you, talk,
You talk because you are not listend
to.

Talked in the attempt to make sense, that starts at the beginning of the not having
No one to listen to.

Talk in the issue of lonely.
Talk in the form of like a trial in the face of wa tomorrow that doesn't come
Coming, leaflet unread. Seeing the back of a white skin.
The landscape of tarmac, all you hold back, you step back
A one a two there you go, you are now in front
The spectacle of a stellar link to your dick.
Dick di ck dick dickl  cid,ck dick dickl
Dick is written in ways you can only say.
Not do. Do Do do her
In your mind, a stellar landscapoe of wrong types, of blindfolds, of
Richj histories linked to caspers and neon days
and lights in hte back of a man in front
of a girl, her crying.
In the airport.

You are a wiotness of a crying couple in the airport.
Youi are recipienmt to grandiose dicatiotrial shout.
You are missed by your self, because you left
NMo trace for heroes to pray for.

YOu are left with a stalk.
YOu listen to an acc

ve writing you.
Are lights off. Type type. Hands, licgj lighjt
AL hherroes a .

The nights have heroes you tarigh talk. Talk of the lighted one.

Nothing of making sense.
All of beat up trashlike talk. Staer at the tarmac of skin, stare at the emotional access.
Stare at the attempt to linger, the call for lion. The typing
is entered. You write, the type is set, you alomst asleep
think of a dick, think of a ghrapple. Think of a livid drying day

You need a concept. You need  a family. You make it.

For an audience. The audience to apture.

The zen is not th

The zend in is the bend. UI cabnoaonly imagine what you think.

THere's nio logic in the commitment.

To a God, you only know.

More here: http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2013/09/03/introducing-our-fall-issue-2/

Saturday, August 10, 2013

The 3 Minute Game

Chapter One:

There is a girl in the back of me, I see her in my front camera, the iPhone I got from my mother, who killed herself while she was combing her hair, or at least that's what the autopsy guy told me. My brother wasn't there when my mother died.

The girl at the back wears a shirt that says, "Personality is not real. Everything is an illusion." Yeah, right. Tell that to the pedophiles, you pretentious preacher.


Chapter Two: The prayers start, the winds pass and the colors inside the church fall into the eyes of praying people, the way the light at the end of the tunnel fools you that light is found. Light is never found, because we have no money for the Veco bill payment because Veco is a source of greed. ANd if you want something real in this world, to tell you the truth, the genuine truth, it's this: you get all the money you want, but you'll never know bliss.