Monthly Archives: August 2013

talkin’ death

death is a scary thought to the point of confusion :

you lead a lousy life so die
but worries about the one’s you’ll be leaving behind;

but death is best felt when it touches you,
its an incentive if you lived to tell about it

though most of those who survived failed
on being a good storyteller.

this can be my last poem
and the last story that ran in my head like a super 8
was my brother’s boss’ death :

drop dead on the floor after playing badminton.

and as i write down these words
i feel death’s caress on my nape. i feel it blurring my sight
i feel it thumping my chest. i feel it tiring my knees.
i see my father’s image and how his image fits in here;

” death is like scoring junk the first time “
let me say it once again.
” you don’t really know what happens next. ” ———-

O death i feel you in my bones

as you slowly approach my doorstep.

let me put my best suit on

and take a journey with thee.Image


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the RTA peep show

the elderly man seems to be
having difficulty standing up;
in his face lies the impression
of being amused as if a life
altering event had happened
and it took his breath away.

a couple of minutes ago, he was
staring hard and dead straight
to a woman who was dress up in
corporate attire and skirt hiked
up and the usual thighs open for
the taking of every one’s eyes;

between timid pauses and glaring
looks, he was on the look out for
any one looking at him — the sight
lasted for a solid twenty five minutes,
enough to have this grown man sigh;
considering their custom of fixed
marriages, this elderly man if single
is either full of it and getting some
piece of meat somewhere and he
was being natural or not getting it
at all and with an uncaringly beautiful
long – legged white woman poking
on his imagination, things can go
awry in the middle section and so
when it came to his stop, he was
adamant to get off the train —

this is what women does to men
in such situation like this :

some men had revolt without
many people noticing it.

some men who noticed went
and wrote poems about it.

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the man

his name echoed from nowhere; someone shouted and pointed us to him.
the street leading to his place was muddy. it had rained the night before
and people who all looked like iggy pop are all lined up like empathy dolls
scratching for some piece of action and as we passed by, i felt an all familiar
feeling worthy of comparison to raoul duke’s paranoia — this must be good,
I calmly convinced myself as I feel the heat and scrutiny of their eyes.
the crazier the people, the better the drugs we can score.

his name echoed from nowhere and his place recalls tree houses;
we had to climb up and get inside this little hole,
“ for safety and precautionary measures “ R said in case of a drug bust.
inside, the mans’ place was fit enough for three.
it was perfect and once inside, we finally meet the man —

his face and his body spelled U-N-D-E-R-S-T-O-O-D —–
understood, meaning that he’s the real deal.
understood, meaning that he’s been in the block for a long time now.
understood, meaning that he got the stuff.
understood, meaning that he’s going to wire us up good.
introductions was made, we handed the money and he told us to sit down;

R who had never slept for three days was rambling, his thoughts was
all over the place — he asks for a long bed for us to stay awake.
and the man obliged. and the man did ordered somebody and
this somebody ordered somebody who ordered somebody to get it.

the man was a virtuoso, made a burner just using his mere fingers…

” i will learn a lot from this man “, I said.




hail of smokes are coming out of my fingertips —
” gusto mo ng pipe ? ” R asked.
” di. tuter lang ako “, i answered.
R was letting me go all the way. he had his fill
or had a change of mind and just wanna try
sleeping later tonite which of course, is bullshit.

invisible cool wraps my head within three minutes —
all the bug inside my head disappeared and was
replaced by someone talkin’ lowbrow poetry;

words verses metaphors symbolisms all a blur —
the man and R exchanges in putting the final touches
on the residue like some collaborative painting.

“ man make gods out of chemicals within minutes “

his name echoed from nowhere and we sat still for another 10 minutes
and converse and shook hands and made promises before we leave.

rain was already pouring and nobody on the hallway except a child
playing with her slippers on the mud filled water on the pavement.

R was wearing a hoodie. the invisible cool is my fucking umbrella.

there’s an ancient like ambiance walking in the rain
and having your shoes soaked with mud.
there’s an incense like smell all around the slum.
a zen like feeling as we walk by people after people
crammed inside flop houses, sitting in stools,
slumped on the side of the streets, not minding
the water dripping on their back — on an altered state of mind,
everything that can be sensed can be mistaken for something.

” dito ako tinutukan ” said R, pertaining to what happened
to him one week ago when a kid pointed a knife on him
and ran away with the stuff; the street was narrow and no lights
at nights, a rather fine backdrop of a noir crime scene set up.
indeed — only in the Philippines.

we walked and talked of going back the next day ———

i forgot to tell the man, serve me and i’ll be your servant.




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say goodbye to your fucking ghost


you can wear love and look good
to someone else now.

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this place is a wonderland.

tell me, is there something wrong
with a bookstore that has the same stocks
of bukowski poetry anthologies,
and beat novels; the same copy of
american splendor collection
and basketball diaries
all getting friendly with dusts ?

c’mon and tell me what’s wrong
with a record store that has the same piles
of old blues and jazz records
from monk to archie shepp,
from cecil taylor to nina simone,
from howlin wolf to stevie ray vaughan;
even the same soundtracks :
like the last king of scotland,
o brother where art thou,
lady killers, cold mountain
even empire records or trainspotting
or garden state or wonder boys —
been on sale from 10 aed to 5 aed
within a month ?

same shit goes with the movies :
from jim jarmush to a spike lee joint
early sean penn, bergmann, bogart,
charlie chaplin, orson welles,
skate boarding and surfing documentaries
french art films and
richard pryor boxsets.

this place is a wonderland,
and i stand in awe and stupefied
on equal measure.

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east is eden

Imageit’s a place where the only sin
is to be stupid enough
to spend shitloads of money
on the wrong things to buy.


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this afternoon

inside kinokuniyaImage

i humbly reflect

on the greatness

of life as i attempt

to contemplate on

the very idea of

stealing a kerouac

poetry collection.

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