January 2012
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to meet
I have not met anyone on Tumblr aside from my friends. Some of my friends have attended meet-ups but only to return with a disheartening report of how it was more like a dating club rather than a community. I have sort of desired to attend one but I’m prevented most thoroughly by one thing: I am a writer using a pen name. What purpose would it serve to disclose my identity to complete...
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oh my darling valentine
the lower clouds deflected
the waning brightness of the sun,
leaving a streak of light
to shoot upward: a spotlight it seemed.
entangled in a cobweb of provincial desires
I feign the coarse imaginings of a smile
handing over a dishonesty -
hundred peso bills crumpled in haste
far-flung dust from the city chase
we revel in acid rain, and kiss under rails
defying death with agility
noting...
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Until The Broken Girl Breaks
myinkstainedheart:
The morning only birthed
acrid remarks from his swollen
tongue, arguments over pancakes
and crudeness in place of jam,
how the water was no longer hot,
how she added a teaspoon more
of this and that,
the hostility just as bitter as a
scalding coffee.
But she busies herself still every morning
in the kitchen, making breakfast,
not because she hopes when he wake
he’s...
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To the dearest anon who asked, yes, the photographs of the watershed are personal and not culled from the Internet.
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heartbreaker
step out into the sun
and profit to live young
set fire to the woods
and profit to live good
no harm is unseen
all burdens are eased
give all, not parts
for hearts to be pleased.
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Look how they shine for you.
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On the day the brave one comes, I’ll make sure I’ll savor every second, easy or hard.
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restless in january
Everything has an end. A limit. A last straw. Maybe the medication doesn’t work after all. Maybe it doesn’t cure. Maybe it simply reduces the guilt, the burden, the twitch. Or maybe it simply gives you good sleep. You call the night most affectionately as yours, and treat her as yours but maybe tomorrow steals the show, robs you of your evenings, and makes you sign a clause to settle. Maybe I can...
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how does on contain
in a rhyme or in a refrain
all the joy which pours
from the only heart of yours?
“There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take...”
– Diane Setterfield - The Thirteenth Tale (via blankpagesandinvisibleink)
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vamos nole
Pardon this out of topic, and out of blog theme post, but I’m glad Djokovic won. I’ve always been a fan of this amazing Serb. He is the reason why I am even a casual follower of tennis.
In 2008, I remember watching him on television win his first Grand Slam title against Jo Wilfried Tsonga. My dad and I were absolutely amazed by his court movements. It was a few months before tragedy struck our...
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During my adolescent years, I had an aversion towards chest hair. I found it grotesquely resembling the Filipino delicacy, balut. Yes, my imagination went further than most pubescent gay teens, but it was a personal preference, in the same way some like the color blue more than green.
Fast forward to today, and I am a lot more open with the idea of what is attractive. Tattoos, piercings, flabs...
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silence versus words
I call him names, and write him letters
often lustful,
when opened,
my brusquely words catch him
pins him to bed. I am never short of words;
I call him love and darling,
my world, my man, my all, my own
the sun, the stars, the ocean, the wind
a garden, a bird, a beast, a storm
possessive and obsessive,
prose, poetry, line or phrase
an adjective, a status, all about him
and only him;...
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take a run
he lays his hand
on your bosom
and spreads his palms
round top to bottom
he frees you from despair
do not go anywhere
he lays his hand
on your face
and leaves the blues
to take the flesh’s place
do flee from this despair
he’ll hit you anywhere
if a man can do it once
what makes you think otherwise
a man will do it twice
don’t settle for fickle eyes.
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man versus machine
fear consecrates the faltering mechanism
of a society damned to believe
her liberties stand on profound ground
damned to confuse license from freedom
fear takes the stone and turns it to china
porcelain and delicate
beauty that breaks
such colossal display of verisimilitude
one must be grateful the apple fell.
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language of the weak
to laugh at follies which come to wither
to love the bloke who comes to hit her
what a pleasant torment man perseveres
in broken sentences, and swollen steers
possessed and clad in all things tragic
yet running low in all opioid analgesic
what haunting familiarity do we all speak
the language that limits, that language of the weak.
is there a proper temper for this to glow
the anger of...
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the problem with piolo
I still don’t understand why a lot of people are so fascinated about a hunk celebrity turning out to be gay. What is the big deal? He’s gay. So what? Did he offend you by being protective of something as personal as sexuality? Did he hurt your parents?
A lot of gay people are unable to come out of the closet because despite acceptance, society tends to emphasize on sexual preference a lot,...
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“Whoever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”
– Blanche DuBois, A Streetcar Named Desire
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unclothed
with you I am an effulgent sea
bright and splendid in nakedness
I cover not my scars
and I fear no disgust
there is only love
there is only lust
gauzy sheets are unnecessary
look at me.
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the 27th blues
I have reason to believe the past weeks’ bloated sensation comes as a rather poor affirmation of what I already knew. That I am most susceptible to the slightest variations in temperature. A sudden cool and I slip into momentary nostalgia. Grey clouds roll in and I persevere to maintain a level of sadness disproportionate from my usual temper. To make matters complicated, there is still you I...
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Have you ever liked someone, or perhaps been so infatuated with a complete stranger who does not know you exist, yet you feel like you know the person all too well, better than the back of your hand even?
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broke
I revered him,
and strangely enough,
loved him almost impiously.
I loved him to a degree
he did not deserve, at a cost
I could not afford.
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the way he looks
He looked at me with glorious, wide eyes. His irises swirled like a black hole, sucking me in, slowly, magnificently. It swirled and stirred with a restless vision that it produced its own sort of gravity that pulled me in without condition. There was nothing in between our shared gaze. Nothing, not even space, or drift. Not even an audible rip. There was only a momentary connection - an earnest,...
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spit or swallow
don’t be so shallow
I am not a whore
sucking for chores
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“The poet is a man who feigns
And feigns so thoroughly, at last
He manages to...”
– Fernando Pessoa, from “Autopsychography,” trans. Edouardo Roditi (via proustitute)
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over smoke my heartless
You could smell the rain
Though it wasn’t raining yet, and the clouds wouldn’t let
But you could feel the moist
With the drifting wind, that told me I have sinned
Looking at your grey tee, with an image
Of McCartney and another three
You bruised my pride with some kind of awful delivery
With your words
You nonchalantly inflected pain
With your tone you slammed my confidence
Is there a...
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nuclear winter
he lends his coat
and waits for me
despite the cold
he stays with me
when summer comes
he swims with me
despite the sun
he burns with me
on downcast days
he lays with me
and in the rain
he bathes with me
in windy corners
he embraces me
with tossed hair
he laughs at me
during odd months
he sits with me
in my strange ways
he speaks to me
in a world of war
he keeps me afloat
in...
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libra
some wars are won
some battles are beleaguered
tonight I grope for form
an ill-advised poet
profiting from his versions of reality
perhaps, I am a whore
a whore for metaphor
a slut for words
unable to be blunt
and fearing the full brunt
of this madness, I sell flesh
if only to express what logic
cannot; what truth detests.
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So here I am, at work, and it’s only midday but I’m having vodka and coke. We ran out of water in the pantry and between milk tea and Absolut Raspberri, the latter is classier. And you know me, I like to keep things tight and classy.
And then I realized just now, I should not be taking alcohol while I’m on St. John’s Wort. Quite frankly, my life is not in so much shambles as I make it appear but...
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but a fool dissembling
fearful of what comes in saying,
the truth shall set you free
shall I beg for him to love me?
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The Value Of A Withered Rose
myinkstainedheart:
Would a rose still be a rose
if the petals it wore for a skirt
had faded to the somber color of dirt
and had crumpled on the graveyard of earth?
What if all that’s left are the prickly thorns
on its withered stalk for a bone
and the proud crown it wore, its filaments
droop lowly from the beating of elements?
A rose would still be a rose,
though its scent no longer...
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plane watching
plane-watching at the balcony
I count the metal birds
they pass by so swiftly
leaving only contrails blurred.
piercing through feathers and cottons
I mutter to myself
“one day, young man, one day”
you’ll go places to find yourself
as the sound of jet engines arrive
the delay leaves me cold
“one day, we’ll meet, my man”
our stories will unfold
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if words could kill
“goodbye”
was a blunt trauma
and you could spot
the contusion
that marked where
good, and bye bit
my arm
“I’ve moved on”
was a glass splinter
and you could trace
the line
that marked where
your convalescence
incised my heart
“I hope you’re happy now”
was a needle
and you could see
the dot of wounds
that marked where
your false desires
punctured my skin
“i don’t recall us”
was...
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if I should quit you
if I should quit you bit by bit
not suddenly like what I’ve done
then nostalgia should seep gradually
and life, it shall not overcome
with the speed of my detachment
it seems that I have missed
the purpose of this cause
I stand to long for anything coarse
your charm, your art, your thought
your case,
the way you weigh the truth
philosophies held in your heart
the weightlessness of your...
middle-aged women and plastic surgery
vapidheart:
Middle-aged women and plastic surgery frighten me. Don’t they know – when they’re 80, their tits will be holstered with their drooping chins and the rest of them will be hanging down to their knees.
My beautiful, soulful, aunt with gorgeous olive skin and deep brown eyes – thinks she needs to reconstruct herself, to be beautiful again for her new husband [10 years younger]. He married...
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I got myself a bottle of St. John’s Wort last Monday. Nothing fancy. It’s a dietary (read: herbal) supplement used to treat mild to moderate depression. I’m not depressed but my friend said it’s also used as a mood enhancer. Whatever that means. It’s safer than getting addicted on opioid analgesics. Sorry Oxycodone, I’m looking at you.
I’m on a three-times a day, 300mg dosage. It will take...
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We are many things at once.
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origami
we stand on moving molten rock
inch by inch, crashing into continents
volatile plates turning into one
weakened crust separating
yet look at it, the folds and faults
what magnificence they make
rugged mountains, fertile plains
unfathomable valleys, volcanic lakes
once changed, it is never the same
no one returns to their prior forms
once cranes and fearless in flight
crumpled, the...
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flower
there was little left to salvage
mangled, twisted, and in flames
only a few things survived the crash
fewer still could be recognized
metals melted and dust was strewn
in the thick black smoke, we choked
to our deaths! we say, to our deaths!
ignoring the ink that spilled
the blood red which stained the earth
for roots to suck and cherish
grew blossoms of rose resembling your lips
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I was hooked
on the reticence
which overflowed
from his eyes,
sweet and syrupy
the evasiveness
left me breathing
a lustful sigh.
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“If I’m not beside you, I’m inside you.”
– Hypnotize U, N*E*R*D 