A Pause

Labels: Sylvia Plath

Posted by Richard J.A. at 8:28:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

Candles sold, would you like to light for michael
and pray his might may strike your wish?

A wondrous homemade cake appears along
the dirt-wrought wheel

falling backwards

as flaglets play a food over a kid's gang waiting
for the lechon, pastillas, ube royale

from the town royalty's fast-paced feast

as people revel in their walks, as devouts
deviate from their patrons in exchange

of some sweet tobacco-rolled smoke
like my coiled pain-filled paper roll.

Candles bought, aye aye the slay of day;
I left my morning in Argao's silent sea.

Labels: Sylvia Plath

Posted by Richard J.A. at 1:07:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

He wears a pure solid flesh tongue:
He sings a tune of overt hums, he swings
a dance of metal-bladed ringhorns-
the lioness that speaks the horrid night
of his very minute-like plight-
by reason of a glass or two
of that full-mug beer with which his life
once more springs slowly as the sun freely

sets across the wind, across my line:

feverish as cold-fed mute modes of dust
rust and the hush of its mushy mist madness
in light's last obscure absence
as cell walls and freedoms' any various sort
collect him and toss him over the yet limitless

edge
of this 2-am mid-dawn daydream:

He spears a song again upon another's longing
sad and eery-moded little tiny ear of kind.

And as the hums pierce a reckoning begins afresh.

Labels: Sylvia Plath

Posted by Richard J.A. at 10:28:00 AM | Permalink | Comments

Make me an inch-wide rectangle to fill my soul in

and punch along a hole over your eyes and glare across the wind

and buy me a record and soothe along the wished tears (the writhing)

and note over and out the downfall of this seeming pinch you do not consider

A sort of pain: a sulllen

wave of asking how to write a signal without signs
without hope or anything that slips away in morpheus' only way of sleeping

the dream of having tears in the naked sigh of not having to think
about our only way of signing off, our only bliss of making a sift

out of everthing that has had nothing to do with the real tear

of shifting, of this i stop a note without the right-wing ending.

I do not see an end of having nothing to begin.

Labels: Sylvia Plath, Walking In Cebu Streets

Posted by Richard J.A. at 1:51:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

Fever opens its charred mouth.
My fire flows about everywhere
the rush cold wind goes.

Now the wind is yours.

Labels: Sylvia Plath

Posted by Richard J.A. at 10:59:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

Minute of the dawn is the hours of life, you reckon

and calculate in some idly-used obsolete calculus
its rundown seconds

only a tarnished useless coverless calculator
can recount: the thing

we revolve around dating back the time

the wondrous moments of the his and the her
(the explosions we do not touch about but aptly trigger)


expand itself

as we turn back ourselves to and fro
until we meet the same flicker in honoring

A human stain. Do we not see this before

we knew how keyboards work, how chimes summon a philosophy
how a tune says: halabam halakem rumu dumu humu she?

how a dumdum, a humdrum, a conundrum of this very maelstrom
of typing letters e and x and i and s and t

utters a solid frame of sense?

In the next dawn minute, the answer shall lie
in the mystics' rather vague clue:

I am the fire. You discovered me.

Labels: Sylvia Plath

Posted by Richard J.A. at 6:30:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

By the time i get there i will have known how

to make the fragments of unripped papers burn out
in countable flames, turning them out in full brown

color, codes and css printmarks that with abeyance,
seek a truth only a lie could necessitate

to make the minutes hours, days to minutes and time
per se

as an irrevocable walk of seventy nine naked-eyed infants
in my infanticide's line

to remake a self and contradict its self to summon, to awaken
a long lost apparition

to pity my own ligt and technical mundanes to arrive firm and fit
at your very hearing plague

these and more you will find in vicarious mode
as you follow what must have been death before

but today your own precept for life:

the coarse course of my corpse

Labels: Sylvia Plath

Posted by Richard J.A. at 6:03:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

coconut oil smells less than those coco-stained
concoctions and empty oil-tainted bottles sprinting out
in irony's protrusion:

a newer version of virginity lies outside the colliding points
an hour forms in two-minute breaks, an orgy-like stature

of which my god feels itself amid blasphemies and antithesis
to which the very essence of this deity i no longer memorize,

feels the first sprint of blood in this last abrupt tint

of feeling

Labels: Sylvia Plath

Posted by Richard J.A. at 12:05:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

nevertheless i cry in withered tone
or in a flat note in case no one discerns

the difference: the hands are drawn
its lines had cloven a certain shade of cleave,
calling and tempting, aiming as it maims

a lustful countenance overhandedly springing
sidewise toward the nights of your wishes.

From between the middle-tarned sweat
towards this evidence of motion moving slow

like a smoke of the likes of pangaea's only running

force, your dream and lust for the guy

who drops and drips only a slow kin after itself
after all the ridges from lines and half-memorized

stories of us-the lust and hands side by side
on your laps and his-

remains nonetheless elusive.

Labels: Sylvia Plath

Posted by Richard J.A. at 4:49:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

an annoyance spills us
along this dotted languid abevorine

it speaks of nothingness but everything spills
among an allegory of eyes wide shut.

of your nothingness
again and again, everything
spills us in a spelling bee

but what is that song of yours: wowowee, sinong hindi

mawiwili, dahil sa game na ito, sigurado ang swerte

wowowee, panalo ang marami? panalo ang marami.

Everything places itself over the edge of that rhetoric
an elitist's last sound makes.

Labels: Sylvia Plath

Posted by Richard J.A. at 2:16:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

look at you, i mean really, look at you:

the way you string your guitar as if you were its string
as if the words you make flows away the tune your bundrum makes
as if it were the way every nirvanian cell or atomic mote of some headless headphone,

functions and speaks
in soundless mode as the way everything moves in the seas of mourns.

as if it were that dark tragedy and everything in between that collides us
with a rather unfulfilled birth:

a short anonymous long-shadowed revery

that calls on each and every line from horizon to horizon
everything that rhymes with your instrument's only unstitched

masterpiece note: a comment for humanity's old-wooden box

in which our lies speak upon itself, to which our truth speak upon itself
and over and over again a gain is made together with this steel of full-blown

knife: making nothingness out of something, lying this burden over the everything.

Eveything shuts itself like an open leaf on its very last moderate talk.

Labels: Sylvia Plath

Posted by Richard J.A. at 7:55:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

I shoud've started listening to words that do not count
itself in a pieceless mouthpiece of wide-eyed sorrow

shutting itself, after words refire everything noting us
together: the lights,

flickers of the bones, orgys of the nine-inch

thunderburns, thunderlines, imaginary pieces of what
must have been neurosis of her backline teeths and tots and totters
and wingless dynamics of philosophy's only saddened worry:

a master line, a short pale pond of that strong-stretched hairline

leaning itself as if it were a glare our only stale eyes make
in some eye-shadowed sight against which our mirrors

seriously speak

Labels: Sylvia Plath

Posted by Richard J.A. at 6:43:00 PM | Permalink | Comments