#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

[inklustt]

Jamela Dabuet, foreboding insignificance

[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.

[fato-profugus]

Iron World

The faces of the trees dislimned with the ushering hands of petrichor and I keep glancing out the windows waiting for the rain It palls the world, like a carcass of a stranger that died without a lover or friend beside him, and now I see the iron world through my iron eyes The clock does not waver - it keeps on chanting the sound of departure and I have shrouded myself with the fog of leaving - unheard, unseen, unknown, slowly moving away from the inside I want to leave this place, I want to leave this apartment, I want to leave this job, I want to leave this state of wanting to leave And if I could just speak to you again the way the sun spoke to the horizon, (gyrating smoothly, mechanically, devoid of ill intentions) maybe this fear would molt a courage in me, and this mordant lack of tears will bring comfort, until we depart again The rain scratches on my dirty window pane reciting short stories in foreign tongues, exhuming faces and glances that has long decided to stay dead with its melancholic lust I keep my eyes to these fenestrations looking at the world sans of its gilt, not one batting an eye fighting it -- this feeling, this swelling fulmination I have no reason to weep and I weep for unreason Oh God, I miss myself when I'm with you and I miss the telephone numbers that I have deleted and all the other strings that holds nothing on its end.

[fato-profugus]

I am a needle of a broken compass dancing to magnets of the earth And I still live in my old address but this address is nowhere in the maps of belong I remember, as a child, going to the burial of a distant relative - A boy, maybe 7 or 8, who got bitten by a snake and kept silent about it until his dying body does the talking in pale tremors and blood flushing out That's pretty much how it feels now It's not a sad story and it's not an interesting one but I have to tell it somehow or the tremors will begin It's blase it's the lack of aggression in the way we fuck it's the lack of gravity when we sway our feet dancing like hanged from a lynch I'm an old song on a broken radio blue and cold like February And I still live to the demands of anything bigger than my measurent of my worth My old friends are sillent radios My old address is a lost compass I am trying not to sleep and praying that the moon keeps flaunting its good side until I find the one sun in this room that casts the lights for me.

[fato-profugus]

Sometimes I swim to find new places and sometimes, to leave old ones and when I am unsure - with no directive and ardor to move the stupor of stillness takes me to its bottom I was never fond of sleep - two to four hours of obsidian darkness and temporal amnesia, it had always been palled more of necessity than pleasure to me This afternoon I woke up after a four hour siesta (I never really take siestas) The sun was gilding the window frames and my memory of the morning weeps like a widow - defenstrating The thing I hate most about sleeping is the odd feeling of waking up - like a lot thing has changed since I closed my eyes or that nothing has changed at all; like I am a stranger disconnected to the world, or from myself - from outside to inside And you start to recognize this empty pockets all over your body under your arms, in between your ribs, in between your legs, in between your fingers, the cave of the neck, and it's all missing something that used to fill... to feel. Moments of opressive light and colorless, soundless eruption in the skies. You hear this hum again you heard on the road and you drift with its notes escaping the windows and flowing to the empty fields the afternoon, the monsoon, and waning away Can someone tell me what is this place again? What day is it? Whose smell lingers under my nose? Did I fall asleep again? I must have left myself again in the mad limbo.

[fato-profugus]

The world is an urn held by morning arms and the angels sing now my favorite lachrymose whilst the amber ash marauds my chest Breathe in, breathe out... The angels live now beyond the Maginot Lines, their etherized bodies afloat drifting with their facile smiles The pensive sky is an eye watching closely, aching to sleep The angels cringe as they watch you weep and shroud sordid words of armour around the obstinate thing of heaven you always carry around

[fato-profugus]

This highball on a Monday can kill me but it will only burn the last person clinging on the visceral cages of my chest and send the amber to Rome. This drunkenness can kill me, but it wouldn't.

I can’t remember if I have slept last night and how long, and how many a day should come after since last night, and then the dark whispers after the first vesper, countless, as many as the times the alarms rang. They’re going to kill me to pieces, oh, they can try!

My eyes are boughs to lost swallows bending to the ground, blackening to the night rolling back to the allure of sin, and voyeuristic secrets of phantom lovers – these dreams can kill me too, but only if my eyes can fall asleep.

This fast fusing cigarette can kill me too, this electric ferris wheel on my neglected stomach can kill me too, many things can kill me, but the weather looks sangfroid in blue, not a very swell time for faith, so I keep sucking the little cinder-stars sending each to infinitesimal fulmination but I bet, it wouldn’t kill me.

I’ve been to seven schools, and four employers and lived in six addresses, I’ve written in myriad voices, spoke in plethora of tongues, but my name is adamant to two syllables; this denial or this truth, or this wryly beautiful contradiction, it can kill me too, but I bet it wouldn’t.

I remember the last death I saw as if peering from the balcony watching the shadow of my scrawny all touch the immensity of light and stagger to the queue of eternal pedestrians. I can’t remember the first death I saw. It’s not really interesting in the beginning especially for a nihilist, and especially because it was waxed black and not red. I bet these remembering can kill me too, if it hasn’t killed me yet to remember enough.

Nobody touches a deadbeat. I’m a taciturn satellite sliding across a full lit sky. Nobody touches a jammed pistol. I’m an obtruse plea of death every time I try to live. And many things can kill me, but it wouldn’t.

[fato-profugus]

It's all in your head now... Dead birds. Wilted flowers. Pebbles. Old shoe lace... Ignition. Contact. Suspension. Lights fade in and out; Are we dreaming? Just a little -- A little is enough. 3 hours of sleep. We're almost there. It's all in your head now, Forgetling.

[fato-profugus]

Everyday is a vaudeville, everyone a slapstick. Everything reduced into a little guffawing farce, and I, whether I laugh along or side track this drudgery, is the very center of it. I, who thinks of all these a farce, is the god of an earth I compelled to revolve around my sombre longing for someone, for something mad with substance and flesh, and soul and not just slushes of excretions that passes as human. Everyone is losing in their loneliness, scratching at the doors of whore houses and crassly drinking the dirty blood of the earth, revelling and fornicating with the senseless songs from synthetic tongues while the thunderstorms while away behind their ears And I, the big virgin fool clamber through my self-effacing and self-indulgent solitude, swelling with a vile sense of righteousness, and vindication, and loathing. Nobody wins. You laugh, your frail bones break. You keep your moue, your frail bones break. You pawn your frail bones for anything that feels right, and they laugh, and they keep their moue. Where are all the lonely people?