Monthly Archives: October 2009

Fantasy Genre

He got up from the chair and did some jumping jacks. The morning people stood up when he walked briskly in front of them and did the robot dance followed by a slick moonwalk. His boss, cussing, ran outside his office when he stood on his table and did a tapdance, then consequently screamed his name to the blank blue ceiling.

He ran as fast as he could toward the elevators, pounded the arrows until one of them broke and his palms were raw. The doors opened and he leapt inside to the shock of everyone. There’s a harrassed pretty girl inside and he winked at her saying, “Fuck yeah!”

Off to the other floor where he kicked the first monitor he saw and sent it crashing to the ground. He ruffled every hair with his excited hands. Someone tried to stop him but he turned around and bit his arm. Then he grabbed someone’s bag of chips and poured it into his mouth.

Before the guard could catch him, he escaped by pushing everyone aside, grabbed a colleague’s boob in the process shouting, “Good morning, woman!” A split second before he held the doorknob, he spat on the guard’s record book and slid down the hallway on his knees. His saliva blotted the record books’s cheap blue ink.

His feet went down the fire exit like two cars racing against each other. He tripped, fell down two staircases and busted his lip. Blood gushing out of his mouth, he discovered he left something behind. His yellow tooth was on the dirty cement as well as his troubles.

Behind him 10 people tried to catch up. He burst open the ground floor door and threw some coins at the scandalled receptionist’s head. Through the screams of terror and dread, he let out a joyous laugh, which led him to the door and to the street outside.

So he ran and he ran and he ran and he ran. He ran until he remembered he hasn’t drunk one drop of water since last night. He fell on his back, surprising pedestrians, looked up to the blue sky then wrote the name of his love in the air.

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Tripping on Your Shoelace

I’ve got a sinking feeling
That I’ve got a really big problem
My eyes made the mistake again
Of falling on the wrong face again.
And now all I do is turn you to
An addiction of sorts, bittersweet food.
Christ, why does this happen
In every new room that I enter?
Now I’ve got to wait ’til you snap and say “Never!”

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Personal Taboo

You might as well have been f*cked from behind and you wouldn’t have done anything about it, as well.That feeling is what I’m talking about. That sinking feeling of silent grieving over your inadequacies morphing into shackles that leave you trapped. You can’t even claw your way outside, act suddenly all ferocious and volatile because, well, you’re not. In the first place, that’s probably why you’re standing there as the world unloads truckloads of cum on your mom. Yes, it’s also that. That typical perspective is what I’m talking about. That typical perspective of malicious, dirty and sick thoughts that forms a crust all over the mind. Bubbling, popping each second, the viscous dark green liquid submerging the brain, turning it into an ugly revolting monster soaked in phlegm. So you begin to talk about moms getting unloaded with cum, fetuses boiled in Chinese soups, bosses’ necks tied with a rope, their backs whipped raw, their big mouths stuffed with anything filled with muck,  youngsters brutally raped and murdered. That’s it. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. That kind of perspective which could only come from the most restricted of all beings, the most repressed and compressed. These thoughts are the pieces of garbage, the decaying materials that we just wanna hide and extinguish. But they can’t be extinguished as long as there are people who might as well have been f*cked from behind without ever any fairy nor wizard coming to their rescue. No happy endings to expect, no saviors coming down from the blue heavens which probably scorn our phlegms of existences anyway. It’s all these people can do, watch a freak movie in their heads while other people laugh and spend. Because at times, I think, some of us, we share that tranquil feeling of being run over by a speeding truck, our beautiful guts splattered on the roadside. We share those amusing but disturbing smiles as someone else derives physical sweaty bliss from our tortured state. I’m talking about that because we share that. But few have the time and talent to describe how complex that natural process is, so I did it myself; that complex natural process, a work of genius, of being slapped, tapped, and unloaded on. There’s no solution. You just turn the experience into the myth of the day, and tell every expectant face at home that you’ve had a blast of a time from the moment the alarm clock screamed “Time to live!”

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My Vote for the 2009 Bloggers’ Choice Award (National)

I vote for Altanghap
Bloggers’ Choice Award
2009 Philippine Blog Awards

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