Monthly Archives: June 2012

Yun ang Pinakamasarap Don.

Ang pinakamasarap don yung nabanggit mo.

Yun talaga eh. Alam mo yung bigla akong umepal sa isipan mo kahit punung-puno yan ng mga bulaklak, paru-paro, alitaptap, mountain tops–at iba pang magagandang bagay sa mundo? Alam mo yung parang kulangot ako na sinungkit sa ilong ng katutubo tapos pinitik papunta sa kokote mo? Tapos dumikit ako don, kumapit nang kayhigpit kahit ilang sandali? Yun talaga eh. Yun yun eh.

Yun ang pinakamasarap don.

Kasi di ba, sino ba ko? Ibig kong sabihin–sino ba ko sa’yo? Umepaloids lang naman ako sa buhay mo kamakailan lang di ba? Fumoto-bomb. Kumey-espi. Umeksena. Sumabit. Bumalandra. Nag-cartwheel. ‘Di mo naman talaga ‘ko kailangan bigyan ni katiting na atensyon o pakialaman–pero pinakialamanan mo ‘ko kaya abot anit ang ngiti ko ngayon.

Kung tutuusin nga mas resonable pang isipin mo yung tae mo kesa sakin eh; kasi at least yung tae mo araw-araw mong nakikita yun tuwing titingin ka sa inidoro. Eh ako? Once or twice a day lang tapos bihira pa ‘ko sumulyap pabalik. Pero sa totoo lang tanggap ko na mas naaalala mo pa tae mo kesa sa’kin. Tae mo yun eh. Ako rin naman yung tae ko, sobrang close kami nun. Nagku-QT kami nun minsan tatlong beses sa isang araw–higit pa pag may masama ‘kong nakain. So tanggap ko yun. Tanggap ko na sa listahan ng mga bagay na nasa isip mo, nasa baba ako ng tae mo. At sa totoo lang, proud ako na sa araw na ‘to, umalingasaw ako sa kokote mo tulad ng ebak mo.

Yun ang pinakamasarap don.

Inspirasyon na sa’kin yung maalala mo mga pinaggagagawa ko. Pwede ko nang ulamin yung putahe sa isip ko ng isang linggo. Putanginang putahe yan! Ganon kabigat yung effect. Iba yung tama sa arteries. Delikado–parang chicharong bulaklak tsaka isang mangkok na mantika ng tocino. Nung nakita kong tumakbo ako sa isip mo ng ilang segundo tapos dumausdos papunta sa mga letra mo, parang gusto kong hamunin si Shaider ng tadyakan.

Kaya heto, babalik na ‘ko sa trabaho. Pwede ka na ring bumalik sa buhay mo. Ok lang ulit na nagka-temporary amnesia ka nanaman tungkol saken at mas iniisip mo pa ngayon yung tinga mo sa Ma-Ling kesa sa ngiti ko. Happens every day. Alam ko naman maaalala mo ulit ako eh, bukas, sa makalawa, o sa bertdey ko. Ok lang! No prob! Wapaker! Oks lang talaga kahit ‘di na muna ulit ako ang bida.

Makikita naman ulit kita bukas eh. Yun ang pinakamasarap don.

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Doesn’t Matter. I Just Wanna Fuck You So Badly

I haven’t seen you in a long time. Ever since that night we talked of things I forgot about the next day. Doesn’t matter. I just wanna fuck you so badly.

I look at some photos of you with some other people in some strange place and I can’t understand what’s going on. Truth is, I don’t really care what’s going on. Doesn’t matter. I just wanna fuck you so badly.

But your hair looks softer now and your face looks fresher now. I can’t remember exactly if your skin looked this good when we met–like a hot cup of mocha spilled onto your thin bones and maliciously coagulated into these thin, fragile strips of edible sin.

I can tell you’ve hit the big time. Or so that’s the image you want to project. So you’ve got money. And the car. And the crib. The uptown pals. Influence. Tons of fun.

I don’t care.

They don’t matter a lick.

I just wanna fuck you so badly.

See, tonight–the night doesn’t agree with me and the day turned its back on me. And it gets worse ’cause I don’t have a bottle of beer in my hand. It sucks balls. Hairy, veiny, crabby, old, gnarly balls.

See, tonight, I’m facing my old desktop wrapped up in a blanket while waiting for some pirated series to load. Takes forever–like the chance to bump into you again while drinking out with friends in a dingy bar. And I can almost feel my oily beard and mustache growing ever so slowly as time slips by quietly into irrecoverable nothingness. Everything–and I mean everything–sucks balls.

So I want you.

To be more specific, woman, I just wanna fuck you so badly.

I need you and what you have to offer. Throw them at my face–everything. Your arms, your legs, your eyes, your mouth (that mouth!), your whispers, your laughter, your stench, your wildness, the beast beyond your breasts, your mom, your problems, your makeup kit, your bag, your cat if you have one, your everything. Everything. Everything I don’t really care about. ‘Cause I don’t really care about you and I don’t want you to care about me. Let’s not care about ourselves and the points we want to make.

Let’s just fuck for fuck’s sake.

I’ve had enough of them, anyway–the whiners, the career talkers, the do-gooders, the rat race.

Tonight, I just want to focus on you. While not thinking about you.

Violate you while gently protecting stuff.

Stuffing while emptying out.

Screaming while shutting my mind. Our minds.

Let’s just

Let’s just

Let’s just kill what’s living inside of us tonight.

Rejoice for the chance and the right to do what they don’t expect us to do. Do each other like that’s what we do. Let’s baffle their brainless logic and stomp on their jaws on the floor. Let’s raise a big, almighty finger to the moon, which only shines on lovers in lagoons. Buffoons. Let’s cuddle ’til the dawn breaks, and when it does, let’s get up without pretending to care about breakfast and the last words to say before leaving.

Open the door and step out into this proper world, feeling like aliens from Mars.

Can you feel me?

No?

Well, I don’t think so.

You’re not in my chair, anyway, in this room. Licking your lips at the extraordinary poison that is yourself. And that’s the problem.

Because seriously, woman, I’m alone and tired. And I don’t give a damn about your work, colleagues, hobbies, and family.

I don’t care about your life at all. Not even what my ex and your friend might think. Doesn’t matter. I just wanna fuck you so badly.

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The Thing I Like About You

The thing I like about you is…

The thing I like about you is that you’re a knockout.

I mean–goddamn–you really are!

I mean, some girls think they’re knockouts but they’re really not.

There will always be something wrong with them and they’ll conveniently forget it because they want to believe that they’re genuine, authentic, absolute knockouts like you.

But in reality, if we’re gonna be cruelly honest about it, their eyes will be set too close to each other, or their hair will be thin and dry, or their teeth won’t be white enough. For me.

Unlike you.

You–you are truly, fascinatingly, ridiculously a knockout.

And as far as you being the real deal in knockouts, I always find myself lying on the canvas, seeing stars. Down and out.

Whenever I see a glimpse of your shiny, soft hair,

Or your unearthly fair skin,

Or those killer legs,

And all the parts I won’t dare mention to keep this piece wholesome,

I feel like you’re punching the air out of my lungs

And surgically stopping my right and left ventricles, killing all blood flow.

If I go into a coma, I’m sure I’ll only be dreaming about you.

And then you’ll knock me out again in that dream,

Putting me in a coma,

Where I’ll be dreaming about you again.

It’s a vicious cycle. The inception of an obsession?

Nah, I’m not really obsessed with you, lady.

Not yet, anyway.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t really, really, really, really, really

Really

Really

Like you.

No.

‘Cause the truth is that I do.

The thing I like about you is…

The thing I like about you is that you’re so positive.

You are a plus sign. You are a plus in life. You’re something that adds up into an agreeable sum. Something that grows.

That blooms.

And scatters a dizzying, magical fragrance all over the sad humankind.

You are the sun.

You shine with such a strong light you make photosynthesis possible.

You are probably the reason there’s life on this planet

And organic compounds progressed into more complex mobile forms.

Why I evolved from an ape into a human with .99% ape gene.

Can’t be no organisms without the sun, according to scientists.

And like I said, you’re the sun. At least as far as I’m concerned.

Because you’re positive,

Which I adore since I’m a negative guy.

I’m the kind of guy who, when we’re all happy and smiling, I can’t help secretly thinking about starvation in North Korea. And roaches. Train bombs. Decapitation. Nicki Minaj.

So when you walk into the room or laugh out loud even when the matter at hand is not even that funny–but you do it anyway with the sincerity of a child,

With all your freshness and life,

Music and song,

Rose petals, bunny rabbits, violins, rainbows and evening walks under the moon in Paris,

I feel like,

Like,

Like 14% of my negativity is instantly washed away into the ocean of nothingness. And I can write cheesy lines like this and live with the guilt, smiling all the way to my little hole in the city.

14% is a big thing, you know?

That percentage of unburdened negative feelings allows me to work like a jolly, ol’ fella without minding the bloody capitalist exploitation I’m contributing to. I love it!

And I can sincerely joke around like the world isn’t ridiculous enough as it is. It’s amazing!

It works like a vial of love potion mixed with a couple of drops of water from the Fountain of Youth.

Sometimes I even catch myself thinking about hope. High school. Past loves without their dirty endings. And bunny rabbits as fluffy as clouds in the sky, too.

But what am I saying? Sorry I haven’t been too clear with the thing that I like about you.

See–

See the thing I like about you is…

The thing I like about you is that you make me imagine.

Imagine what, exactly?

Oh, you know, all the things worth imagining.

Fairy tales, for example.

(I can’t really think of other things worth imagining. Can you? What–imagining I’m walking under the light of the moon in Paris alone? Doesn’t work. Depressing.

There should always be you in the picture, somewhere.

Put yourself in there and it will quickly turn into a fairy tale–and then we’re talking.)

So where was I?

Yeah, you make me imagine that you’re a princess. And I’m a fuckin’ knight. On a white fuckin’ horse. With a wavin’, white fuckin’ flag with a red blazin’ heart.

FUCK.

And I’m riding my horse over green meadows and fighting a fire-breathing dragon, which I’m slaying with my gemstone sword.

You’re at the top of this enchanted tower covered in thorny vines, singing a heavenly song that calms the howling demons of the seas and the skies. Preventing all-out chaos from happening in this made-up world.

But I’m climbing that thorny tower, blood trickling all over my face and golden hair (‘course I have golden hair in this story), climbing like my very life depended on it.

And then finally, I reach out, I touch your hand made of fairy silk and we live… and we live…

We live…

Sorry. I can’t even bring the tale to its proper conclusion. I’m THAT negative.

But in all seriousness,

Basically,

Usually,

I just imagine you falling for me on a Friday. And I gently tuck your hair behind your ear and we kiss.

Basically.

So what? It’s my fantasy. I can do whatever what I want.

But what I can’t do–

What I really can’t do, and I admit it now, shaking my head in disbelief and utter frustration–

What I can’t do

Is just put my finger on

The thing I like about you.

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Writer*


Kain. Tulog. FB. Twitter. Inom. Tulog. Basa. Basa pa ulit. Type. Type ng Type. Sa totoo lang type kita. Sobra. Upo. Di makatayo. Naka-Mighty Bond ang pwet sa silya. Masaya. Malungkot. Emo. Cheesy. Lasing. Palagi. Beer. Shat. Cocktail. Cock. Tale. Maalam. Maalaala Mo Kaya. English. Speaking. Of the Devil. Konyo. Konyat. Burat. Alipin. Dyos. Copy. Article. Barnacle. Bar. Artsy. Daw. Marketing Pitch. Marketing Itch. Disenchantment Kingdom. Cum. Makulit. Literature. Bored. Barya. Di Bale Na. Si Batman. Nandyan Ka Naman. Inspirasyon. Sarap Mag-bakasyon. Puta. Masokista. Makina. Makinilya. Kompyuter. I Like Her. Really Like Her. Syet.

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*This is the poem in the background of the artwork I first published on my art blog, Frustrashow.

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