nOsTaLgIa , ReViSiTeD

untangle my pardon

this pleasure within.

disown my evil

a passion untold.

deny me forever,

unlock this cell

and enter me

sooner than

the last trip

to the farthest state of

mind dipped

and caramelized

chewy enough to

remember what

is best

forgotten.

bRiDgE of ThReAd

toe clipped,
arms spread stretched
to the far end of each
finger...
chin swimming
through eternity
unwanting whatever
lazedly styrofoam nightmares
sat along the
road that leads
to whoever
waited
first.

ennui, uncovered

more than just the spectre of lust

you were,

another page written and read

for comfort

reveal the truer than blue essence

i am

lingering still in the empty halls

of solitude

only to have your scent fill space

with guilt

neither for better or worst or even

forever.

chilled orgasms & faint clouds in my coffee (with apologies to ms. carly simon)

come undone

if you must

and i will

in a virtual game

of juice me up

as i do you.

big deal , you say.

why not, i retort.

fuck you, you say.

bless me, i pray.

so much space

to fill now after

all these years,

so little love

left in

when the itch

isn't just there

anymore.

"reservoir moments"

c h i l l e d j u n c t i o n s

now, as dawn delete some stars and

the closest one edge up into the eastern horizon,

my soul slip out of oblivion

taking some thoughts hopefully

remembered in another

zone

east of elsewhere

facing the sun, squinting some

scenes toasting crunchier parts

of roles played and died for

but never taken holier

than before.

here, at the crossroad having

half-a-chance of being the ghost,

i seek direction but only find

south of somewhere

blurring

north of nowhere

rekindling embers left

haphazardly by some

lover caught in the act

while the rest of reality

loosely sink down

the last desire for life and desire

itself

at the threshold of your sea

lifting off

some memory like before,

locked in an embrace as the

night grip

upon sanity and break

as a moon loom

a night's stand, and another,

yet another...

and still be left

empty.

rambling 037

way beyond

the crags and crevices

of life,

a still

unnerving

niche

reach out

far

and even

way beyond...

roquiapaulh. shredded paper art

f r r r e s h !

... ramblings, rambling... blah ... blah... blah...

once in a long while, an urge find you in the midst of the city's grime. a silent desperation overcome your wit. everything have superimposed themselves into a scene stuck in some forgotten zone in your brain. silvery vessels shuttle the main stretch. gargantuan boxes of steel, glass and stone lord over the largest of space : completely losing the horizon. an eerie mass of gray cloud hover upon a cacophonic , almost chaotic city of man. a scream does not escape your throat, instead you shiver ... you squint ... you fart and pass out.


... when you recover your pawned consciousness, the sky is under and the pit of the plunderer await the best of what is deserved.


farther out into the darkness a wave recoils and sweeps away what is left of scrimped sympathies and lies... lies you often tell yourself.

the W R O N G century?

several people often agree that they were born in the wrong century. how could that be so, when in fact , nature has its airtight perfection fit into every creation? perhaps the elemental realities facing these mortals perfectly affect their mindset. a seemingly loose connection has been created by which a distant past or future is only the place to be. when this old world become a rather uncomfortable niche to live in, there must be a solution. the only thing then is to give more than what is asked of you, or take less than what is possible.



discontentment is just a mechanism to twarp any question , especially the one that asks , "are you born in the right century?". touche. who could really say.

rObiDobdOb slumbering...

how much sweeter can it get

watching over an

angel sleep...

how sweet it is to

love an angel...

sweet...

sweet...

===========

my makiling ...

"there have been moments lost in the rain,

understanding love, thal all came in vain..."

-webs of your love

you can choose which way to go, which way to reach the peak.

we can take the dirt road, or a cowspath , or even a

deserted countryroad... whichever way as long we

know where the sun sets, where the moon rises

we'll get there somehow. maybe a little later

than some , but nevertheless... we'll get there...

whether or not flowers bloom for purpose or beauty, the question still lies on how long it can contain in itself the mystery of having to grace this consciousness of sin. for half-a-chance in a lifetime , most dreams are left unlived and what is lived may as well have been unfulfilled dreams ...

in the absence of abundance, in the abundance of emptiness

whatever the eyes perceive , the soul conquers!

-meanderings&ramblings among other insanities

moving down the highway...

billboards bother me. even if it is the sign of the times.

i still cannot understand why a face has to be blown up

a hundred times than life to endorse a product.

more than just posing danger during bad weather;

it is quite an unpleasant distraction for motorists

who seem to linger through the images as if

it were the last thing to see before

flying off a bridge!

still trying to figure out... mOonburns.

" ... when the best of times persevere the worst, everything comes to place " a line worth pondering . it is indeed quite a feat to fill the exact need for a longing ; find reason and logic within a mystical plane. everyday , we enter a different portal. a different astral zone . a totally new space. we should always think of a "new day" as a "new portal" where we enter and never come out of , but rather re-enter a new one... but then, can the moon, burn?

mOon burns

the mist, the fog, the hollow view of

the lake: somehow take a

bit of breathe from the

breezy afterthought

often blown beyond

mortal recognition

of beauty and

concealed caverns of magma

beneath an azure

sheet reflecting a

cloudless afternoon

on the eve of

a full moon

poised to burn

spirits left

out in the cold

to moisten

up the night...

01.

A dried kakawate leaf strayed into the peebled patio as a sudden balmy breeze sweeps it up to linger into the late afternoon air. Amused Bettina smiled at herself as she bowed into the cup of tea she had been nurturing for the longest time. The brew smiled back just as when the leaf swirled half-past her hair and into the cup's brim. She blew it off instinctively but it boomeranged at her face. She gleefully chuckled through it all when a scream echoes into the garden.

"Armaggedon! Armaggedon!" The voice was crisp but muffled. Cleo was having a fit again. It sure was going to be a long and boring early evening again, Bettina mused. Cleo , a New York socialite-for-hire had come to seek for some peace, not just of mind but for the world as well. A piece of peace to fill into the chasm of guilt she was helplessly hanging on with if only to redeem her sanity from loosely falling out into the edge. The woman that she was wasn't really enough to smoothen up the rough that was on the surface after she got acquitted for commiting parricide. She pleaded guilty but the insufficiency of evidence led the jury to believe that her husband's death was accidental. Nothing was left of her after seven years of battery and masochism. The day she murdered Bill , her American husband she knew she would immensely miss him and the angst led her into a periodic demented rage. She had come to reach down and dig into her roots. Perhaps the sound of familiar voices and the scent of it all eventually was to heal a wound deep into the heart of her soul.

"Yes! Yes! Indeed Cleo dah'lin!" Bettina beamed at her cousin who was rushing toward her. "Indeed no one escapes armaggedon, now freshen up get ready for dinner" She nonchalantly tailed on. Cleo miraculously sobers upon being informed that dinner was in a few. She blindly walks into the doorway, Bettina still amazed with the effect of the magic word takes a long lingering look at the mess that had become of her once ravishingly beautiful cousin.

"Cleo, don't you think its rather impulsive of you to marry a man you hardly know?"

"Nonesense. When i look into his deep blue eyes, in an instant he reveals his whole being to me! It was love at first sight"

"It is really a nonsensical principle, you know, what if he is a con-artist? someone who can easily conceal the devil within... what if he comes from Transylvania?

"You're just not a a dead romantic, you will never understand all these things happening inside of me!"

The conversation echoes into Bettina's memory. It was totally ridiculous that Cleo decided to marry a man she casually met in Boracay. She confessed that his mere gaze moistened her down, sending devils back to hell. He was black and fat, somebody she thought Cleo would never be sexual about. But then the woman was basically driven by her inherent gullibility. Afterall, Sandra, her mother, somehow influenced her intense dependence on the blissful gifts that mindless and impulsive acts of the emotions brought forth. Unmarried , until her death at fifty a decade ago, Cleo's old lady drifted through the continents and men, and well, women too. But that's an entirely different story. Tales have it that Bill's perversion was extremely intriguing for Cleo ; so much that they seemed to be a perfect pair , an affair matched by hell's fury. Blessed if not damned by satan himself as they later concluded. On end for years, nothing was heard of her cousin. Bettina, while she travelled a lot tried seeking her out but to no avail. As a matter of fact she only got wind of the whole fiasco when word came that after Cleo's release from detention and the subsequent deportation did she realize that the family decided (without really consulting her) on making her a keeper of sorts of a broken doll. It all came upon the titas and titos that Bettina's East Mendez estate in Tagaytay suited to be best for a badly disheveled spirit. But after six months, nothing of any progress can be spoken of so far.

"Bill came last night, in my dream that is, and asked if I cared to join him in San Diego" Cleo narrated in between gulps of squash soup. "I told him he had to ask for your permission first". "Well, I'm sorry dearie, I don't dream anymore" Bettina sarcastically shot back. " He's been dead for a time now , don't you think you should give yourself a favor by letting go of your episodic dreams? Cleo glassly gazed at her and nothing was heard of her the rest of the evening.

The therapist who escorted Cleo assured them that hers was a rare case and oddly a painful one. No violent streaks, no self-destructing fits. And that most of the time , lucidity encumbered her. The 'crime' momentarily shook some sectors and pure sympathy poured in. The 'crime' , whoever owns a version of, can only be had for its demerits.

The moon was high over Tagaytay. It waxed away as the city froze in an awed mist lurking from the shadows into Bettina's impeccable garden...