A Posporo Pause

Smoking

2011-12-25T18:37:00.001+08:00

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

2011-12-02T22:48:00.000+08:00

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

2011-12-01T21:58:00.003+08:00

Don't you like when it rains this good
And you don't have to say
What no one dares to utter once
And none shall lose their way?

When it's this cold
and you have thought
There is better outside
Will you try to run through the wet
And find in me a side

That you're the only one to see
And only one to feel
When there's nothing more to believe
And most have been concealed?

When it's this dark is it wrong to
Deny what life can give
And ask from whom everything comes:
Can I not watch you live?

The Town

2011-12-01T21:52:00.001+08:00

This is a town where we see all
The homeless pry the streets
You don't know who to blame and what
Will ever be discreet

You think you can but all is down
Your trial is banal
This is a town where no one owns
The biggest single call

Why should you give a penny out?
This man's not your father
Let him lie down the streets and you
Continue the order

Let no one touch you and touch none
Who never will return
But be aware no one has known
The one who is to burn

The Universe Announce

2011-11-27T21:43:00.000+08:00

You must have hurt yourself. See? My surprise knows no bounds, is almost
Fatal and you can't fend it off. Everything fattens.
Sure, you have recourse but is it yours? Is it stellar
Enough to deny reaction from something divine?
It's not planetary, not that you know of such thing.
It's scary now because all you have is a look.
Did I give it to you without your asking?
Have I ever promised you less revolting
Much kinder less appraising poorly dealt?
You can't find no delicate impression of goddesses these days am I not right?

Not here, where I allow a wrestle to implode
Not here when it's over even before ever
Has a meaning? Been there? Of course
All relates to a lessening and no response erupts.
And still, all this, after aeons of war.

Where It's Not Haiti

2011-11-27T21:39:00.000+08:00

There's no such friendship as a pretty unreliable.
The cue is right here: scapular, restricted smoke, soap.
The intention is neutral: a point to no thinking
A response, fall-out, like an interrupted glance
Fragment no possibility: the range of fraction denies
Flat-faced pure telegram-prone tone has its edges
You cannot stop, unlike a walk

Now picture two of this. (Can't you unkill?) Picture stanza
That now refers to a planned theater. Lady sentences darling
To say that it's over, endless. What smoke doesn't fit?
What I should wait. The worst: the body. The next body that is
Supposed to hurt but it can't right now I'm afraid.

The Point of An Ending

2011-11-17T19:55:00.000+08:00

It's over now, you can sit down
And wish it be the same
But never shall we ever claim
We basically have waned

We do not say we wish it back
What's done is not what is
You can call for all of your gods
While I sit here in bliss

I shall be rabid like the one
Who never is absurd
I shall be more than just complete
I own this fucking world

The day has come and it's all mute
No desire has been met
And yet some life's beyond repeat
And I've paid death my debt

The Acquaintance

2011-11-13T21:22:00.004+08:00

Let's do this trick from eye to eye
I'll open now my book
You're never here but sure you'll care
Nothing of what I took

Are you sure you want to do this?
Because I'm now in doubt
There's nothing here that you can show
Will be worth more than shout

Are you sure that you're done with that?
Because I'm here for more
Celebrate now before you see
I am the greatest bore

I can't tell you about the heart
Or why it's still not healed
The only thing you need to know:
It ends in just one feel

The Lady In The Bar Late At Work

2011-11-12T22:07:00.004+08:00

I cannot move faster than this
I don't run like I cry
I take my patience from my son
And he's not getting by

I have my breasts to him a lot
His life depends on mine
You know I cannot drink that now
Don't listen to me sigh

Do not fret if you're the fifteenth
Tonight it's about fun
Be very slow with how you flow
It's all too far, the sun

Please hush now baby, do not mind
That I'm not there for you
The world is proof you don't need me
Prove that it is untrue

The Meeting

2011-10-24T20:10:00.001+08:00

The stars declare democracy.
When have you told me it was me
that had to be there with your hand
and bleed myself like I'm the man

who needs to say I'm sorry, too
but mean it like how moon turns blue
and yet believe I've given due
to a delay that made me you?

I'm ready for the stars to fall
I'm waiting for your heart to call
Itself barely living and mauled,
I am the snake who never crawled.

Homage To Their Meaning

2011-10-22T20:46:00.002+08:00

I've never seen you stammer

What you're singing

There's no minding whatever

Someone's not eating

There's no story left

For the shaking

What part of past isn't given

To crying? To what debt

Shall I burden the pen

You are holding?

In crime there's witness

To nothing. To no one

I play my piano now

Someone's sitting's a love for fat

Someone's standing sobers the flat

Our body's sweat. Everything's wet

Everybody's somebody's

Person to forget

Movement and Distance

2011-10-12T10:59:00.000+08:00

[Distance] is the basis of all measurement of length. -A. Einstein

My moon resembles a wagon, its books contain
Music you need to die twice to hear
A window of arrows will stun you. A brave life
Shall be shamed by my very scent

Your face shall be halved. It shall share
Not one of its slats to armoring trolls
Your taken souls shall question
How it never stood up with me. Then we'll listen
To its attempt to sway me back to a hand
I know is more strict than time.

But then we settle, the dregs keeping you from day
Then you brush away your hair, silent and stolid
Like wet kitten dunning a mother for milk

Then you move, sew, drink and watch
Then I wrap, make, quiver and fall

When People Are Asleep

2011-10-07T21:32:00.001+08:00

This city's engineers are asleep and live in mountains.
Some of them do not know how to spell beige.
Some are not looked upon. Some can't see the man
wearing nothing, pulling dark sewage out of a world
He's probably not an engineer. We can be sure,
too, that many of them have green eyes
or plainly, eyes that see the color red
Eyes that caught mine when I'm in the mood to judge
Eyes that don't notice there's a dead baby on the streets
Eyes that wince when I blame no one for a dead cat
Eyes that are colorless or, like in dreams, gray
Some eyes differ from what I think eyes should be
Some are lonely-looking, but never frail
Some, thoughtful, but believe that everything is in twos.

Lilies

2011-10-05T20:52:00.002+08:00

tear gas for the dead, time bomb of the lonely
the salient shanty of fourteen grandam fools

like a silhouette for the blind, asset of mnemonic
the usual tried aspect of a botched escape

missiles for the sorrow, ignition of the lazy
scarlet scatter of fundamental blood

saying today is never a disaster, the fathers have ways
the mistaken brevity of simplistic sheets

at the movement of the guard because you pass
passing passed past fast

movement before Jacob, worship to the lied to
whatever it means means it's ever: a ration of time

my firewall is blocked, your profile unseen
Panic to the decors! Panic to the way!

we are a fever of binaries, our schedule obscene
moss-laden capsule, I drink of day

whatever you do, do not water the lilies
do not stereotype the only bus that passed
do not summon someone's brother, there never is
anything worth summoning a brother for

akin to danger, entertained by facts
nobody comes to your retardation
nobody leaves you, nobody loves

Sunday for arrows, a lady besets the chair
the man, bacchanal, on for a riot
an uncalled for thwacking at a mother

fatless diversion, stolen memory in an open kiosk
smoking of a mom, the chugging of interfered hearts

it leaves space for more key items
it stays open for squalor of dust

here they are a walk-about like a feint
copies of copies, hold your necks from the noose

it is only a whatever it is, there never hurts
a squadron you missed

Children Who Can't Sing

2011-09-24T20:22:00.000+08:00

these kids have trash they cannot throw
and I sell some of them
they have so much of what they have
which I don't recommend

unless you are someone like me
who sits by dark cafes
and waits the day you cannot say
we should be parting ways

which doesn't mean it will all come
in certain obvious clues
but that's better than not knowing
what ever is a bruise

so throw away, expect some more
your choice is long far gone
what now is left is rushed decay
like children who have sons

Hair

2011-09-24T10:29:00.000+08:00

Your passion shows you need me, Sir
But birthdays are not yours
Some of us think we can live with
Out the one you just force

Is my cut hair that taut to you
That you forget you don't
Own in this place anything that
Is clearly not a fault?

You owe it to the skies as well
But know that none is much
As useful as your hand to mine
But know that it's not such

Just stare at me, my frame owns none
That impedes your tenure
As settler of a life you should
Now be ready to cure

Victorian Furniture

2011-09-20T22:04:00.000+08:00

I notice you don't have the couch no more. The TV stand is changed so that's good.
Is that plate better? The last time I was there you hadn't noticed
I wasn't even looking at my food when you gave it to me.

How about the shoulders of your shirt? Didn't it hurt? Did it?
Well, I can't tell you I told you so, can I?
Nobody knows your green. Your stories are, well, not meant to be open
To others who didn't get scarred when they were 5.

When you were 5, where were you
When I told my daddy there was something out there
I could only love when I'm 12? You're 24 now, right?
Happy birthday.

Her Kiss

2011-09-15T20:54:00.002+08:00

Is your wrist now not worth my touch
Is your head ready, too?
I'm here not to hold just your glass
And yet I do not do

I'm duller than a day of luck
And worth less than a pen
I don't know when your eyes can see
What of me to defend

Have I been too much to your eyes
Because her lips were less
Than our good days that are more than
A kiss you should've guessed

I'm all she has, what am I to
Do now that you have none
And I have none and she has none
Love never has been fun

Teacher

2011-09-11T20:18:00.000+08:00

The voice I hear is not of death
And tries to deafen me
With calls that I've already told
Myself to simply free

But what comes back is friendly sound
Of your name by the Sun
That dries me everyday when I
Just teach myself to run

Away from where you may have sat
And moved a slant of hair
That touched the edge of someone's hand
Whose tongue is everywhere

It shoudn't be as you would know
But all voice has an end
And what is mine but tiresome hum
You can't afford to mend.

A Poem For Our Security Personnel

2011-09-03T21:56:00.002+08:00

This is a poetry written for a security guard.

Of course it involves guns, failed marriages and supper.

It will try to look into the introspection required of the guards who form pleats to their pants.

It has something to do with walking and how much easier life would be if it is

a job essential.

Guards who can't sit down on duty shall be tackled.

Their mothers' story of how they've borne a child who sits

for not a minute while on duty just to secure a room full of gamblers

that none of them bet less than they should, shall also be covered.

But these are not the essentials of this poem.

These are not even given facts for facts require deferring

and clearly there's no deferring among guards who can't be bothered

to be asked of their opinion on money and stocks.

This poem shall mention about the guards' eyes, their chapped

lips, their bent muscles where water cascades when they take a bath

and all the preparation required to not be invited

by the moon nor the sound of an absent female

to pull a trigger down their soft thirsty mouth.

I Know

2011-08-21T21:55:00.000+08:00

You are to worry now: your opportunities are open
And none of them are as promising as what I
Thought an eagle set free would be
They're more like the scene of a plowing
Of a farm no one owns. They're fragile
But not enough for a feather to shatter.
There's even doubt that no one knows the shit,
As you would put it. Right there, there is
Something wrong about you knocking yourself out.
What is your reason on saying you are worth less?
What is the purpose of invisibly flagellating yourself?
But anyway none of this matters now as you know
I already see everything you've opened-you surprise
None of my vulnerability; I'm sadder than youth.
Have I now caused you to let every beautiful thing
Pass by in your absence solely because you mistake
My soul as a garden's magenta? A specimen
Of specific undetermined endorsement?
A viewer of no one's sea?

Long Scar

2011-07-01T18:54:00.001+08:00

Whatever sings the songs you know
Should be stopped now before
I get the chance to write them down
And prove they have no cure

When I write them you no longer
Sing songs of blue and mad
You will be longer than my scar
And all your life is sad

But is it really worse to have
A tune that's never sung
Than be the joke of your someone
Who'll never really come?

You wait but see the end is dead
Because love has no fault
But if it's death that life should have
Then I have never sought.

The Rejected Lung

2011-01-28T21:43:00.005+08:00

It would not have been about what your mother would

have you say. It shouldn't have been about where

the part comes from or from whose dead flesh it sprang.

The theory is there, plain enough, and arbitrary-free

Now this couldn't be more simple, despite the science

That it would render a bit remote if done wrong.

The issue isn't even tally. Not nearly as dual

And double standard as you would prefer. It's part-

ial to all syndication of ruin but need we reassure

Ourselves that time never knows who is?

Time now is finite as we obviously wouldn't like.

Scalpels have second shift. All blades need security

From err. Now that you're lying. Now that it's there,

Surprise no one please that you won't live.

But you wouldn't, even for mere giving meaning to air.

The Coen Brothers' Adaptation of True Grit

2011-01-16T09:05:00.000+08:00

I wish we were this big of a loving matter.

I wish we were dancing to the beat of a falling bottle shot from above.

There is instrument to a horse marauding. Nobody thinks your girl is a baby at 14.

This Flat Tire And Skill

2011-01-09T09:44:00.001+08:00

I am flatly two, functioned by nobody's theory of brother

The levels of which stands to equal a lion's

View of stairs by the bicycle

That refuses braving the brown flat it owns.

I am pressed by 2 and 4. 6. 7. Then I picture the symbol for

That click. That picked, unmnemonic caution for dysfunction

Of reveille out to mark where I'm to speak

Before I am no longer just an asset of lint and graphite

Before Worcestershire deserves new owning

As all that could be the new format for Now

We Face The Facsimile Of Facetious Facile Facets Of Skill.

Iced

2011-01-03T13:02:00.001+08:00

How come you have iced mocha but not iced chocolate
If you serve only the genuine, the only one I tolerate?

Are you trying to say I'm poor
Which isn't what exactly I'm not aiming for

But not the one I'd like you to show me now
Unless of course you tell me to kiss you's how

I should see the end of days sitting here alone
Watching people listen to their books

To refuse to listen to people today
And start asking if I might not as well be just stone.

People Give Up

2010-12-31T14:02:00.010+08:00

Photo of Masha Novoselova by Peter Gehrke

He starts to take out the piece of printed paper place mat from the fast food place he could barely stand staying in for the muzak that if you're a bit inclined to thinking everything's easily conspirational, you would've thought it's subsidized by a corporate bureau solely commissioned to discourage introspective thought, and immediately writes the first thing that comes out of his mind that he could rip off easily a story from, so he might for once in a very long time finish a story he could a bit care about enough not to throw away. Oddly enough the first story he thinks of begins with the muzak that blares out of this bistro's stereo system but which he tries to veer away slightly unabated from but not without the kind of effortlessness you notice of people being nostalgic of pebbles because right now he is thinking of the story about the girl again.

This one right here is fairly not wanting a necessary strained effort you are required to give when, say, lining up in a grocery queue to purchase champagne, in order to be read by the right market focus audience. It is not easily fit into the simply lazy and uninspired category he's been loyal to fit all his women in to demonstrate how you couldn't get out of your concept of anything that matters to you. How you can't resist to write about it long and clear enough not to throw it away again or if you do you still can find the courage to pick it up or even remember in the first place you've written something even about it being more than just metaphor. But you write this quick enough you no longer worry about why you shouldn't be writing about it, if that's possible within the realm of what you think is time.

But this one's fresh. Acrid even. Misty if you will, in certain respects such as you're actually holding her hand or your shoulder's by her cheek under the current and draft of the aftermath of just mere threat of rain.

But there's no rain when he met this girl in the story we're probably no longer able to digress from without a single bit of threat that it's just sadly mainly trying to just go back to when you never even got bothered to write about it anywhere, anyhow, anytime.

This girl, as a foremost to a bigger albeit not better scene, starts it by responding to his question with "What?"

The question being was: Is This The Part I'm Supposed To Say Hello.

"Come Again?" being the follow-up message. With which he continued with, "See, if you're there and about to do something as unusual as asking a street kid to come with you and I was just there standing, sipping lemon iced tea with mini-cookies staring at the whole filed of the rotunda and then sometimes laugh at this man's attempt to sell us cigarettes, what with his dirt-laden hands that clearly wouldn't be a hindrance to people who might think of buying some sticks from him even out of pity, if I may be allowed to be blunt and slightly awkwardly trying to be clever about it. And then you're there, a few steps away from me, wearing something I just gave up expecting people to wear in a weather like this, with that smile and this move with your hands and the natural awkward state obligatory for those who have seen these kids the first time. And then I could no longer help it but at the same time couldn't exactly pull off the game of putting some sort of real sexual exit out of the exactingly calculated and almost arabesque-like brilliance of the beautiful ratiocination that why bother when everyone might just have AIDS or, worse, want kids? People give up. So that's why I'm preferring to play the role the answer for which might easily be found in one mere question of where and when exactly should I say hello."

"Hello?"

"Yes, the simplest hello."

"To me?"

"It would be weird if it isnt."

"Well either way it is."

"You mean weird?"

"What else could it be."

"Why?"

"What do you mean why?"

"What do you mean what do you mean why?"

Terrence Mallick's Tree of Life

2010-12-30T11:54:00.000+08:00

The Thin Red Line: The part where the head soldier signals for duck and then they gradually cower under the greens of field.

Badlands: Kissing her under the baseball stadium seats. The dance along with The Nat King Cole song A Blossom Fell.

Days Of Heaven: The river, slants, pure field, washing of hands, traces of sunlight.

And now this.

December 28, 2010

2010-12-29T12:54:00.002+08:00

WARNING: It seems of interest to Joan to read the sign DO NOT LEAVE YOUR VALUABLES UNATTENDED and see that her parents are in the queue ordering her McFlurry while she's sitting alone in the table almost completely unatttended. 

THE ONE AFTER THE EPIGRAM:

The sort of halcyon tendency of petals
Literally ten minutes before the start of night
That isn't twilight
Without the promise of full sun.

And anticipate lots and lots of drum.
The simile-challenged generational default of believing Ivy is food.

The constant harness for the destabilizingly bland.

Women who didn't pursue unusual intent.

Lady from the Magma resigning

From the unsympathetic nature of one kind of dumb.

The-cup-of-carbs to one slab of meat diet to function.

The ice-like flurry of wind in lone gas-station reading.

The 140-character-measure for attention.

The shirt that's supposed to say "COUPLES FOR CHRIST"

But by some graphic aesthetic/technical error, albeit unintentioned,

Goes to read "COUPLES OR CHRIST"

The One Video About How You Can Make Something Commercial Beautiful

2010-12-15T23:12:00.003+08:00

There's probably a tomorrow still when you can't exactly say "I'm sick of it."

There's probably a when that doesn't talk too much of you.

It's selfish as selfish, but so is a---so is a--- I mean, so is a---

Me At Sallent de Gallego Spain

2010-12-09T15:15:00.002+08:00

The stretch of the blue sky is random. The clouds intrude like unwanted visitor. The road's flat and crowded by no one it is almost as if there's no one's really here. Even me.

The light behind is forgetting. It is northward, probably from the northern thoughts. The green is Windows 98 default wallpaper. I do not think there are real stones here.

I am almost missing my car. It is almost passive-aggressive, the cow I do not see right here but what should be a right thing to be in this pastoral flatness. The Walkmen's The Blue Route is playing, screeching, faintly a scream:

What happened to you..What happened to you..What happened to you...

How To Ride A 10-M Jeepney In Cebu City

2010-12-03T12:53:00.003+08:00

Before I arrived at SM where I'd buy another pair of shoes that I'm barely gonna use but would still buy anyway just because I could, I had to endure the splendor and beauty of riding a 10-M. 10-M is the route of the jeepney you have to ride to reach SM, a mall. Jeepney is the no.1 means of transportation in Cebu, which is funny because you could barely trust it to get you to your destination without feeling you're about to get the last ride of your life. Anyway, Google the rest.

Ok so we have to also say here that it was raining hard. Like Katrina-hard. Deluge-ish even. But none of this could stop me from doing something I didn't really have to. So screw the rain.

And that's why I was doing the 10-M with people I could just simply say were pretty much obliged to ride it, too, because they need it for work or/and/without school which from where I'm at is pretty much what you'd be unwillingly doing to barely even eke out a living enough for your family to even know what lunch is. This is why we people should be prouder of ourselves.

What makes me even prouder is this: a kid did a "kadyon/kapyot" on the jeep's open-door end, hanging there, which only a slight careless or, worse, involuntary move could separate you from feeling life's cheery enforcement of torture or succumbing to the total absence of it like pure timeless bliss. Again, it was still raining hard. So hard I was beginning to think the passenger girls I was with were practically on tears, pardon the sexism. So anyway, this street kid (pardon my naivete and discrimination because from the looks of it I might really be better off calling these street kids as "things") started singing some carols which we're supposed to respond to by giving them what we think we wouldn't exactly immediately die without: some few peso coins in our pockets we didn't probably even notice were there in the first place.

Don't get me wrong: I'm as much for Science as the next Catholic guy is, which means I believe in what Science can give me to make me mothereffin high and happy in proportion to what religion can, too. But these past days I couldn't really say I'm still as into over Christmas as I was before somebody left me in the garbage truck so to speak. Part of it is also because I think you look better cool pretending not to believe in anything to appear Beatnik and spiteful of tradition, i.e. becoming unconventionally genius. But this kid/thing was just really trying too hard, you know? You don't exactly think we should just be ignoring him/it even for the effort, do you? The thing was really effortlessly trying so hard to get the money I'd probably just use to buy some cigarettes or better yet if I feel like it, to just throw away just for kicks. Besides, it's not like throwing away money doesn't make anyone of you happy.

So that's why I was like, Man, this thing or probably around 7-year-old kid that's all dripping wet must be really well-read and educated to become so insouciant of the basic business of living (like being bothered by ads like "Sneakers You Don't Really Need To Use Non-Postmodernly On Your Feet Sale" enough to accede to them) to just give it all up and start hitchhiking now like this under the heavy rain that even I a pensive rain-loving intelligent and well-deserving of all God could possibly imagine of giving without really being such an asshole about it, could possibly imagine of doing. And I who is very entitled to all the things kids like this thing right here who had the gall to even attempt of thinking (assuming all its synapses are still on its right place, which you don't really think it is, do you? How could you/it?) of hitchhiking in this jeep that I'm also being obliged to endure if I had to get the chance to buy the shoes that I know might even just make things around me just about less intolerably sad, things including the sight of this thing hitchhiking at the end and look out kid we're about to pass through a really deep sewage-clogged-caused flood nearby so you might want to cover your mouth unless it's your thing to drink it because hey it's not like I know what food is and what can make me nourished and what even nourishment means, right, right, right.

So I was like it, Fuck it. Here's P5 for you. And you don't even have to thank me or say that it's too much, because I'm not one of those people who value money over people, you know kid? I'm not like that at all even if what I'd be doing a few minutes after this piece of coin reaches your palm probably entirely contradicts it you know what I'm saying?

Thanksgiving Master

2010-12-02T10:44:00.001+08:00

Click Me I'm A Nedroid Comic.

Good/Bad thing I do/don't celebrate this/that.

The Lady With A Box

2010-11-28T12:06:00.004+08:00

The lady with a large box on her lap sits on the chair by the post across the cafe I frequent and taps the hole of a smaller one to count how much cigarettes she'd sell before she can go home. She sits there now with the cigarettes out the box, their orange filters protrude, forming into a series of perfectly straight twigs. Then she puts them back again. Then taps the box more before I approach her and buy one of the sticks. I give her 2 pesos. She lets out one stick, being careful not to touch with her fingers that I think she knows I know are dusty and wet. She gives me a stick. I pick up her lighter. Then I take a long drag and she taps back the box again, but now I guessed is not already about the box, but a search.

I take steps back, the usual way buyers do. And then I see there under the stool she's sitting in- right beside a mat a with a bunch of clothes in it- a locket or a coin. I do not do anything but can still see the lady who I later learned to be sleeping there in the streets across the cafe I frequent, across the wide spread of street rummaged about by cars. She still sits there searching and then I here a step back sees her look for something I know might already be there.

Stabbing The Man In The Heart

2010-11-26T13:34:00.001+08:00

“Look, just look. See that. I don’t even..." he says and pauses, "feel.” He smiles. Then he stares at her mouth before he becomes pensive at her scar. He likes her scar. It's mysterious. But not as much as his repeating now a procedure right through the chest with a sword. His red shirt’s on the floor. It's touching the edge of the crimson curtains the texture of cardigan somewhere. At whose pleats she'd now stare.

She has nothing to say. She thinks of nothing but the call's fray. It’s vivid really. Something she thought she couldn’t associate with sound normally . It is, she thought, better than the spectacle of eternal life in front. Its voice wasn’t familiar, but if stereotyped would remind you something secretarial. And then she thought again, Why was it crying and asking to speak of my men? No it couldn’t be a confirmation. It couldn’t be this. There are reasons for cliches, but theirs won't be this.

“Why that look? Don’t you see..”, he looks back at the sword. He traces its silver. His left fingers now to the shaft. The blade slicing the left of its index. But it is not a scream- and scarlet-inducing thing. But it is no longer something nobody would do.

“I’m not gonna die, Baby. Even for you.”

There is a pause before she soundlessly says “That’s it that’s it that’s the reason for it”. And now sick to her mouth, but still unknowing if it’s because she’s not the last to know. Or it’s too late now to stab a heart.

In The New Republic

2010-11-17T22:30:00.002+08:00

-for Rachel Wetzsteon

I do not
see a map-
size water puddle in cement.
I see an area of competition it rivals, though
I see no superior saying, but an inferior to my space
I taxi reverse-engineered tragedies but hope it has a lot
will put itself to none of your start and against the chafe
on my foot pinky that's culturally China, your name
lays below your face.

It's not so much the difficulty of a flat-
ter compromise as it is
the juxta-
position of two
girls and the homeless to
the streets that's going to be gone
with you there in the lid of a soda opened
no longer the laughing-stock of the cars and I will
before me
be for you.

Halloween

2010-11-03T12:47:00.000+08:00

Dogs can walk like humans don't.
Orgy of stand-bys, false specifics, endurance from enforced full,
- Anonymous

There's no motherly of secrets, you're obviously one.
Does this even bother you, question of finite?
I hear there's no salad bowl enough for your stomach
I hear your belief in octagon's as structured as the fact
That crabs can cross a street and passers-by ignore them
Guess what, I saw one a minute ago and they didn't.

I hear the ending is sorry and a vandal's limit
Reaches so far only when a gate is unopened
I hear stamina is regret and there's no salad bowl of windows
Nor concoction of shadows that matter to no one mad
Are trials for all only a temporary dot, then? Are periods
Era only in place of a comma when, say, bicycles strike?

I bet you didn't let me in. I bet yours wouldn't shell me.
I bet I carapace no one's protection and my friction isn't free of duty yet
Or at all, will you let us? The theory of advance is supposed to be beset
But how is there "be", when everything's but an insistence of a self
A holding of breath, a terror in the eye of a baby, as it were
How are temples delimited when it excludes no one?
There is then erroneous in pieces and something can be no more untrue:
Your inability to an introduction slights me like a blunt cuss,

And Silent Now

2010-10-01T09:05:00.002+08:00

The flowers they have placed on the center table are not the roses I know they never knew I like and they’re flower-shop-bought. There was somebody texting. On her right a girl is introducing someone I never met. There was a joke about a grandmother I could barely hear and at least two people I don’t know aren’t drinking their juice. Bread is also served, and at the farthest back is a cheerful video chat between people inside this room and some family abroad. Someone with a yoyo stands in the doorway, which reminded me of my fantasy of witnessing a surgeon’s hand being massaged. This isn’t exactly the worst time to witness that.

Usually you’re supposed to hear something like, why, too soon, or they should’ve been there sooner, or how profligate was his fate, in a night like this, in a room like this. I’m pretty sure someone’s supposed to be not invited. But no, tonight you do not hear them and they’re here.

It is not a hopeful sight that all feel gray and silent now, which is slightly different from the previous nights. This is, I would say, fairly boring and unfortunately nothing like the noisy bar I felt myself walking double in. Nothing like the girl whose kiss I wet before she left and caused me to feel the last time what the thrill and fun of a toyed wrist was like. Nothing like the sight of leaving friends you bought drinks for and never knowing their names, not that you’d ever want to, but it wouldn’t hurt to be polite. Nothing like the sorry from a punching father I’m not exactly sure I’m owed and the We’re Proud of You I got tired of but is never the kind I’d wish a mother would say to me in bed.

My mother isn’t here. No screaming of whys, which tells big-time against the movies about this. It’s all just plain sitting, no reading of books I supposed would be apt for what I am forever going to miss, a sullen sky, crumpled invitation cards, paid flower deliveries of absent people I can’t exactly remember now where I met. Funny enough, on the top of the TV was no longer the usual remote controller. It was a coffee stirrer I used to scrape the grime off my sink with. Cleaning my sink was like playing the yoyo. And what I wouldn’t give to be able to do the cleaning again outside a rectangle glass box and gesticulate and pay at least myself respect.

It is not about a raid

2010-09-17T22:33:00.002+08:00

Newer instances, stanzas unsung, pardons delayed, fagged rung
Movement undone, teachers refuse, do not partake in notions
Men otherwise considered not female have long been unused
To your ushered anathema, to symptoms of nerve! To newer belly
A dell.

The field trip pays, the newer children raise, a custodian's massage
To a doctor will be named. To a bishop, to a diaconate, to a lion's head.
Morning is protracted Shiva, doors open to no one dear, tiresome sun dance.

A whole expanse of wretched teach, the plangent of this, the riot of all
The whole flurry of it acts as if not alone but when seen at its face
You must not be worrisome to say it is not only about a raid.

Three Sentences

2010-09-05T01:03:00.000+08:00

It isn't a movement, seeing you
lift your left hand to the mouth as shut
as the integral math of you're not letting me in once
to homes they will always find no one in but him
and you, tired, wan, singular at your fraction
my being here ignoring and you there made.

Yours is stalwart, true, but mine's staler
than freshest stain fringed in war arrows,
product of an aborting mother who folds,
lions felled, horses dead, smelt scab,
a baby headless in attention and torso cut in haze,
and the total rusts bells owed of church.

It isn't movement: not finding you
an intentional respite pardons all
that does not hold true in my stance
that is just variation of standing up,
hands fractal in motion to beat of scream.

Bb. Pilipinas International 2009 Melody Gersbach Car Crash and Ads

2010-08-21T23:28:00.001+08:00

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Roger Federer's New Ad

2010-08-21T09:11:00.000+08:00

This is Roger Federer trying to shoot a bottle with a tennis ball.

Roger Federer in this new ad looks just as august. I like to use that word

On him because there's nothing like Roger Federer's

New Ad: Roger Federer is to awesome what new lines to poetry are

Roger Federer is the kind of thing you can't do a David Foster Wallace for

Roger Federer is alive. Roger Federer in this new ad is not an aberration.

Fresh Machines or Tested Flesh

2010-08-17T18:14:00.000+08:00

See, the thing is, you haven't a clue
To why it says it will not have cons
They the wretched shall claim bones
From babies, this pastry's origin

I do not know their picking a basket
Trash is lovely to look at if you eat
Them afterwards are the reasons
You do not want to go to such

Definite? How else to repay to buy
Buy, buy, buy, drink wan replete juice
Cream your body absent of licking
Absinthe of the leisure of suck, surfeit of

Impudence, exponential decrease of talk
That says there is white stain at the back

Of mirror, the glass has some black
To see.

Open Gates

2010-08-17T18:09:00.000+08:00

I love it that everything's some sort of an extension
I dare no one to pay for me what I owe:
The devilish snarling when they said they will be nicer to eyes

I love its promise of daisy, its oath to a happy
Sleep tomorrow: is picking up of a dropped pin
A spy

I admire? It's declivity to smoothness, its lenient
Look at faults reflective of a spoon's back

Its temerity at defining my status, its coarseness
At the announcement I consider new lights

I extol its view of a forward, scraping of flesh, open gates

Among The Ones Who Sat

2010-08-17T17:55:00.000+08:00

Inside the cafe was a round table that stood like a fractal easel around whose set of un-winged chairs sat what seemed to me a family of six. The one girl is fat, brunette, hands distended and frenetic on the rotund buttons of some digital video game console labelled X O I Q. Beside her it's a girl surely no older than 16, wearing aubergine V-shaped blouse with its neckline plunged. The accompanying parents just stared at the girls, blank but never plaintive, and at intervals shoved pieces of a one-slice cake the six of them shared to mouths penultimate to being sick at being full. The septuagenarian who joined them wasn't on a wheelchair, which implied she should. Another girl family member, reluctant to share her fork, wasn't looking at her.

They were off-beat silent, almost betraying the dense closeness enforced by simply being on this shop. They were terribly mute, so uncommunicative at their display, it surprised me no one else seemed to take notice of such archetype of strange. They were all at some level rigid to look at, immobile in some counts, so unresponsive to the simple leisures of sometimes stale coffee, it could only be accounted by the inchoate seeds brandished by a baptism, its roots and Sunday rituals that taunt the haste of drivers and readers in deep downtown Colon. The landscape is funny, a moronic irony, alliterative to a sprawling savanna helpless in its obstinate clinging to a lack of solace. It's petition-worthy, miasmatic at its least literal. Is this wont to such a culture?

But the oddest slightly odious thing, however, was that try as I might to laugh it out discreetly, it's still as if they knew I knew everyone else knew they knew I wasn't exactly alone.

The Recent of Skies

2010-08-13T23:31:00.000+08:00

From NASA Astronomy Picture of the Day

Facing Infront

2010-07-13T11:24:00.000+08:00

All bottles have roles now: nothing unscientific
Leaves and their spoons always lie prone
The use of naming now elegant like new laundry
Domesticities announce themselves in bombs

Syringes of cancer
Cure and find
No one near this cesspool of bile

I smile
At a dance and pegging I will hold my eyes to
All the splendor of new words and bent steel

Stay undulating against the mothers who sell

Casting

2010-07-05T20:14:00.002+08:00

The gathering of each cast
The reshaping meant for bandage
This thinner, some form of acetone, have them
Selves lift sheets of wounds out
The skin ready for new wind, set of brown
You have to rub just as fast though
Scraping won't do because how does it
When around you are digital zeroes.

A pattern of your smile, remnant of lips
Our dance, my shoulder by your cheek
Left open are streets I am walking for home.

The tyranny in this loving has torn sheets
Brought back to use, formless, they have
Acquired licenses to delay sleep
A puncture to paper is its allowance
Have yourself it and staying flat shall

Have no more use to you than tomorrow's paper

Time shall fail, its gravitas a fiction
You only read not on these nights.

Multiplied

2010-06-23T10:53:00.000+08:00

from the Smashing Hub

There's something true about a manipulation.

Not many can say a beautiful thing stays forever without being manipulated.

And that's why the manipulated seems more democratic, reachable, left exclusive to no one.

Everything here is a signal that says, You better copy things for tomorrow.

All you see around you have to be somehow staring. You desire for bed.

There's something nullifying about this, don't you think? Don't you think you too are here?

A mention: Abdichtarbeiten site that has references to everything theatrical: http://www.businessdeutschland.de/en/list-industries/theatre,-concert,-radio,-film-and-entertainment-46.html

The World Is Better When It's This

2010-06-19T08:24:00.000+08:00

B.J. Novak, from BitTorrent's The Office, and his monologue at the 14th Webbys.

Triad

2010-06-17T17:42:00.001+08:00

There are certainly more cars you can see there than here when you've not opened the windows yet.
The lights you see have similarities with stars; they do not come here.
It is scary to be feeling this way. The door's locked and had only been opened when forced.
There comes a time you shall be asking about things only mothers care about. Which is nothing really.
There's pain in being uncouth, more when you're hammering concrete nails with a wooden block.

by
Matthew Lyon

Inside Some Cafe

2010-06-14T15:16:00.001+08:00

by my-little-world from Flickr

There are a series of cubicles in this room. In one aisle a set of monobloc chairs are unused. There are children tapping the keyboards and the screens do not flicker right. A black man just went out with his lady and they probably weren't married yet from the way they talk. It has been three hours since my first sitting.

*AD: People that sell textiles: http://www.businessdeutschland.de/en/list-industries/textiles-12.html.

Slept

2010-05-30T14:05:00.001+08:00

Hear the rabbits, they speak desire.

Hail the sky, they do not rain.

The forgiven resembles clouds farther north

It is beginning

Everybody knows what sent us here.

Kite Hill
by Paul Octavious

Kick Ass The Movie

2010-04-24T22:03:00.000+08:00

Kick Ass movie poster from NYTimes.

"Have you ever had the feeling of simply going berserk and just run amok and act like Jason Bourne and just beat the heck out of anything that comes your way? Matthew Vaughn's Kick Ass asks that question, and offers the simplest answer: should you have the thoughts, give it a go, especially when you're under 12.

"Most people would say it's a dangerous film, an attempt to desensitize violence, the usual Hollywood formula that belittles carnage and whatnot. I don't think it's anything more than sheer thrilling fun."

Excerpt from "That Movie Kick Ass" movie review by Bisaya Films.

Nos.

2010-04-09T12:31:00.000+08:00

What day is it now? Have you comets?
They are fatless and shipment-oriented
They people concrete as unslain
Bodies in Japan before

Bombs, after the slay of flower, blame
A conflicted sweater reflecting credit on
A scab, you wake up to, a shower, lain
A rose

You
Talk down books and lease, read
A glass, the heat of unopened letter, sta-

Tic of metallic
On soil in the street by

A bed of asphalt, grounding to humble such fat-
Herless anti-

Three-Year Blank: A Dance

2010-03-16T16:32:00.000+08:00

No future says it's going to go better like not knowing
You wrote it yourself like how you once did your doll queer
B(b)ut couldn't recall. The only way out there (?)
W(w)as pinning down pegs to tents leaving spare a tin-canned mackerel (?)
Unspoilt: tomorrow, there be new hats at dawn, truck signs
By miles bypass streets empty of children empty of science
That backs everything from low-rate saving, cholera humor, symbols of malaise
Jesus Christ's beginning, innings of unspinned splintered top, arcades of action
Going on in out boxes of subtle static flicker, disfigured shapely leg
Blood-shot digital eye, sparse coins that meter time, it being conditioned
At equations, in gaps, on synchronized heat and dynamic of gear
This science saying what's brittled but unfranctured after falls
The rent expert of what is not the past of why a rube doesn't fit
Why wondering added to anyone negated equals not a free
List of untold: cite a chant's lyric from mnemonics SPARROW
Do a Nietzsche, paper mâche and prologue the Machiavellian
To drooling eight-year-olds who pat plump cats for fun but weep at mothers
Absent in front of grottos, that immaculate leisure of blank secure, grotesque
Really, when the impediment's malice's deliberate, sky's a frail shallow
That rejoice at kids careening streets dancing at twilight like glad
They're half-naked, sweat-drenched servicing watchers
Their jobs and blows, like spent gladiator called to spectacle.

February 28, 2010

2010-01-23T21:12:00.000+08:00

On the fifth of September in the street of Risan across blocks of derelict rotisserie kiosks and expanses of chapels a dilapidated jeepney came to a sudden stop. There weren't enough seats for new commuters to ride in, nor did any of the passengers call on the driver to signal halt. No tires were blown off so the reason the jeepney parked by the roadside was known to no one inside the ten-year-old gas-guzzling mechanical contraption that not only barely passes for a car but also hardly gives credence to the one that mostly resembles this region's stablest form of train.

The reason came only to some sense when the driver suddenly held his hands to his forehead and strapped about his head into its palm before an almost soundless sobbing was heard among the passengers who weren't exactly unused to this daily bourgeoisie drama. Nightly, something like this happens in various forms and this couldn't be the one that shall render the past a blatant repeated ennui.

Apparently, it did. The moment the passengers realized there was more to this pause than normally familiar happenings could suggest, someone had already noticed from the driver's left ear a gush of very crimson fluid running down his nape, like thick coffee spill, creamed.

It didn't feel right to pretend not to notice this so the guy at the back end went out to the driver's seat and held the crying man's hand to abate his sobbing and attempt to channel away from view the now river-like cadence of stunning red staining the driver's brown shirt.

"Could someone get me a towel, please," shouted the guy at the back to no one in particular, in dialect, but seemed not clear enough for everyone else didn't seem to respond, or did but failed to register the reaction the guy at the back thought they should. Instead, the people watching were either in their most surreptitious and stopping another car to call to get a ride in or just staring agape at this other new unraveled part of a curious series of striking events that had been recorded to have started just two days ago when a jeepney got smashed to powders of ash by raining rocks and minute unregistered planets after a twenty-four year old man in polo shirt with his brother sitting between his lap in a jeepney ride to Rasin had allegedly gently fixed about his little brother's back collar, without notice, almost unintentional, but couldn't be mistaken for something that doesn't show the one that's been slowly undoing these humans and which is probably the driver's mysterious red bile's cause.

The Dance

2010-01-23T21:05:00.000+08:00

Might you not be kind enough to accept this flower
Or just hold it long enough so others won't come
Asking for your hands like it were china or silver or piece of ring

Sharp and ready for diamonds to be cut: a thorn
Shall have no meaning now, not when you're beside
This. Safe. Granite. To protect you and whose clock says
It will not be too that too late to give it a wait

For the carriage to come, the taxis to reset clear their meter
Ambush of lions in the wild without preys but hunted
To find recourse, this overcast sky to make amends
To the only incandescence that matters to me now

A Flower

2010-01-23T20:59:00.000+08:00

You will be most unforgiving if you don't
Notice this flower erect as it were light
Fanciful but subtle as if nothing else hides
Better our only secret we can only smile at

Which has more to say; between us who deserves more
Time to prove the night its insincerity and poetry its spring

When the sky pays homage to no one else
But us, the people feeling, can't be slighted
By the bother of same sunsets at bay and crows

Have done us too much no good it'll be a while
Before your receiving this, my rose, is forgot

The Astronaut

2010-01-23T20:39:00.000+08:00

"And there he lay like a dead thing"- J.R.R. Tolkien

I.
It is going to be hard and faster
Like dentures unpicked or soaked in lime
He in supplication can't extricate tomorrow
Paints donate only to nothing near us.

They think the willows aren't doing the run.
They wonder yesterday had us controlled
No sooner does it arrive in dancing does it arrive in hands

There no limit gives halt to magma and very simple cancellations of no.
Breaches hold significance only to reachings. Nothing's really closed.
A panting pays, denials are a gift: They, blessed, turn out all
We weren't wishing to be there: had it done well, we'd be

How else can you give all you can't see their due?
You can't just fracture a bone for nothing short than leave.

There's money there but only in context of protracting nausea.
There's suddenness but only when you exclude a demographic.

Out of questions, not another word, being theirs: these couldn't
Be enough, to bring anyone interested in norms.

You couldn't do better than this: there's partly something doing us in.
Wouldn't there be something coming out of us?
I'm not taking pictures of you when I'm writing

I couldn't have been prescribing but couldn't be more forlorn.
Things change and all the idioms don't come

Unrealized: patterns have some sense
When you don't consider mud as it were
Something only the feverish appreciate.

And have reason to pray for tonight.

II.
The kid behind the kid using the computer asleep.
Jocosity only follows those at down. Your new
Chair is where these two kids sit and now it is
Possible no one really knows: the astronaut
Screened understands now what's stellar
Undecided are the buttons when left silent
What images remain die in flashback: no people
Remember your spit but your images satellite
Us together, like blade, does heed no radio
Everyone's with their sleeping and tongue's enough.

A Tip To Money

2010-01-10T19:52:00.000+08:00

photo by йάήǿ

There is a thriving that fits no one else's mouth. This could not be it but we will find it here:
1. Amazing views
2. A Tip to Money

People Evolve

2010-01-07T21:59:00.001+08:00

----
“Brian Boyd rehearses the history of the rapid growth in hominin brain size over the past couple of million years, showing that with the development of the neocortex we’ve been endowed with all kinds of cleverness to compensate for the fact that we’re slow, weak, flat-toothed and clawless. We are thoroughly social creatures, and when we work together we can be formidable predators; accordingly, we’ve evolved various attributes that enable mutualism, such as shared attention, mirror neurons and theory of mind. The latter allows us access to something no other animal seems aware of, namely, the notion that other members of our species might have false beliefs. The survival value of art, then, is that it hones and enhances those functions of mind that in turn enhance our capacity for social interaction and exploration: “Art develops in us habits of imaginative exploration, so that we take the world as not closed and given, but open and to be shaped on our own terms.”"

On the Origin of Stories: Evolution, Cognition, and Fiction by Brian Boyd, reviewed in American Scientist, posted in JessicaRulesTheUniverse.com blog.

-----------
You won't be needing this fail-switch. I am pardoned because I neck
To neck the whaling ships that are not different from our past.

To differ from paper, I do not know. Be that be they won't be all.

The Future Blow

2009-11-11T19:42:00.000+08:00

"They don't care too much for arsonists in theatres, " do they?
Why can't you even consider your theory as simple as beans of mung.
Theatricals consider forms negligent of real seeing. Besides the low-life are real.

Never are fingers benign and unwilling to touch you.
They say it is going to throw you nothing more than a future scab.

Preparations for scabs do not mean they are necessary; they cannot withstand the free.
You are assured they do not bite. They didn't mind they didn't go there directly as planned.

I have my eyes for your own staring.
I have your hands set upon my lap ready for the punch.
Your carrying me does some guilt a favor not sad enough for anyone not to notice.
How come neither of us seems to be doing something about reading Balzac.

Resurgence

2009-11-01T22:43:00.002+08:00

Hey, hey, 'tis the day we can't be used to words like flummoxed,
A coding at which no denying you will strike.

It seems to itself its history's never quite undone enough to find settlements.
It feels it needs something from us it can't quite possibly guide us to place.

Hey, hey, airplanes on your way. Not to be at your safety, but on you beat.
Hey, hey, this song, for your birthday. We'd be no more sorrier than you.

I begin to manage why it's going itself in a direction he can't guide.
I flashback my way to a syntax they cannot but loathe. Unbearably banal, our looking!
Hey, hey, there will be no more, no more for us left to say!

The Music of A Mouth Harp

2009-10-05T03:58:00.001+08:00

On this side it says, Take down all the flagships and let them all burn down.
It says, Mother of God! How creepiness lies straight down your hand; nerves fail.

You do not think it your right to maneuver us the subjects.
Do you not think we have the right to have a break.

It says, Take it all down with you, these metal sheets, these fell people.
There is nothing pretentious about a deluge, dear.

It says, Do things considerably manageable. Take morality as a gift!
Oh a gift it is! The wrong is ecumenical, you see. Better hypocrites telling us to go

Than flag ships worn out asking for our nets we haven't been used to giving
The mosquitoes you woke are not used to this, anyway. There will be sheets for them.

It says, Dare not say anything prosaic. Dare not say I am your son.
The lies are not able to show themselves the slightest bit close to being

Put aside the name of your all unforgiving gods.

Sometimes A Pie Looks Like Just

2009-08-23T01:46:00.001+08:00

You are not a fuckin' orpheus. This piano has an attenuate. Together it is no different
I appeal to regions. I recall conditionals. Together it is a piece of film.

You do not standardize. It is no longer defunct. Retrieve pieces of these
From the din. Flashbirds, flexing. My god knows you're sometimes social.

It is never reverse, no. It is never trying itself fit for you lookers of back,
Nothing about this isn't less innocuous as making an afternoon tea with you.
There, it is un-falling. Because sometimes pie can be just as its simplest piece.

The Connection

2009-07-31T04:23:00.002+08:00

"Spectacle of people, knowing how to group. The moment you think you need it is the time you know you don't." -Anonymous

Going Nuts Over The Slow: Adventureland Reviewed

2009-07-30T23:21:00.001+08:00

From A. O. SCOTT, The NYTIMES:

“Adventureland” sometimes seems to lose track of just which movie it is, and its sprawling narrative encompasses some soft spots and patches of inconsistency. The worst of these comes near the end, with a failure of compassion on James’s part that seems to owe more to the demands of the plot than the logic of the character. And at times Mr. Mottola lays on the suburban adolescent malaise with too heavy a hand."

It reminds me of the line of Jesse Eisenberg's role in The Squid and The Whale:
"I felt I could have written it. So the fact that it's already written is just kind of a technicality."

Plagiarize.

Rizal Postmodern: Once Reviewed

2009-07-10T16:39:00.001+08:00

A.O Scott, The New York Times:
"It seems silly and grandiose to lavish praise on a movie whose dramatic crux is the recording of a demo tape, and there is some danger that the critical love showered on “Once” will come to seem a bit disproportionate. It is not a film with any great ambitions to declare, or any knotty themes to articulate. It celebrates doggedness, good-humored discipline and desire — the desire not only to write a song or make a recording, but the deeper longing for communication that underlies any worthwhile artistic effort.
The special poignancy of the movie, the happy-sad feeling it leaves in its wake, comes from its acknowledgment that the satisfaction of these aspirations is usually transient, even as it can sometimes be transcendent."

-------------------------
"there is a group of kids scrambling upon a heap of filth, washing laundry of two weeks old, a battering."

"People eat men. Women strangle what we call a light through whose shadow i, in behalf of men, flow and stride with ease. Easily i think of eating carcass and just when i thought it's wrong and rude i decided what the hell it's not the eating that makes its act a fault but only the wrong act of eating and the manner u eat these kinds of act. Feel, then, why people feed and smoke blood."

"wasted melted cream, in the corner an unoccupied jail room a man screming he's innocent and needs help had once lodged in, a ballroom, scene downstairs, the house help dancing, the kids watch the old dance, a sway of hair from the running girl, a jailed collector runs from himself, his niece ask him why he's lonely and he tells her he just is..."

"when u talk all the thoughts out while making clear the thing u think first isnt the right thing to talk about tonight but yet decided in the end to just share and tell it with us regardless oof us being the judge, being your mirror u never want in the first place to face, no better than self-hating infidels dragging you at all times without consent down here in hell, i, though, subtle, almost without a sound, just croon."

"tendons are like a dream. Hazy purple, mushed, stretchy, and when heated expands"

what is it about your avoidance that seeks refuge like a fawn?Who am i is not who i am asking for an answer to.

"She isnt off about knowing the diggers of her chin and can't justify an avalanche after this. A castration is its only galvanized release. A beauty of oaks denies. Denials of an oval-shaped onion, sarcastic con-descend, divulsions of a pig, a shallow swallow, the testings of the masrk, which color would you want ur wish to be?It has determinants, too, you know, That by now, an arrangement is there. She doesnt have to be there on a noose. Her whole five foot six of gleaming and regal stance should."

"waiting for sum1 2 hand d fare over to the driver, a lecturer unaware of the time or the amount of waste it's taken from your dreaming, his direct admonish, his contribution to the forgotten laugh, his release, her catch, a woman missed, the man missing, the unmatched. The urge to write back, the wait, it's you, its yours..."

"There is a weeping that is basal that is endless that is dry. There is this talk that is one with that which is made which is good which is human. That which is marked which is forgetfgul which is useful is this marking that is forgetting that is using the used...."

"and all.."

"Creaks, You. Pain's an accumulation. And the release is in its continuance."

"Drafted, lying on the left side edge of a bed. Sweat-soked skin finely finally dry with the wind's unflawed lull, we lurk and wreak in havoc through lies laced and dream of dressed non-metal canyons inside women's bellies in order to recover, smell and if possible at all, drink the fine pleasure of a draft recall....."

"the backing from the sentiment. THe return of the old. The cliche. The renewed unearthed. DOgs bark. Are you my sister?Is that a dog?Are we dead?Do you think he's cute?A cake is made of flour, sugar and cream. Mother bakes a cake. My name is jonathan is cinco. My wallet is lost. Help! Ouch!"

"I am a drowned word. That fleeting fleet of armed fatigue-stained sapiens for the last three days inside is watered away tonight. I am drowning rhapsody. THe fishnets, oh, the fishentes your dad untangles in going about the dark rivulets inside are a way to the darkened ocenas. I am a fringe of the silhouette of your giving, your givings tolerate my dance into the fringes of drowned escapes. I am an inch away to your measurement. Come now, take me and be my pilgrim..."

"The feeling"

"To spare it a pause lighter than shadow, bright as this blink, red, harrowing within with a nose the every intensity of twnty breaking glass: forbidding muffling, open as an opened, uncured scab, rending, too, the laying about of the cruel, is good"

"what to make of cottons if i flow out in air without sound remains vague. What you want me not to do makes me, sends them, and gives up into another form of no. Strangle india, thank not the way yopu give way to muslims but on how and not on why you made all the riot sound like home-0spun cloth."

"Gandhi.."

"Like smoke my feet read a lost trail."

The Vulgars Who Knew The Truth and Lived: Kinatay Reviewed

2009-07-10T16:26:00.001+08:00

Jessica Zafra/Newsweek/Brillante Mendoza's "Kinatay":

"Brillante Mendoza's film Kinatay(Slaughtered) is so grim and gruesome that it didn't even divide audiences and critics when it screened at Cannes last month; it united them in hatred and disgust. Shot on film and video, the Philippine director's latest offering is about a young police cadet who finds himself participating in the grisly murder of a prostitute. Stark and unrelenting, it presents torture, rape and mutilation in a manner reminiscent of snuff movies. Viewers booed it and reviewers described it as "horrible"; the American critic Roger Ebert pronounced it the worst film ever to screen at the festival."

------------
In a market:

"How long shall dis ax last? The blowing decor, its crash attacks, a hugging rig, stomaching in pains, Full of faces in near-death patterns mode has it seen lizards?Broken down into pieces shells of corns? Has it burnt seeds flakes?Flaked up,wouldnt it be as one with bigs, devouring lashes, laced up from bolts decor? A decorum. Will pangs break it?As a bite sits or sets afloat in dark dust river, shall it commence, a wavering daring dash of consistencies?Patterns paternal. Whoever makes it can it not eat itself?Shattering shines of lucid, honest flickers..."

In the preacher's home:
"turn me inisde out, buddy. Is it my body ur trying to get some innards from?Was strucute-based spit noe enough for you? Hasn't it been to your liking?Then turn me inside out now. Let's see
whose blood flows out of the skin first. Jaging, jaging...Bring me there and make my body the edge of its sinking, a random hoover, it's better than me, dont u think..."

On the skin inside the head of a surgeon's patient:
"trade in the bionics for flesh quids/fish traps devour souls by the minute/exhausts. Fortunate dwellers in a couple of days/escape? Get things fout of the cabin/trade in the basics. Deceased are the dogs.One hundred dark dry chicken skins become fresh squids, painless, worn/out, rotten, in the dark..."

On the walls of a baby's crib
"the lack of rhymes, get by, get by,"

In a rapist's home:
"He was given a bag of goods he was supposed to consume by tuesday night. It contains paste, stale gourd and half a pund canned buffalo meat. It will be eaten raw, raw, raw, raw tonight.s"

On a memo:
"You take a fragment by fragment slack. Deny the overturn and cast. Slay everyone's pets. Lay down some sort of second kick. You take a fragment by fragment defragmentation. A nation is less than two."

The Superintendent.................................................................

2009-06-21T22:12:00.000+08:00

"It should be thin, but thick enough not to break"
- A secret to a perfect dumpling

I am doing away of all your Neo-Calvin living.
Your smiles do me no good at the end of this shift.
Preferably all your mistakes boil down to my regard
For everything mistakenly small in all a calloused offer.

Moments like this it's to be understood we all are frail
Although nothing about this can show us some wound
That ever feeds on its own without any regard for space

In a new skin. There has been a war that continues unnoticed
There is portability in its being left for the damned.
Forever is the word we use to make it some sort of time-bound
Clearly we fool ourselves that all a sun does is to disprove

The wet. Final dances are like that, everybody knows it.
YOu pick some spacious ground that stretch across yards
Of yards stretching across the amazing nothingness of yore

Awaiting time, everyone has looked. And dropped. Yet won it all
Hasn't it been new to you who for a long time notices none
You don't think it's going to have it all changed in a day

Do you. Perhaps you're afraid shitless of this cat's reverse
Purr. Perhaps I've been too much of an overwhelming replacement
Perhaps you show me nothing much. Perhaps you untangle shoelaces

Wrong. I'll never know that which has as its roots the reverse:
Clearly this isn't what you meant: Dr. A.Teramisu, senile,ire,

Very ass, awe men as era stack on,eh? Who opt a butter?Ref sees
Gnat here. Here Hey-es tap more last "Ah".T'was. I saw that sale
ROM Pats eye here. Here H-Tang sees, ferret tub at Pooh

When ok cats are sane, mew as say,"Reverie lines us",
I'm a Retard....................................................

JD

2009-06-06T21:04:00.002+08:00

-for Jerome David Salinger

It's the name of my reading electronic gadget.
It reads stories. And knows a lewd act or two.
It is a recluse. There, dust settles.
It's a name. Nothing but an honest name.

It's whatever we cannot call our own
Yet day by day unwittingly know as never a lie.

It's a name, it's a name. Nothing but name.

Had we done more good to the world, it would have read it more
Anecdotes that start by saying we are all going to die
Smiling and tact by having it read more than once.

It's a name it's a name. Nothing but name.

You should watch your kids grow and not plan burning their shoes
You should say bread is better than not having anything to eat

You should say thanks to your mom for saying to you what's true
About your name, your name. Everything is of your name.

Singapore

2009-05-12T01:56:00.000+08:00

There couldn't be any new changes to this
Without you asking me a new return

Nor am I not innocent enough of a misgiving
To not be put into any form of blame

Am i about to fill your need for negligence
Or haven't I said enough truth for me to not

Haven't you known any one form of a truth
That has in no way been applicable to us to date

Haven't you the conscience I need to see
To say there's no one thing I think will stay

True, there's no one way of saying this to me
Without dismissing all the rest away

The Emergence of The Science of Forgetting

2009-04-25T04:08:00.000+08:00

What have we been saying enough that really isn't.
What holds true now but stays no more than a bow
The next day. You wouldn't try saying lines that dismember
Would you. Wouldn't that be a mere fear of sense if you did.

There is a ball I've been searching for days now.
A sea I've regretted swimming. A lie I know

I will find a reason to smile at. A book
To read of. Studies, graphs to make.

Everything is a matter of this soon.

Acceptable P

2009-03-29T01:13:00.000+08:00

Letter A is not acceptable.
Letter K will not be until 18.
The Letters M and P show you nothing great.

It is only the S that matters now.

Jesus Christ

2009-03-29T01:04:00.000+08:00

Oh my god, the habit is wet! Clear the site of juice and its new understandings.
Fill in gaps we have lost while filling the pod of an unused sewage flowing,
Water the pots. I have moralities in this piece of granular nodule you try to feel.
You could in no way see us trying to read each other verses of biblical olds.
Letters have tried drying themselves for the sake of a new readership in this.

Feel free, the naked wet, sea, ambush of lions. If it were, I would have you
Posted on my wallpaper endings that you could see no resolution to.

Clear the unpassage. Do not utter the synonym of this past. Sheer lies are an uncover.
Belief makes it some iota of a sin that is absent of hurting. Ears wet, too. Commit.

Birth Days

2009-03-03T01:55:00.001+08:00

The weather write of what. It is not going to be playing
You the ballad. Are what i sing
The thoughts we hung up on? His burials
Are those last of us going
To be ever feeling. Remorseless,
What we'll feel with your not being
Ironic, I've put you on such levels with mud.

A Nylon, Shoestrings and A Muslim Mat

2009-02-09T00:40:00.000+08:00

Beautiful connections, they appear to have woven over all
The shattered beings somersaulted twice about us in
This reasoning charged with something as furious as laugh

Days drop just within half about an inch between this eye
Socket and that edge of an outlet cord i am about to tie

My arms with, with you on, or beside, the strings
We have not used their algebra to count. Here this sense
Sickens us with passion, thrice we made the yellow try
Them with themselves to match their own blood that is
Erstwhile tying us two to a summer beauty. Now, a chafing.

In Wallace's Repose

2008-12-22T01:06:00.001+08:00

-for David Foster

Fifty seven of it stopped learning about the fall
They tried turning around to seek a start but went
All feverish for a certain kind of infinite curl

You have tried the pen. It is ink-filled yet raw
Full flesh unscaled telling churns stories out
For you. Nothing less alone would have made it

As abominable as this handing down of books
Filled with nothing as intense on making us float

As driving out all embarrassed claims to you
The all-out remains this writing's just wrung

When We Define

2008-12-09T16:30:00.001+08:00

Its last casing tipped out of its meat.
Notebook's supposed to have made use of pens.
They are only of metal through words
That rust when there's no stopping a rain
The children have not heard the sound of before

The sun picks out pollens and just dries
Up all of them all over the ground and lain
For flies to pick at; women secretly touch
And think about of giving to husbands
They have long since considered sane
They have been considering alive
And serious and wry but seriously unmoved

By such violent stir you and i command
When these items turn out to be none
Of the things i keep a lock of and of
The things i need a lock for and say i own

You lady do you think it's just going about
Picking trays up and setting them lines
As though it's all but defying you
An insult to procedural method gods- We
Have only control of your recline
In fact no one sees it as real correct space
If by real part you in fact dismiss, say, paste
As what they say ontological and answer we need-
Two views from the front on top of all
I would have renamed on my own on and on

Airsoft

2008-12-09T16:18:00.000+08:00

Forget the sound- All that matter's now
What could take off after such blows
When it shall reach out and slowly take
Glide the very long upper-end swings
Out of a very forbidden unmarked ripping
From such very unacceptable slides
That are a wingspan full of a luck
That takes up all requisites of a raffle
Beginning from what fools the fools
To where there's only a matter of lack
Before that which forms armaments
Forms that which comes before
The stain of paints of my very wings'
Insertion into a ten-thousand gun
We took to doing when nothing else's fun

The wife's a mistress he doesn't know
The true usefully correct meaning of
It hurts all over and he barely finished
The somersault necessary for some rest
Than started issuing these results
About gunshots, paintings costing
More than two thousand units apiece
About paints, paintballs, pellets-the war
Jargon of armies-about fish traps
Deposits of feces, frost withdrawal
Cements-unwet, fresh, needed
In washing off an enormous liquidity
No one can set at par but blood

It now makes some solid sense in here
The start always beginning in a year
Charmed smoke-colored glass breaking
When concrete-steel hits its floor
The rain's pause, mist freeze, oceans land
In waves when the moon's at its most exact
And all your setting off of lax that is away.

The Kid's Lost

2008-11-30T22:34:00.000+08:00

(the kid's) not eating pasta tyranny
he makes armoires crumble to the ground
themselves, turns over all tins and laughs
in search of two lost shiny things
they are not marbles, the kids look for
nor do they resemble some spice

it's like breakfast without milk
a dance of two minus the eating
after droppings of clothes and a fuck

no one's missing their shoes
they just can't be like those (lost) things
that resemble rough swift alcohol rubbings

turn over, will you(?) party and set a rally
point to your germs and the soiled
cake slowly crusting out of your bush
crumbles: spell without letters
take it whole and eat it like pasta

but never eat the meatball that fell and you
just abruptly picked up and blew some dust off

no father telling you, stop that mess
else you will not (be) bought a toy

and three cartridges of your games
will have to be set (hidden) again
there are two ways for this to work:
One, you will create waves the latin shall
understand: there's a king
two young boys really purely love

his name does not mark resemblance
all the queens have sucked his toe
thumbs, ringed nipples, brown
skin and his pale tongue (like sore)

everybody must have done it, the envy
(and) wanting of the sterling king's life

but he's not a son, much less a whore
To (hold) or don (on) his chest those badges of wins

A Bad Poetry Program That's Read Robert Frost's Story And Tries To Write An Ode To A Tin And Obama's Win

2008-11-05T23:14:00.000+08:00

In the house all one has are crushed things
Like leaves and sad soil and in streets women take
A treading we've to make two miles a day
And only a cat frolicking can give a pause to: blue-
Velvet couch, you're so comfortably on; hers:
The long stretched damp gravel; she goes nowhere-
I wear an eye to see a nowhereness* of some kind
That is vivid. The eyes talkative. Flocks of pilgrims aim
Arrows at its grave but it's still to make a deliver despite
Wool scrapings and branches picked out from trees
The heights of me. In it maybe a piece of rye cookie.
My sling's got nothing but cloth. Even if it's dawn
Her trying to make sense's full like an unopened can

*This is that. They are their
Reason my conjunctive must be blurred.
Cup of rice, hair plucked out from a human leg,
Armed kindred: I will fold over this paper
And fan about your head. There is nothing here
We will hold dear. Fix the eyes and this very
Atmosphere you'll see but leave behind
When things of this degree give you a sign
That we'd uproot that that they'll recruit
With the seven simple codes the skin needs
To reboot a black democracy although, doubtful, surely,
There'd still be much better ways to shun the free.

The Bombers

2008-10-13T23:47:00.000+08:00

"J. Math. Mech. 14:589-612. Let D denote the unit disk |z| <> x
z ( v

The author proves several theorems on boundary functions in the following four cases: (1) f(z) a homeomorphism of D onto D, (2) f(z) a continuous function, (3) f(z) a Baire function and (4) f(z) a measurable function. These theorems include answers to two questions raised by Bagemihl and Piranian.

Theorem 1 states that if f(z) is a homeomorphism of D onto D, then there exists a countable set N such that t|C - N is continuous.

In the case of continuous functions, one needs some definitions. Let S and T be metric spaces. f is said to be of Baire class 1(S, T) if and only if (i) domain f = S, (ii) range f ( T and (iii) there exists a sequence {f(n)} of continuous functions, each mapping S into T, such that f(n) -> f pointwise on S. g is of honorary Baire class 2(S, T) if and only if (i) domain g = S, (ii) range g ( T and (iii) there exists a function f of Baire class 1(S, T) and a countable set N such that f|S - N = g|S - N. Using these defnitions, Theorems 2 and 3 read as follows. Theorem 2: Let f be a continuous real-valued function in D and let t be a finite-valued boundary function for f. Then t is of honorary Baire class 2(C, R), where R is the set of real numbers. Theorem 3: Let f be a continuous function mapping D into the Riemann sphere S and let t be a boundary function for f. Then t is of honorary Baire class 2(C, S).

In the cases of Baire functions and measurable functions, for the sake of convenience consider the open upper half-plane D0: I(z) > 0, and its boundary C0: I(z) = 0, instead of D and C, respectively. Theorem 4 states that if f is a real-valued function of Baire class a > 1 in D0, and t is a finite-valued boundary function, then t is of Baire class a + 1. As an immediate consequence of Theorem 4, one has Theorem 5: Let f be a real-valued Borel-measurable function in D0 and let t be a finite-valued boundary function for f; then t is Borel-measurable.

Next, the author proves that for an arbitrary function t on C0, there exists a function f on D0 such that f(z) = 0 almost everywhere and t is a boundary function for f. The paper concludes with some remarks concerning extensions of these theorems into three dimensions."-T.J. Kaczynski, Boundary functions for functions defined in a disk.
---

"Hereupon, such disguises metastasize, clog
arteries flowing through the vein of eye wars, a recapture
Ring is said to have undone fixtures filled with deletes.

This boom's freaking, its mess collides
Into a surfacing denounce that fleets
Through initial reverberates
Of fellow fickle men. This math
This cool, humid form of mass
Goes through this trail: blast
Of 1 is 1."- R.J. Abad

Your Photos Suck And Are Not Yours So Quit It and Just Suck More Dicks, Please

2008-10-01T05:52:00.000+08:00

I've seen you suck up earth as if it were skin and blew all things liquid
In a stream and torrent you'd find in making other things lie low and flowing
And it took days before it finally went out and by the time it's done it's died
On me. You'd had recapturings before we met. But nothing like this.

It is such full you could not even notice a spit. Suck it to me, dear.
It is panicking, shrieks have done a similar thing but you, dear, and your
flowery, flowery, flowery pretense just couldn't be that we'd long forgotten
Could not have been that that makes each other such a "let us, let us"

Let's not start going through it all again as though we've met again
For the second time, it's just as well you come back and reach over and flow
Down the drain your blows and the sentence no one mistakes is yours.

Quarks and Gluons: Ode to The Collider

2008-09-10T21:42:00.000+08:00

, we are/-----arrows are burrowed, things cleared
shipments take past tenses up your throat--singles
flick. DOts donate themselves to a longing
Sharpening. What to make is the asking of a little,
forgetful fool. WE ARE ONE TO NINE DIVIDING SEVEN
INCHES OF A ROTATE>?

Question syntax./ Attachments wrung, wrong
Here are my black-s

Before The Six A..M. Sex

2008-07-27T09:43:00.000+08:00

Follow all your comings. Her flash-colored sparks make for something tunic-
Sounding shivers that a havoc may one time have mistakenly called the ring-
Size bending or turning back or having the back face his front with a gusto
The love of the lust makes when someone somebody calls a whore teaches/
Corrects your flushed dunk and every peculiar way of counting rings, tunics
Fallacies, underwear, moving unstigmatized liquid, an oven, seven pins
. There it is, a flow, the zits burst as all the comings follow fears, this flash.

Oh and it's not a gazette you're reading. Not everybody thinks it's a look-up on
All the laws on those walls you've spat the semen you've swallowed upon. Spit
The words. They are not a befitting. Your fuck is a tarnished wallow, my dear/
The devil. What of those reach and this lighting cigarette feasting fasting
Can your vagina wet? Feel it. Fringes are better than a soul
Your skin wastes. Teething fish, fighter planes, these cannot touch you.
A rip of the biblicals is what your mouth reeks of when taking flights
Make you make me want you dead as a canal, a coin, a coined asinine line
Like 1. words only eyes can hear, 2. was it right?, 3. ....nothing but destroy

Follow the comings, then. Beast it up, if you like: I know the Cosmopolitan
Sex is a clothing, as if you and i were but everything but a changed.

Transferee

2008-07-09T16:22:00.000+08:00

where you wander endless
your endless walk starts, where you sing
Light songs, you hope and take
A pause to muse at how green

the
falling
leaves
are

how they leave tress
bald, as if they were,
like your eyes,
the last capsule

Of capture.
Where it takes
You from here
Wherever here
Become nothing

But a glimpse, where i set

This free, the silence is in.

Colored Paper

2008-07-09T16:14:00.001+08:00

The end in itself is in the enough silence streak.
Filling coloured designs with a cold, shimmering living does not perpetuate with salivas Alone. You would have to elongate then expand yourself with beginnings.

The shout in
It is the string, the strength with which you may have struggled your flow all this time.
Cars care for salivas and this language to bear all the unclear glass crass upon will
Become toward our end silent attachments of the spirits' walk.

It is when you sell your way of reaching and tapping the cold long break
That you can appear ghostly and warm despite the falls of octagons' whirl and its song

That lights within souls and grass ferris.

It is the dadaist that dies. It not alone reaps and contrasts streams but plays on set every time something queues it and tunes it well in consonance of trains' tutorial breakages.
It happened before your very eyes.

Attract lies like how you attact sticks and laces of flowers punched out through your Abdomen. Abduct these walls, trace patterns and never ask how it can be forgotten. Downtown pays tribute to everything she asks that dusk cant bear alone. She says she thinks the way you do. But your chest darkens and rots in hell.

That lies attract each other is abduction.

Meet me at point x as though you have had captured throughout your life the missing y
And had tried making its sense in considering the succession of unceasing points as your
Points of what's unstoppable, within which you collide with the pause they reach
But cannot at any chance wish to crack and be at ease deciphered.

End

2008-07-09T11:38:00.000+08:00

eight long days of a wait and half a year in recluse you stand still amid noises and a burning pulling, praying

this may have been the only last pull.

cut its tip and lift the lid from the bottom with your wrist twisted a bit and the free hand jerked to its left forming an angle supporting the break of the plastic cup cut to its tip. Like to support a baby's crib, harness around the uncut top-cover your right hand and without touching the edge of the table next to a round unlit lamp by the side you stand on at that corridor's end, slowly lift up and drop down the plastic piece after counting two three-second count sets right after some named uncut songs beat

the end in itself is in the silence streak. Filling colored designs with a cold, shimmering living does not perpetuate with salivas alone. You would.

Rights

2008-07-08T21:07:00.001+08:00

you expect respect's automatic-a rote act no one misses to type in on a list.

Rights. Canisters stuck inside a rectal hollow. Women raped. Women raping

Men. We see women sucking pens, penis-sucking women, too. You are an all

Of the above.

Go back to earth and till it until you make it work for all these people who need more than bread and blood carries off all the ones reeking of excess and you bring it back to a solide simple silence

Correctional

2008-07-08T16:07:00.000+08:00

Opening up a machine-run pandora
Box is like an enclosed shutter
Falling from a great correct space
Down a meadow of an ideal
Before rides in a car
up and ready to end the half-dead
after the fall a landscape of the
half-naked
walking towards me/but, one of them is
myself behind pictures of the dead
forest, spruce, swampy greens and a plethora of half-
cut acacia/narra, i do not know their names/ then
a walk/upstairs/ this provides against a desperation
and slits

The Training III

2008-07-07T16:53:00.000+08:00

Autumns refunded. Sinking typing eczema. A thing to the past of your liking,
the rivets, holds
of cauldron-based tsunamis. Walking porcelain
stuffed to the very end of this change. Shallow graves, oh they're
There, too, looking for you, asking how you'd been the day you passed away

To a sadness a move scrapes through a skin a lion makes in its purr.

On One of Her Three Drawings: An Analysis

2008-06-24T00:58:00.000+08:00

A:

Measure gaze using as gauge
A kid's smile, her way of walking, or
Waking up when mom calls
Her for a breakfast of milk, or
How she hears songs and sings
The dances of stars and wind
Or its way to pattern to
The Highest Value The
Gravity of a break, and, see,
Really, in the absolute plane, what
And how, love measures and why

B:

Throw it and play the gravity.
There is no stillness anymore. There is not
Even an asking back. Nor pleading to go
Back home. No one ever listens.
Or wants to pick it up for you. So throw,
Throw, throw the ball up high. Higher, please
Please, higher, heavier than peace

C:

I miss the way you watch me
Watch you listen to me talk.

The Moving: A Dissertation

2008-06-14T17:23:00.000+08:00

An inch closer to the kill: Scars
Adorned by unwounded skin. Sheep
Cloth; standing up, arm
Over his shoulder whose arm
Shoulders her left limb. On
The right lap i sit. On
You i spit: Smile, the edge,
Closed, is close to a killing, too.

Id

2008-05-08T12:06:00.001+08:00

Carnival potpourri, evening carcass bloated to the bone, singing
Arsenal lost, marked, unanswerable to the god. Uniform stitches, a repeat
besetting, this is not what we have been talking about today.

Teachings darkened, ornaments fulfilling its pattern, a mist, a repeat
Attack is beset around the people who hail you today. This is not doing
Anything to you now but the world is ticking so we must heed. Anything in it
Sedates

Katrina

2008-04-21T00:49:00.002+08:00

"She's the only evidence of God in this entire planet."-St. Elmo's Fire

I am a thesis of that smile. It is not the word that seeps through my spine
That slightly tickles that sensation only you can imagine. Neither is your smirk
Nor the way i see your hair dance with the nerves when i put an arm around your nape.
This has nothing to do with you
And the music when you look down on your plate and see if there's anything else
Left uneaten. I doubt if it's about the beauty alight in its manner
Of taking pause after your recessional divine effervesce
From the sun. Or the son of your eyes. The leaking of its arched bending
That have reeked of pain and shut off all the undertakings underground.
This isn't about me watching you theorize back the way i theorize
Your beginnings. The thesis is simply this: it is about a love.

Love, Numbered

2008-03-31T15:21:00.000+08:00

Is that a reach. Was it the beginning. The Who? Where is it coming from, what is it
Doing under the bed. These cannot mix with milk. A wrench will bleed, the skull ties
Wet themselves and envelope a whole suckling. A tapping. A move. The wrench ties
Them together with the dancing. Has it numbers? The rapping. An unwrapping of a dawn
Movement, it is such a wicked touch. If you so much as touch its grain, if you hurt
So much that the toes your feet anchor upon will bleed, then the wrench will move

East
And all the sunrise in heaven
Shall feast and you'll never as much as shed

A Tear
Since you'll have left by then

Relief

2007-11-12T15:11:00.000+08:00

It is such a waste to sigh in between sips
Of dark brews. In the night the only silence you reap is distant
Noises traversing your brain. As if this were a distant light
You remain flawed doing all the beginnings of a ring.
If it were brews in your lungs that gape through your inane moves
And the way of an irate, this room will drip and empty itself
The minute everyone dries the considerations of smells.

Her, Beside Me

2007-10-11T11:47:00.000+08:00

Here the archenemy is a rose: provincial
Decadence right beside your extraneous spit.
The spot. It's licorice stand ripening in front of you.
Its protecting parchment. Forever delirious in the dead
Calloused, reactionary enamel you cannot decide to reach.
Or knack. Because hell is providence and had it not been the cold
White snow piece by piece rupturing our arts altoghter, I
Would have desired your stance. The archenemy cannot pose consequence.
Delirious maze. Dotted octagons. All the rest is an imaginary lace.
Forming us together, Dividing lears and passissmos and macau-laden
Anonymous, picture dens like this, undivided, lofty, without a sound
Repeating in an endless rosy type of mute.