#poemnfs

[fato-profugus]

Light dims to superfluities and the world invites a countdown to its final sleep but in this penultimate sigh there's still no trespassing the verbose transparencies Instilled in me is a querulous menagerie snarling at everything coming close gnawing rabid, ugly teeth bleeding for the taste of courage in angry retorts Oh, pillars existent, sinful threads of binding, too much and too late pinnacles of heaven piercing through the lights that corrupted what's kept in innocence now I try to be ignorant in shallow oblivions What hurts the most is giving it a little when it deserves the end that stars writhe in the darkness, consuming my last few open fenestrations

[fato-profugus]

This faithful expectancy – there is no lee against this harrowing sunshine, not even the appease of terror A confluence of sweet fearful prudence, painful moulting The blood of life pounds through the lion cages and beads of sweat titivates my sad smile Eyes dead black as the ravine of self-consumption coming to the exhaustion of ends – what I’m always fearful of, beginning The double-edged dagger of silence sharp sibilance in queue hidden at the bottom of the flesh touching the bone - the loudest whimper And now I’m pulling it out I’m hauling this cleaved marble in the moans of the ocean.

[fato-profugus]

Life, inexhaustible, perched on the electric lines and malingered for endless tomorrows I watch it drain the last morose of rain on the windows The pulp kept itself in the plate numbers of passing cars and forgotten phone numbers in a limbo between disregard and casual abeyance fecund and sorrowful I could be here or without here, the unraveling continuous its unsustainable meander without a trace of rue This unfixable wry my staple conflagration, my consumation, my immolation The flowers smell like fire and fire like skies, the dusts settles and nobody listens Notice me this way and I might coax you inside when I'm not eating your carrion and superfluity The bone chimes to a single brokenness when we listen and I will let you listen whilst you drink from me, before your recurring exits.

[fato-profugus]

After all the whisky and beers, the cigarettes, the lechery, after all the long bus rides and the aversion in poetry The days hastened, blooming and withering like moonflowers; its scent lingers with a scathing, dreamlike familiarity I still do not know what I want I am still not ready to want it I still want to be understood but does not want to be interpreted I am still most comfortable alone but cannot stand another second of it There is a garisson between my pair of lungs and the rope swings to my caprice my immortal sun bends backward and the dirge starts playing like warm summer gusts There is a debauchery past the squalor and the reveling, and the toxicity I've spent night making love to the sound of crickets, the lapsing lights of the freeway and my sleepless mouth masticates every light left open in the world mauled by sunsets They are trying to haul me but they do not understand why my hands are blue from groping the hilt of this beautiful steel It still shines like eyes, with a little glint of sadness and a little glint of hope, after all the subterfuges and the capitulations, all the final note, the noises escaping from a secret room, I'd get around to forgeting it too.

[fato-profugus]

Drunken angels wade past the silent lights of Rufino engaging in a chandelier's fandango while I keep listening to the beating of their wings We are yellow from the tip of fingers blooming to Makati echoes to the gilded fire we pour down our throat to quell the trembling spilnters that holds all our imposed coaxing to fly away from this damned hall of mollified people Wings prancing like sea waves as headlights approach and leave this frontier, flying away, gliding through dusty fenestrations they cannot understand me I cannot understand me my wings mistaken as howls of madness, my loud abrasions The naked air cries from esoteric wounds of solipsism and in the canopies, marble eyes keeps rolling in and out looking for another way in circling cul de sacs angels vying a way out of heaven There has to be something between these tall shades, footsteps - crunching sounds of sole to tarmac reminds me of grinded pills, infinitesimal reverberations in the chest, bent lips like satellites oscillating in Gogh's blue sky, daggers of meaning I'm pulling between the flesh and bone There has to be something between these latticing questions and the ravenous weave of answers but I do not want to weep for the city just because I do not want to weep for myself, my arms are not enough to embrace the cold inside me Engage, I am a missle flying over my sleeping soul Engage, this capitalist sadness comes in a bosom for teenage sex, Engage, this suicidal heaven watching over with taxidermical eyes drunken in mortal liminalities Valkyries sing a dirge to my old friends because they wouldn't for me and the yellow streets are filled with the blood of my murder, hell hounds cower and cars, unbeknownst, keeps faring I am still the blear of the sparrow angel wings.

[fato-profugus]

Balintuna

Isang bahagi ang naguudyok, ang natitirang bahagi ay nananalig May bigat sa gabi, nakadagan ang buwan sa hangin pero ang lahat ng bagay ay anemiko Nakakapagod hinihingal, sumisinghal, hindi masaya pero hindi malungkot, binuksan ko ang aldaba May mga kumawala at mayroong pumasok, balintuna sa plano salungat pero maaari.

[fato-profugus]

A Fool's Fool

Should I begin describing the playful orchard of the April’s hue? Or should I begin with a capitulate? I squander the last hours thinking of what kind of a fool I am but I didn’t have any inebriation, or any line that begins with the enunciation of an ineffable sorrow, or a guffaw, or a caterwaul, just a fool’s fool What do I want to be? Should I begin to undress and address this words to you? Or should I begin in a confession on how the afternoons finally became bearable? I wanted to be happy but I do not know what makes a man happy I do not even know what makes a man Should I be a seedless sky? But the things that makes me rapt, I leave, drenched in dulcet tears from my oblivious spigot Happiness is unsustainable and the metaphysical rain keeps rapping on the sooty windows Should I be transgressive? Because the fool that I am basks in the glory of losing and and watching my tormentors twist in the hands of guilt, or shame, or rue My passive aggression is a double-edged sword, a scaffold for two renouncements that cavorts in mad acquiescence But transgression is like fireworks, or speed and other injectables, or the ephemeral idea of happiness; short-lived and unsustainable Should I be unfathomable? I want the endless moaning and the relentless swaying - ebb and eddy of the sea But I am only made of emotions and not intellect, introspective interpretations but no moors - A sea of unwanted and repleted conflagrations Should I be connected? I wanted to be a part of what I only commit to the haze of dreams Lovely people, a multitude in a suffused mouth But I am not cut for standards, for comparison, for collectives, for people and my conformation is the inner citadel of sequester Should I be alive in the light? I wanted to grow, to change, to molt to be existentialism itself I am existentialism crawling on all fours through the sieves of time until I began gnawing at my own tail Should I be more? Because I have no roots, no culture, no education, no influence, and I only have myself and my confessional poems and more of this and even more of this – this almost emptiness and I am tired of this harrowing dirge No more. No more. Should I be consequential? But I do not know what is consequential to me I am a piece of a puzzle that folds its corner, denying places, denying questions, denying answers I am an ubiquitous nascent moon waxing its rough skin only to find its bones made of powder Should I be interested? I wanted to know new ways of making flowers remember, of paying obeisance to burned bridges, of skinning myself to the point of exhibition I wanted to be piqued by a sly hook in the sky, to be touched by detrimental and intangible fingers, to be moved but my parse soul is the stone of all my whetstones. This unessential embargo and this overweening soliloquy, should it tell you how I always wanted to be freed from questions, and answers? I wanted to be a fool. A fool. Should I begin with a poem divulging where I am heading?

[fato-profugus]

Not Cut For This

When was the last time you got high? Oh, your eyes are filled with lachrymose. It has been a long time. I speak to you the way I write Filmy eyes undulating, lips sutured, my somnambulistic hands hauling you between sleep and wakefulness Look at you, dry as twenty five Overworked, under time, and now your stomach is sick You can't smoke and you can't drink who are you now, after your eight to five? Maybe when you recuperate you'll go back to open mics and drink, and smoke, and read a careful confessional, and rummage for old souls in new faces; exacerbating your disease I'm tired of trying -- I'm tired of women and their gamine charm, I'm tired of careful verses, of poetry, (I have three thousand of them), I'm tired of old pals trying to pull old bones in new times I'm not cut for this, I suppose and every day, I whet and strop my thinly whittled hope and every day, I go closer to the lucency of the truth I confuse memory for desire, and rain for depression, and anger for courage, and hopes for salvation, and acquiescence for love, and myself for someone else Time reels like a sobriquet over and over the festering wound so thick now that the pain I feel feels distant yet real - just like all of this.