Monday, November 3, 2008

Random euphoric wish list

Dumaguete - my dumaguete.
tempura-balot at the boulevard..
smell of sea water,sitting under an old acacia tree.
--sight of Silliman's portal gates.. 
my sandy 'tsinelas'.
Dumaguete sun.
looking up to see sunlight through a majestic view of leaves - blissful tapestry.
walks, long walks and talks.
hayahay - music, regggae, laid back.
overlooking moonriver.
the Wednesday night fountain meetings with OGPA.
cold paint on my hands and legs.
newspaper beds on hallways, wee hours after painting sessions.
tubod days with monchichi and his lady computer..
faifenkruger.
my purple 'buslot' backpack - how i miss her.
my vibrating Mr. southpark keychain.
Rasta elmo keychain. 
black-painted toes and fingernails.
afternoons to wee hours spending with Anne Rice.
purple-faction friends.
my kang-a friends.
guitars and jewel kilcher songs.
Wolfgang.
pancit canton weekends.
lazy saturday mornings.
Scooby's spaghetti with mayo.
waking up to tricycle traffic.
tuko.
sunrise at the airport runway.
puto maya and tsokolate at silliman beach. 
library talks.
euphoric walks to the dorm.


-- my nirvana.

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Deathbed Not Even Your Own

Let me fall...
My burnt dry thoughts,
Like leaves...
I am..
- Falling...

Into my sole self of surrealism
It welcomes me once more...
Like flashes of kaleidiscopes of Life..
Ressurecting, - lethargic..

Yet this deathbed awaits...
Leaving me dry
Sucked out of sweetness...

There I see
My constellation wavers...
Here, I lay dead...
Death's cold hands
Numb upon me...

Sighs of Lilith cold
I lay in this deathbed...
Of hot coals, dried thoughts...
- Dried soul..

I pity you, soul...
So unfortunate...
..In this hellish abyss..
Stabbing, bleeding me dry..
- I can not be as I am...
Wanting, wishing
While I see my sole surrealistic world
I so longed for...
..outside...
'Neath trees and ocean's breath...
---yet, I pity you, soul...
Enslaved in a deathbed
Not even your own...

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Burnt Thoughts

"Let me fall...
My burnt dry thoughts, like leaves...
I am falling...
Into this deathbed not even my own
Suffocating, wasting away into deay to rot
Sucked out of sweetness..
Maggots in wound,
Yet not feeling
Leaving me stabbed, bleeding dry,
Numb -- to schizophrenic suicide.."

-- Looking over through stained glass windows into my sole surrealistic world then, I was basically sleepwalking through... And yet, I am here. Battles have been won. Seeking not for the gift - not what you have been given nor what you will receive. Seeking for the Giver Himself -- that is how raging battles are fought with, head on. The Giver is more than enough.

"I gathered my burnt ashen thoughts,
Traded it into the Potter's hand
...breathing again.
Saccharine, pleasant fragrance.
Flesh, where wounds were - undone.
Maggots - none found.
Molded, firm, alive."