Silence hangs above us like an unfinished sentence
praying to be punctuated.

Silence fills the spaces of our fingers so eager,
to touch one another but is forced to linger
in stale, cold sweat beginning to form on our palms.

Silence playing with the breeze sweeping our dry cheeks
unable to be dampened by kisses suppressed.

Silence answering questions unasked.

Silence speaking for us when a meeting of eyes
seem unbearable.

Silence,

will suffice for now as long as,

I sit here beside you
to hear you breathing deeply,
to feel your head resting on my shoulders,
near enough for me to get a whiff of your hair's beautiful scent

In silence.

You cannot feel you say
and yet you move me,
make me believe that what I feel
is true and genuine
when you yourself nestle there
sending me messages I cannot resist.

How true is this all?
How do I know this isn't at all
make believe?
You cannot even feel yet you
make me feel what I feel when
you can't have even known what it feels.

I paint my face white,
An excuse to not speak but to move,
Of which I am better off,
To move my hands in a vague game of charade,

Will you figure me out?
I wave my hands in the air,
Distorting my face to a scrunch,
Spelling imperceivable words in the air,

And not even a blink from you?
I stop and cup my hands in the shape of a heart,
And break them apart, curve my lips downward,
I am tired, maybe tomorrow you'll find out at last.

If you come back for the next show.

“United Nations, U.N.”

Head resting on the glass windowed
Sliding doors of the light rail transit
Musing on tea-induced thoughts

Waiting for the unattainable
Like a head-on train collision
Running on separate tracks

“Pedro Gil Station, Pedro Gil”


***

Written mid-2006. Alam kong corny, PLS.
Also posted in purpleostrich. :)

True, that the nature of the world
is constantly thrown at us like sand
in an attempt of blinding us from the glaring lights
of truth, the little fragments of then-stones
are hard to rub off, I'd have been blinded
permanently, deprived of the light nourishing
me and the nourisher, before I get them off completely.
I would then be eating from the very hand of fallacy--masticating,
drinking, shitting, pissing, what reeks of the world's lies.

My Zamora, reduced to its initial, raw form,
Gravel and sand--dispersed everywhere,
In the air that I breathe, In the cold air,
Of the season, I walk through it looking down.

Half-past noon the sun above, the wind is whispering
Softly, and I fancy walking on the white sanded beach,
A semblance of uneven surfaces to this, the reality of it all,
Seemed gone, if I keep my head down this way.

Imagining, while facedown, that the murk left by,
Synergies of acid rain and mud from the construction,
And obstruction of My Dear Zamora is not what lies ahead,
But a cerulean sea with frothed waves and a pack of seagulls above it.

A cessation of refractions,
Would make things yet unseen seem,
Near our grasp, like round blazing stars from afar,
But from where we stand, seem pointed in,
Five or four different directions

Then-distant aliens will wave at us from trees,
Glowing red, yellow, blue and green,
Edges blurred and pulsating:
"HELLO HUMAN", a sight challenged but able,
To telescope beauty as far and distant as quasars,

As unknown as the unidentified--pulsating,
Calling us on to,
Take these refractors off.
And in the movement of a hand--wave back,
In the blurred bliss of the universe laid out before us.

Some lame poems I wrote over sembreak and some which I wrote before. Please refer to journal title above and expect nothing great of the following pieces. I've really lost it, and it's a sad, sad thing. :((


~


~


Consider this some sort of parting entry, for now. I think I need to live in a cave for a few months, seclude myself, contemplate on things, and be able to write something decent the moment I get back to this shithole.

I wrote this in 3 minutes, so it isn't very coherent or spectacular. Forgive me for that, this is a pretty lame (and failed) attempt to revive my so-called skills. It's sad to think of the fact that I might've really lost my touch. This is a very, very shallow poem with no solid thought, poor imagery and whathaveyou. But I'm posting it anyway cos I intended to write a poem, spontaneously and without really anything in mind, or without a strong enough inspiration, hence this... and pleaaaase be gentle. :(

______________________________________________

In the transparent of my lenses,
You see words spelled backwards,
The gleam of the monitor, it is very bright,
It reflects them on this plastic surface,

FOCUS ON MY GLASS

Squinting intently, reading words backwards,
Failing to notice my eyes fixated on you,
As you continue to read and understand,
Fragments of reversed words.

That space in between us,
The glass, the thousand feet wide wall--
Third person's point of view,
Like reading in between lines of a knotted poem.

I forgot you liked things thrown at you,
and so maybe I have failed,
and my eyes have as well,
the dam is broken, and we all drown in the river of flowing,

Tears, of unbroken glasses,
Of unwavering fixation,
Of words unspoken,
Of the oblivious, squinting in dense ignorance

I.

Fingers trembling from the traces of chill,

You left as you walk past hordes of anxious,

Faces, turning away avoiding your eyes that reflect fire,

Puffed with the previous night of solitude, they cry,

And glisten of ambiguity; is he weary or merely vindictive?

No one knows.

But He knows,

                                   Does He not?

Treading your corridors, you leave them like lakes,

Frozen over winter, slippery, white, and bluish even,

Everybody slithering at your feet, their knees bruised,

And bleeding, you remain unmoved, unconvincingly

Unaware, the line is long sir—yet you continue to freeze.

II.

I imagine you at nights on a king size bed yet,

That mass of yours its only occupant and some bugs,

Carbon monoxide, Nicotine probably, and say,

A trajectory of discharged man juice out of desperation,

Or out of the call of your testosterone nature?

It matters not. But you are alone, sir!

Such a pitiful life, I imagine you to have and only

A decade left ‘til you reach the half-life, not a Muse in sight,

When times call for it, when the television dictates that,

Once in a while you need a pair of breasts to fondle,

That you need someone to fill the spaces of your arms,

Of your hands, of your empty stomach, of your heart,

Other than blood that goes in and out, like an unfulfilling,

Fling. I doubt, sir, that you have heard that song, about

A father and son; didn’t daddy tell you anything?

Just relax, take it easy.

Look at me, I am old but I’m happy.

           ‘Turn the world upside down, Daddy-o,

And welcome to Mine.’

III.

He walks in the room.

Everything freezes,

Everything but one lady with flowing black hair,

Golden brown skin from last summer’s beach trip,

A slight curve forming on her lips,

It’s his turn to stand idly,
Frozen.