A Pause

The table is dry. That dead clock too. On albums

Are not pictures. Only textures.

I am honest. You are not
the plumber. And this will not hurt.

I lied. I am
fulfillment. Your organs
are organs. Mine are not.

And they fall
......
....
...
.
.
.
.

Yours too. I am
my meter. You are mine.

The parameter is incorrect.

Labels: Cirilo Bautista

Posted by Richard J.A. at 7:24:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

In knowing life dress and train your dogs to live
and play dead and to die in a live play of humans

eating human-eating canines and felines gnawing
fresh flesh of hearts where life burns like fever

and fever smells like air in glowing Suns in dead
spaces amid the wisdom of knowing that all that

sings sings an unknown tune and that all that
breathes breathes an all-knowing unknown

and all that's knowing is gnawing what's known
or what has once been yet forgotten, then cut

your legs to get that life.

* - parodied from Dr. Cirilo F. Bautista's State of The Nation Address

Labels: Cirilo Bautista

Posted by Richard J.A. at 11:23:00 AM | Permalink | Comments

Why scars be concealed, by what
lucid reason the killing of the past is justified
i will not know, i am not an unfinished poet; why
marry not among the forest trees in the forestry
of absent light, why must not beginnings start
in endings, a kiss in a slap, the footfall in some leap, sun-
sets in stone-touched storms leaning to be raped tonight, why
must scars be anything but reminders of past stops and holy
innings of smoke, why trap an ending to this prose? Spit
this dawn and lick no more the yesterday's anchored burn.

Labels: Cirilo Bautista

Posted by Richard J.A. at 12:30:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

What makes people laugh?

Is it when a dog barks and everybody runs
And a boy's pants fall off to the smudged ground
Where ants play violins and dogs poop on after

Two hours of chasing cars and stalking cats, of running
In circles to find at length that it would have been more

Apt and Real

If dogs were humans and angels were two paper cups
Scrambled over tables painted with rainbow colors, chairs
With random monotones, styles, sizes, that, as punchlines
From stints explode in humor, implode into the emotionally dishonest

Nothingness of laughter? Is that what makes you laugh?

Labels: Cirilo Bautista

Posted by Richard J.A. at 11:57:00 AM | Permalink | Comments

You have to go beyond you. Tomorrow is my self. Teach me how
to gather moons in between my toes. Boom! Boom! Boom

taratatat boom taratatat tararat tararat boom! boom! boom!

Labels: Cirilo Bautista, Willie Revillame, Wowowee

Posted by Richard J.A. at 11:55:00 AM | Permalink | Comments

He believes not in the statehood of the apes and deserts
his land as defiance in the irony of states. First, second, third

Fourth- this balanced the possessions of the nuclear: 992910.
1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th- this created the Zeiglerian contradiction: It
opines an open clause: linking the first: the second; the third world
to a thought destruction among these soft, long deconstructed

constructs: he believes not in the statehood of the apes. I. Own.

The Open Sea!

Labels: Cirilo Bautista

Posted by Richard J.A. at 10:51:00 AM | Permalink | Comments

I dream of perfect laws and god-made plebiscites

in the structure humans create as seeing
justice in the eye of a mechanic, toy bender,
plumbing at the machines trapped end to end

at the tip of one's tongue in stepping up uncontrolled
amid a battle of words. I dream of perfect laws in a justice

of eight, of constitutions in rhyme with a song.

Labels: Cirilo Bautista

Posted by Richard J.A. at 10:30:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

Sometimes what we only need's a clean mirror

and a sharp-blunt knife and a whooping cough and some
paper sheets and this set of three doves and two cans
of milk and its divine providence and the musing of the soul

to see a life piece and kiss sometimes some peace of mind.

Labels: Cirilo Bautista

Posted by Richard J.A. at 6:38:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

a lad in her late thirties waits for her turn

and a couple ceaselessly counts how much homes they can place
their money on. Kids scream at the fist of her greased wrist.

Oiled thumbs pierce through the divorced lad's legs. Alcohol
drops flow about her joint's flesh. A pancreas is dead and touched

as pain teaches men how to un-smoke cigar by exhaling fresh
moist air out their nostrils whose hair connects at the pinch

of this second of the seven series of money-making masseurs

the upcoming fall and the last drop from the emptying oil bottle.

Labels: Cirilo Bautista

Posted by Richard J.A. at 6:16:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

This box is crapped with gazillion pieces of unnecessary flesh- anonymous

Labels: Cirilo Bautista

Posted by Richard J.A. at 2:10:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

Your daughters are dying in the sand.

Their skin's ruptured, teeth and tongue dripped
unto the soft land's deepest sorrow of lie, lying
decaying outward from the beauty of *ugly-
Ness, yes you too like them have daughters
in your skins rupturing your teeth and tongue
to drip slowly and slowly its juice unto my craving

For these words. Dye your hair red
and undress yourself to put this little dress on
from your daughter's cabin and aunt's head
then die, die, die with the ugly beards you touch

while wearing the poisons of these words.

*syllable style's from one of Dr. Cirilo F. Bautista's canon poems.

Labels: Cirilo Bautista

Posted by Richard J.A. at 7:56:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

your lips softer than dying sheets
of pages in a decade-aged book

your eyes fierce as the jaws of dawn,
summoning yesterday's musical memory

and skin wet and breath so calm
i hear your hidden words rushing in haste

toward my soul, my tongue:

Tonight let me melt your taste.

Labels: Cirilo Bautista

Posted by Richard J.A. at 6:56:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

Powder me with cheap talcum

as i inhale-exhale, inhale, exhale,
a set of cut hair strands from that little boy's mom
who's been since yesterday looking for a cough
-medicine of sort. Splash a liter

Of alcologne over my hair and dress it
nicely as if i were a king in the lands where bald
bards like eric and john and jonathan

reside undisturbed, gel

My hair with blood sweat as your blades criss
cross through and out the navels of my scalp, make

My day and end it well with a nice back meta
metaphor massage.

Myriad of thanks.

Labels: acupressure, Cirilo Bautista, Sylvia Plath

Posted by Richard J.A. at 5:15:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

Amid humid winds and skies these

long strands

of earth hair swing off swift
through my eyes away from this midnight

sight that, if taken just as seriously true as
staring a dead branch, breaks

your heart apiece to form a world anew

and gather together some
few short slivers of wisdom.

Labels: Sylvia Plath

Posted by Richard J.A. at 4:28:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

You want so little, "just books, converse and music;
a tranquil room of one's own; a girl's love

-Nick Joaquin, It Was Later Than We Thought

Labels: Nick Joaquin

Posted by Richard J.A. at 4:25:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

anthony:

it costs so much to dye i'd rather leave

for cemetery and contemplate there
a template of my death: twenty pesos

for these twelve half-lit candles. Three
lone prayers for one soul. One
shoe sole for every walking mile. Two
coffins buried today, no unwatched slot
as everyone waits in slotting their beloved's

human carcasses.

Five hundred pesos
for another semi-used dead box. Six
times this darkness and a half note of silence
you think again of this unlit candle, unvisited tomb. Two
nights and two days and two special weeks of eating grass
and loud silence in the middle of a hot humid light. Four
dead lousy skin sheets unnnoticed, undone, as passers-by die

in the middle of the night

anthony2:

Inks are costly and knives are dull, poisons
gape through my innards clean and immune and sins
flow past the heart and through the lungs and back to another
sin of lost hunger: they multiply and slither across the guards:
millions of sins multiply in billions of pieces yet no slot
these days is empty and hell is full and heaven's a dollar;

it costs so much to die i'd rather live.

Labels: Halloween, Sylvia Plath

Posted by Richard J.A. at 10:36:00 AM | Permalink | Comments

furrowed unto the sand is my left hand

arms closed and hands gripped around my chest, weary
bones strifle every inch of this thigh muscle i plan to cut
with my other hand, teeth raw and naked as if it had just
taken a breakfast of corals, ready

to gnaw out everything falling
up from that slope and this trench and those deep uncut cliffs
whose engraved dialogues are wickedly serious in form
and are devoured by these eyes i do not consider mine;

furrowed unto the sand is my right arm

and as i cite and recite all stringed emotions
all things begin to clear out and feel down, down,
in becoming a great mere pause, translated:

I wait for the meeting of the suns.

Labels: Sylvia Plath

Posted by Richard J.A. at 10:33:00 AM | Permalink | Comments