the long and short of it:

i can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. this has never been about what i wanted. truth be told, i gave you the short end of the stick. you wanted your choice? here it is, the matchbox, the gun. i left some change in the drawers. i got the easy way out. but this was never about me. the ball has, is and will always be on your court. staying, leaving, running away– this has always been your call. and call it what you want: the wishbone, the fork in the road, the bus fare for a one way ticket to somewhere. the payphone is ringing and it’s for you. spare me the melodrama, just answer it, just pull the fucking trigger. the lump in your throat, heavy. the bullet crossing my eyes, the glint of the gold too bright for second guesses. we are all moving forward. none of us are (looking) back.

well. y’all know i’m siken trash anyway. this was supposed to be something with some smidgen of honesty but i can’t deal with that shit right now. goodnight.


apocalypse, now

the end started when you kvetched your way back to bed, back to this panic room. the night began, but the moon disappeared when you started digging crescents unto my back. outside the wind howled when you breathed out bullets, so i wanted to weigh our chances of escape–i counted the times that came, and ways i could pick you up and pick you out. my hands trembling over your mouth like a mask. us in motion, just in placation, seeing stars, and watching each one fall parallel to the space between our bodies; quaking, our fault lines forcing the crush, the extinction. the whole planet flattened and you are still on me. i buried sighs into your neck, and i blamed decay for the marks under your jaw, on the spot right below your ear, and on the corner. the nook i would tuck myself into for shelter. i blamed inertia for the seven, eight rounds and revolutions for every hour up to the eleventh; i blamed combustion for the right shade of red under the skin of your lower lip, your cheeks, under stomach under matches, under the waxy pads of my fingers. if i could trace my steps back three hundred days and fifty eight seconds i’d still end up in the same spot on the small of your back, and i’d call it gravitation. the pull of the universe towards the center. you lying down, supine, restless. you on all fours, you on crumpled sheets, arms bent and hands behind your head as in victory, as in surrender. seven years could pass and the records would play the same, broken cry for help. our SOS on the sand, the one you drew on the back of my hand. the sun could pass and we’d still be here. bombs of light billowing to cloud nine. i’m not looking to be rescued anyway.

aaaaaaand this shit will remain shitty and unfinished. i tried, guys. i really tried. holy shit what is this even.

lunatic, the wanting comes in waves

Loose branches rustle in the strange air of
Night. Standing in the middle of the abandoned park,
on the thin metal slide, the World coos in anticipation,
it is Time. I shift my gaze to the sky.
There are two beams of light, two bodies over my head
yet I only know of one, I only know of One
Moon, and She pulls me deep into
Desperation, dank and dark behind her shadow
in the push and pull of the tides of Memory.
She hides her face and her calloused Hands
in changing phases, but her delicate wrists
always unveil in ritualistic
Slowness, like a secret being whispered
into small holes by the side of trees
so Here is my blessing, the cleansing.
this baptism by borrowed
Fire, by the warmth of her palm
pressing her prayers into mine, as if
gliding on my wavelength the Moment freezes
and the air is pregnant with Silence.
She holds her breath. it Cocoons straight
in my veins, holding her close. Her
light is not hers, but it is nothing if
not a message. Here, in our borrowed World.
Basking in the glow of stolen Light, I
greet her with faint, trembling fingers. Fate
pointing to my chest, right on the spot
where her light is the brightest, in this
World, where her wrists are bound, a waxing song
crystallizes in my ears. This is not home,
but you are Welcome. You are safe. Safe as
my Wanting can be. Find me in this world.

Inspired by Haruki Murakami’s 1Q84. I really miss Japan. This is for another day.


There are holes growing in my body. I can’t feel anything but this ripping numbness, this pronounced emptiness. All I have to do is close my eyes and I can feel the holes converging, replacing my skin with nothing as it creeps its way all over my body, slow but unwavering. I can’t tell if it is unpleasant. My doctor says it is normal, the sensation like frostbite, but he says it’s ordinary and tells me to let it pass. He says they don’t usually take anything anyway. But I feel it. It crawls in my gut and it takes and takes and I’m not sure if it leaves anything behind. If it does I don’t feel it. If it does I can’t feel it. It’s not odd, I’m not sick, I know, but there’s gotta be something different with me now, because not feeling anything is different from feeling nothing, right? The worry and smoke dissipates now, that’s how I know they’re still there. They’re still there.

I googled it and it says that if you dream about holes in your body it means you’re feeling empty and weak. I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean but in any case I don’t think emptiness is weakness. It just means there’s nothing there. If less is more, then nothing is everything. I’m letting it pass. The holes are growing but I’m letting them pass. They’re still there but they’ll be gone soon. They’ll pass through the holes they made; they’ll jump in and go to where everything else goes. I wish it could be sooner.

hindi ito aksidente

nais kong sumisid sa dagat ng iyong panaginip. mangisda ng pira-pirasong alaala ng ating taong ligaw sa nakaraan. sumalamin sa iyong isipan sa dilim ng kinabukasan. isang dasal laban sa dilim, isang kandilang sindihan– ilaw, dilaw, dilaw ng araw, dilaw na kislap ng mga tala, kislap ng mata. pansinin ang dalawang metrong gumigitna sa atin, buhangin lamang sa ating paanan. tumutulo ang apoy at ito ay dugo, dyamanteng dugo. isang patak ay pag-ibig. dalawa’y aksidente, tatlo’y sigaw ng gera. tatlong metrong lapit, tatlong metrong layo. luluhod ako, ako’y lulunod. hawakan mo ang aking kamay, daliri kumakapit. mga kuko’y dagit na bumabaon sa buhangin, sa ugat. wala nang ididiin pa, wala nang mas ilalalim kung hindi ikakalula. pula. pulang ikabubulag. hanapin ang aking kamay. huwag mo akong pakawalan.

my first ever poem in filipino. lol.

the flame

degrees climb to match
the heat of your skin,
rising higher, dropping down
the pitfalls of your pulse,
pressed against the walls of
your throat, exhales peeling off
and sliding sighs dripping
want from lit fingertips
matches, smoke screen beneath
your eyelids as we burn. i
extinguish flat air purging
soft rays of sentiment, all room
left for arson. i am nero over rome,
burning rome, bowing beside
your fiddle, your fickle body.
we float on embers. rising higher,
rising higher, a trail of ashes
leaving poetic memory

Mersault’s Sun

There is a certain kind of fatigue caused by the sun.
This pushes me to desperation. I inhabit the air around you
for a split second, waves of heat cascading down my back.
Finger on the trigger. The wind shifts direction, wavering,
wavering; I compel you to listen. This is heat, this is day,
my will slipping through my fingers like sand. Red in
warmth, yellow in fire. All alight, all raised to death.
I am burning, I am aflame: the Sun is high above.

It’s history. It’s poetry.

Memory is such a strange thing. It breathes, it changes, it forgets. The most vivid ones are those captured by the lens of an undisturbed moment: when the air is static, subjects all suspended in negatives. But overtime they lose their luster, they blur in the edges and then you start to forget. You forget small details: the colour of his shirt, the face of the man who sold you that burger, the tune you were humming. So you remember pockets. You remember in dreams, in filtered films you can pause and rewind. Zoom out and you see you’re there with him, two specks in a crowd, the crowd a sea. Zoom in, tilt a little to the side and you’re in the back in the moment, except now he’s missing a wrinkle or two, or somehow the lighting is just a bit off on his teeth. It’s a photo you leave in between pages of a book by your bedside, just a little something to stumble upon when you decide to read before sleeping. A voice in the back of your head wishes for a chance to remember the moment again. A little wish for a dream.

It almost feels like a dream.

It was noon. It was Times Square in the summer heat. We had three hours before the buses came so we walked. Amidst the hustle and bustle of the city we kept silent, reveling in each other’s presence. Applebee’s. The little girl with the yellow balloon. Your sunglasses perched on my head. Our feet moved to the pulse of the city, all forward, fast. Around my neck slung a heavy camera but not once did I reach for it– my hands were tied– one clinging to my bag and the other clasped around yours. Your thumb rubbed circles on back of my hand, as if in writing, as if invisible circles could whisper your thoughts up my hand, my spine, to my ear and heart, sweet poetry in nothing, memory in everything. To my left, it was B.B. King serenading from decades away. We rounded a corner and you guffawed when some suit glared daggers at me for stepping on his foot. I threw those daggers at you. Your eyes crinkled at the corners, your lips pulled to the sides rather than up, like the promise of a hug, like arms I could bury myself in, soft and warm. You called me a bitch and I threw a fry at you, your fry. I bought a Yankees cap for $30, and you attempted to steal it but it couldn’t fit your head. We walked some more, palms sweaty but you tightened your grip. More silence in the noise. I looked up, looking for the sky and found concrete instead, but beams of sunlight escaped on the back of birds. You cracked a horrible joke so I stopped in my tracks and stared. This time you threw a fry at me. I cursed and we both cackled at pathetic tourists, like we weren’t ones as well. Your arm on my shoulder. I said stop it with the fucking accent; you said fuck you, I can’t help it. We continued walking. Sweat trickling down my back and forehead, blood rushing to my cheeks. Extra large cokes in capitalist capital. You didn’t get it so I laughed by myself. More walking, more naked Americans and more comfortable silences. We kept walking forward, one foot in front of the other, hand in hand. Electrical impulses shooting up our fingertips to spark the nerve endings, to light up my face. Your pulse the rhythm I followed. The bass of the city streets below our feet. Green eyes, emerald in New York lights. Time pushing us out of the dream, out of the memory. Forward, forward, forward.

I left a bit of that moment in New York.
You took some with you. I don’t mind.

Although sometimes I like to write about it, not because I’d like it back, but just to keep it safe. I try at it again but in different voices. My voice, the bird’s voice, the hotdog’s voice. Anything of the dream but never yours– yours would remain untouched, untarnished, locked in stars to keep it from fleeing. The beauty in stasis, away from touch, like constellations.
But sometimes I like to pick it up just to remember what it felt like in my fingers. The electric blue, the sweet abeyance of ticking time.
I search for it, in fragments.
I search for you.
(I still do.)


I wrote this on a whim a few weeks back for a performance thing, but it never really solidified nor did it ever feel finished and ready. (Even the title is meh!) This has been rotting in my drafts for quite some time so it just feels right to post it now (for some reason that eludes me). The stupidity of it all just hit me so I guess that this is a way for me to laugh at the past while moving on from it– along with some new elements aka my friend’s current hullabaloo with a certain mister. Expect sushi (raw) writing because this is le shitty first draft!


A heavy breath escapes, echoing small relief.
Mimesis– each frame a copy, each frame reflects
again, stale light suspended around your radius.

The ground spills out of the sides of its path,
forged Mountain stretches steeper, your hold
wavering, rock straining beneath your fingers in

sweet Rebellion– all air static and yours, Electric
Blue, is blue of heat: warm and warning?
such Resistance; such is, in human persistence
against the Divine. There is no escaping wrath.

This is your vengeance, the final act that repeats,
the scream that deafens in silence. Here are our
revolving cycles of Ritual. All have been found.

We have known all along. Merciless Time
Cannot stop the tide from passing, the heavens
Wait patiently. Repeat.