The light of hidden flowers

Everyone is poem-ing at the mouth.

Okay. Lame.

Last night, went to Mag:net Katips (just around the, like, kanto, you know -- UGH), where I:

- had highly mental sexy time (and footsies!) with MaMia Tijam and her yum-yum short dress and the ever-present puppies,

- philosophized about the freaking space alloted for birds with one transcendental druggie poet, Kristian A-be,

- shot sugar with Martin while I tried not to drool at Los Chupacabras,

- tried to molest a highly resistant (bakit kaya?) LaLa Verne,

- worried with Pancho over Astroboy having a cold, Rodrigo his pet elf and a name not written,

- met a Miss Fuschia-is-My-Real-Name-Peachy ("Can I call you Red na lang?") who tried to convince me to take David for Philo,

- finally met Mikael Co who plays a meano guitar,

- finally met Joel Toledo of Pancho-lore and The Same Old Figurative poem-crushness,

- dumped RumCoke in my coffee mug to try to better appreciate the workings of the last performance poetry piece,

- stumbled into my dorm at 1 AM, despite a herd of poets and pseudo-poets (like metawhores) that lured, despite two cups of brewed coffee, despite wanting so very much to spend more more more time with those poor fellows, those who came, these people I miiiiiss like 20-peso quesadilla.

- ay, yeah, listened to poetry, with blender sounds and an Australian teacup-h as accompaniment.

Lovely night, all in all.

* Sheng Banzon, pare, miss na talaga kita. Pa-kiss when I see you ha?

Let's do that again, shall we? But with less bullshit, a roomier bar, cheaper beer and the absence of torn pages on floorboards.

And a Sasha who's had at least ten hours of sleep prior to the event. And who doesn't use the third person to refer to herself.

*

I'm talking about everything and anything but this. --
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand
so intimate that when you fall asleep it is my eyes that close