Category Archives: Poems

Catnip

Cat eye

I’m a cat, the stray one nobody goes looking for. And you’re catnip.

I scuttle around in the streets, hunting dark alleys for fat rats, born of shadow, a furry fellow.

Wild child. Pet to no one, master of myself. The gleaming silver trash bin is my throne and the shiny brown roaches are my subjects.

My kingdom stretches as far as my little paws could carry me and I have never encountered a leash or an itchy patch of fur I couldn’t reach…

I’m the mighty lion in my own great story.

But you’re catnip.

One sniff of you and the earth becomes the sky. I lose my balance–­­isn’t that an unacceptable crime? I roll, flip, rub, wriggle, waddle, tumble, scamper, scurry and prance. Scoot, shuffle, and dance! Leap down a hole just to steal a glance! You get into my head and get stuck there like a hairball, the kind I want to keep messing with my mind forever and ever and ever more. ‘Til the birds roar and the pigs soar and droplets of purple rain pour on my whiskers.

I’ll throw away eight out of my nine just to get in line for you. Bow down my proud head, play silly games like “play dead,” and like a common hamster, ride a never-ending wheel. Even risk being roadkill if it would get me nearer to you, just an inch or two…

Because you’re the poison I picked.

The laced needle that pricked.

And I can’t get enough of you like a stupid ball of yarn or a goddamn laser pointer.

Oh, you’re probably bad for me. And if I were a dog, you’d probably be my chocolate.

But I’m not a dog.

I’m a cat.

And, my oh my, you’re catnip.

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Filed under fiction, Life, Poems, Uncategorized

The Rains

Aren’t lovers like the rain?
They come pouring from the skies,
heaven-sent.
They laugh for no reason
and fill the nights with screams.
They soak the world with fluids
and make everything
so

much

heavier

than they should be.
They make a lot of us sick,
revolted,
nauseated–
an unhealthy bunch overflowing with madness.

Aren’t lovers like the rain? Think about it.
Oh they don’t care about the earth;
clouds drop them like freed angels
and they fall,

fall,

fall without ever thinking,
ever stopping one bit

until they crash

and turn into mud. Filthy puddles in the torn ground.

And aren’t lovers like the rain?
They hurtle in one direction
then go down the drain.
They’re raging rivers and bursting creeks,
claps of thunder and roaring winds;
the drip,
drip,

drip

from a hole in your roof–
the annoying sound while you try to sleep.

You know, I do remember it’s like the rain,
the giver of life
and the most numbing of pains
like ice in your head as your chest burns
and the squish in your shoes
when you brave the stupid.

God it’s stupid.

So stupid it flooded my head and swamped my work!
‘Twas everywhere I looked, shit, even in my bed!
And all the basins were filled–no teacup to spare!
Nothing was dry for everything was goddamn wet.

And I bet

that I haven’t learned a thing from the rains.
Though I say I love the sun
it’s not what my skin seeks.
For as clean and dry as I aspire to be,
clearly, the storms know the real me;

for the heavens set the rule,

the lightning is the judge,

the droplets are the hearts,

and rains are lovers,

water is love.

And I

I’m nothing but

a sponge.

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Filed under Love, Poems

Mars is our Asshole

It’s quite obvious that Mars is our asshole.

I mean, it’s been with us for such a long time but it was never possible to get glimpses of it ’til recently.

And even today you have to go to drastic measures and use highly advanced technologies just to take crappy snapshots of it

(oh, the gadgets and techniques you’ll have to employ).

It has mischievously poked mankind’s collective fantasy for centuries,

tickling it

until we giggle with the unearthly sensations.

It’s inserted itself in our highest works of art and our foulest films; a cosmopolitan cultural icon colonizing our consciousness.

But in all its omnipresence, it’s still a mystery.

Aside from the fact that it’s red and bumpy

we don’t really know anything about it.

Well,

there’s also the fact that it’s uninhabitable.

They say it’s full of carbon dioxide and other foul-smelling gasses,

noxious fumes that will make anyone’s eyes pop out

like Arnold’s in Total Recall.

But even though I’m no scientist, I can tell that there’s life there.

There has to be. Did you know that they found organisms in boiling magma? So why not this place?

Experience tells me that life can bloom in the filthiest of places.

So there’s hope and promise

that someday, we’ll come face-to-base with the thing that has haunted our imagination from time immemorial,

the black hole of our being,

the shadowy tunnel into the unknown.

We’ll see it,

feel it,

smell it,

taste it,

and then we’ll know who we truly are.

But I also know that someday soon our corrupt instincts will get the better of us

and we’ll find ourselves

drilling the shit out of that poor, sore soil for fleeting pleasures.

And the universe will hear our groans and moans;

lonely asswipes in paradise lost.

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Inspired by photos of Mars: http://mashable.com/2012/07/08/nasa-mars-panorama/

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Filed under Life, Poems, Random Thoughts

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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Filed under Life, Poems

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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Filed under Life, Love, Poems

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.

__________________________________________

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

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Filed under Life, Poems

Bakit ka Breathtaking?

Bakit ka breathtaking?
Tuwing makikita, tangina, tantalizing!
Nasisilaw ako at ang pakiramdam ay numbing
Dinadaga ang dibdib sa sobra mong dazzling.

Di kumpleto ang araw, laging merong lacking
Pag ‘di ka nakita dahil ikaw ay missing
Hinahanap-hanap, parang mangangasong nagha-hunting
Masilat ka lang ng saglit kahit ito ay stealing.

Oo na! Nabighani na! Sa pagmumukha mong captivating
Di makapaniwala sa ganda mo kahit seeing is believing.
Nagcha-cha-cha ang tyan sa chuwing ika’y magpapa-charming
Pesteng buhay ‘to lagi na lang hanggang daydreaming.

So why is it–why are you so kamangha-mangha?
My jaw drops to the floor, in other words, napapanganga.
My eyes, lumuluwa
My heart, pumapalya
My lungs stop pumping air, it’s impossible to hinga.

I just can’t believe how your skin is so ganda
You probably shower well, not just with a single timba.
I always feel stupid, so hopelessly tanga
When I walk up to you and try to make my diga.

It’s just a crush, I know, a simple paghanga.
But goddamn! I’m writing a poem tonight, napapatula.
It’s all your freakin’ fault, your pagkakasala
That you’re the girl that you are, excessively pinagpala.

Kaya sagutin mo ako dahil ako’y inquiring.
Anong pakiramdam ito? Anong klaseng feeling?
Wala namang pag-asa pero eto pa rin hoping
Malay mo maka-jackpot at ako naman ang winning.

‘Til then I’ll wait, very matyaga
‘Cause I’ve got nothing better to do, nothing to gawa.
Keep on scratching my head, removing my lisa
And ask it one more time

Like a crazy praning,

Why are you so kamangha-mangha?
Bakit ka breathtaking?

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Filed under Life, Love, Poems