i am awake

due to the lost time i had for sleeping too long i forgot i should have written reality on floral pillows. then i could have learned what was i trying to convey while i was asleep. it could have been more difficult if i closed my eyes while sleeping. to be attacked by the consistency of everydayness is an understatement when it comes to looking at a road while in pajamas. this should have to end. thus i opened opened my eyes. redundancy is a must. waking in every blink of sleep.

contrary to what everybody believes that a life is a journey--- life itself is the traveler that waits for the places. the traveller is not me. i am just a structure waiting for them to come their way to me. travelling stationary. each step taken by life towards you colors your each day with a different hue. a different shade. expecting a different traveller along the waiting day.

and the journey of life begins knocking at my door.

welcome to my life... like a dragging pop song.

let me sleep and tell you travellers' stories once more.



This second that you chose to plant the sword of your retreat is one with you. Your execution has ripened, your breath is with the spirits, your end--- winds me back to the beginning.

the stage has been set for my surrender. everything is perfect. my lithe body is draped with my best garb --- a silk kimono weaved from threads of acceptance, sleeve adorned with my heart --- that shall be but a memory after the act.

The stage has been set.

the carpet upon which i shall fall is immaculate and creaseless and shall later on be stained with the glistening tears of the midnight sky on my head. on the heartbeats of my skin, i splashed the essence of gardens, so that i will be remembered as a hint of fragrance with the whispers of the wind.

While you're down and eyes shut, I, on a stance above you is gathering all of being a man for a final motion.

the sword that shall penetrate, which you have provided, lies mutely but vigilantly, waiting for its moment.

and this, this is my death poem.

The perfume that clings to your kimono dances to the rhythm of the wind that hums like a last reverberation of a drum for a death march. But the silent whispers of my sword is more defeaning than what is heard.

there is no other way but to go through this. the call to cede gets unbearably defeaning the more i deny my inevitable submission. and my tongue-tied feet forbid me to run away.

so i accept my fate.

Your fate on my faith on you.

i have come face to face with the mortality of my defenses, and i recognize defeat. there is no other option but to succumb, for me to gain my freedom. all the hurting ends today. and so shall all the pains of the past dissolve into ripples of pleasure once i give in to this destiny.

i chose you to be my second. or, mayhap, fortune chose you to bring me down.

And so the sword sings rebirth as i pull it from the sheath. Stacatto to the point of surrender--- your heart; that cries of piercing. Undressing every doubt, pushing all the courage, sweating every tear, firm on the aim I keenly wait for your commence.

and down i am. for i have been conquered --- emotion; intellect; and today, constitution.

And you commend.

i am prepared for this act. baring all, i stand naked, begging for liberation. my lips are gasping, gulping pockets of air, for i know that when that moment comes, my breath shall be taken away. i close my eyes to hide everything else; darkness magnifies sensations, and i need to embrace this experience. fiery passion is curdling, rushing through my veins, fueled by my desire to have you acknowledge my absolute surrender and spare me the intense anxiety of beseeching for absolution.

my quiver trembles in anticipation of the impassioned piercing, ready to take the pain-pleasure that shall release my spirit and grant me the gift of rebirth.

as i spread myself to receive my fate, you tenderly drew your glistening sword. and in one swift hush, the blade plunged.

Plunge to the skin of eternity. Gush of your rain on the painting of a nightsky on the sheets. Exhale. Soar from what is human.

And i, with your completion, shatter to a thousand lights... and melt to petals of cherry blossoms and be blown to the heavens.

and i fell, for you, with you, free at last.

I raptured for you, with you, free at last.

thanks to luanne who dreams with me...




They have been there for a while. They hang like black fruits on the flawless ivory trunk. Considered as vile creatures like the rowdy assembly on the poolside of bethesda: cripples, lepers, blind men, everyone under the marble shade, including their specie are outcasts. They have automata tracking lens as eyes. It glares with burning pupils searing through the desperation that rises from unspoken sufferings. Every night since they've haunted Bethesda they would scatter sonar on the skies of the horizon as if calling someone from the void of the sea and the dessert.

They are on a mission.


It is Jerusalem's welcoming committee. It perfumes the foul morning breath of its all-day-half-asleep citizens. Though clad by colorful stones and metals of pride, its stairs stinks an array of ill-forgotten unfortunates - the outcasts. Behind its quintuple pink porches is a gift and a curse, the famous Pool of Bethesda. Long ago there was an angel that popped from the clouds and stirred the tap waters of the pool and it never was the same for the outcasts.

Or was/is it?


Anytime bubbles appear on the pool's surface, whoever dives in first will be washed away from his suffering, healed from infirmity, welcomed to the tiled roads of the city, received again by the family, cleared from the damnation of the eyes of a self-righteous religion. Healed.

But when did illness become a debasing factor for persecution? When did healing become a sorrowful conditional embrace of reality that is acceptance?


What if you were a paraplegic? When the bubbles appear who would carry you if your family rejected you the burdensome vegetable? Paralysis is always an either way affliction.

The bats are on pry. Sonars rippling. Isolation is already a ripped-off curtain.


..."I can't, sir," the sick man said, "for I have no one to help me into the pool when the water is stirred up. While I am trying to get there, someone else always gets in ahead of me."

..."Stand up, pick up your sleeping mat, and walk!"




not all that glitters is gold.

The wild sunshine danced on the floor of his misty eyes. The songs of the birds are perching on his ears, they sound like roars of the indescribables, later on it will sound like the wooing of a static frequency, on electricution.

giving theory a feet.

"Scrambled eggs and mashed potatoes with a lot of butter will do". The next and only loud spoken words after whispers of confession on an altar of piled up rocks. At least, they listen better compared to Father Vergara who never even bothered to drop by again after he gave him cold splash of unkind, insane verbal assaults coupled with a foul spit on his purple robes.

masked purpose.

Clasping these hands together and forming a sanctuaryof fingers are a sign of despair. The mouth speaks insurgency. Rubbed knees sinking in waxed floor. In the night. In the cold. In the darkness... which was never made in the first place. Let me hear you say again, "Let there be light".

easy on the carpet.

You were like a blanket. You embraced my vision with blinding white. You covered me while i was sleeping. You rolled warmth through my feet. Am I like the coal beneath your icy crest?

happy as december.

The future is a broken eyeglass that have finely drawn cracked lines, securing an unclear path, it is like a picture of roots spread to the ground. All we see on the broken lens is hundreds of reflections of our own eyes. Then shall we take off the broken eyeglass to see what lays on the path. See the present to avoid future tense.

i bear a resemblance of what i've been through.



Be quiet deepest secret

simmer me sin
simmer within

the tundra of your whispers
the field of aborted dreams

when can it be real?
if truth be as lies
if lies be as truth

the countless efforts for sanity
are persistent assaults to rationality

vanity's lullabies
has been singing

i have been done
i am none
too late for rescue

simmer me sin
simmer within

Be quiet deepest secret

life is a sleep

What could not be sin? That which cannot be seen?

Downward thrust to the heart's deepest dungeons of pleasure. Pounding and pounding desires with aggression like powdering stolen wheat. Stolen from the truth. Stolen bread is sweet. Stolen water is sweeter.

All these speak from the back of every mind. Hidden from the innocent.

to hell has gone
my thoughts are one
with heaven
but in this world
my heart has bled
for the decision
that i have to think
with the back of my mind
that looks at tears
as a drivel of pleasure



I am a portrait of anguish. Conceived by the images of the deceased. Glossed with a dark ink of torment. My face is screaming silently of agony; a protruding skull on canvass, wrapped in pale skin. I could have fallen out of the frame if not for these dead veins that embrace my bloodless chest.

Then Death came and signed a contract of life for me. Pulled out from the painting, I walk this afterlife of black and gray.

I am now in this opera where the stage is a throne of bone. I entertain condemned souls with surreal imitations of the living. Though this existence is short of reality, I relish every breath. I embrace every sound of apathetic clapping and lifeless laughing from an audience of degenerates. I savor every sensation of this animated body.

Just as I somehow started to appreciate living, Death came back to end my contract.

I ran through the crowd of shadows. I hid in the midst of dead vests. But, with only a tragic stare from his hollow eyes, I felt the air seized from me. I am weakened. And as I tremble, this body is turning to mist. The canvass is sucking me back. And I cease to live.

Death is my artist. Life is what i am deprived of, and it is what the living can't see... in this horrid masterpiece that is me.



John doesn't enjoy his daily half past eight dinner. He thinks sandwiches are boring. What he looks forward to is dessert.

Every night, when the clock hits nine John is pressed against the wall of his room, under the darkness, his looks, through the wooden jalousie. His nightly dessert is to let his eyes crawl on her soft skin, up to the curve of her shoulders, to her firm breasts. He can taste her sweetness from his room. His delectation is to see her take off every cover that she wore during the day, may it be orange, red, purple or white. He can even guess how she matches her bra to her skirt, to her blouse and to all her silky underwears.

Tonight is different.

Though pressed against the wall and eyes through the wooden jalousie. He didn't gaze through her dimly lit room. He even forgot the pleasure of voyeurism.

It's past nine and she wasn't there. Dessert wasn't served.

John walks towards the bed and in the darkness of his room, in the mist of his eyes, he can still see her purple bra, her smooth arms, the glimmer of light on her legs. And as his right hand is pressed on the cushion of the mattress, his left hand spreads her legs apart.

This is the first time he enjoyed dinner. Twice in one night. A different sandwich.