Thursday, May 31, 2007

Made the summer go on and on



Processing, and wondering
where the fucking beer is,
why I can't get the song
Moon River out of my head,
how come I still taste
tempura, among other things,
at the tip of this mad tongue.
Waiting for the geckoes
to begin their weather report,
the sun to rise orange-pink
from where we lie on dying grass,
someone to call me Nidia.

Who else in the metropolis
sniggers upon seeing a scooter,
wants to raise hell at 50-peso beer,
can't exactly give an answer to
what happened?

Trying to placate my wanting
of moongazers and sudden torrents,
of Stella the Goat, and bodies born in parts,
of poet-whores and poet's whores,
of Feist and quesadillas,
of the next pun,
of everyone's mumbles in the morning
after a night of the usual alcohol, cigarettes
and "Silliman beach tayo, please?"

Post-Dumaguete Syndrome, tss.
Life-changing, my ass.

(-_-)

-Nabasa mo na yung for tomorrow?
-Uh, Pancake?
-Yes, Butter?
-Saan tayo lunch?
-Hayahay tonight?
-Put a whore in a whorehouse,
how many moves have you got?
-I think it's a love poem.
-Sted's lang ako, bili ng yosi.
-Asan na lighter ko?!
-Khaye, put the beer down.
-This can be stand-up comedy.
-This could be a fiction piece.
-This would work as nonfiction.
-Turn it into a poem.
-Arrr, the Minotaur!!!
-Janina, borrow ng Biodisk?
-Without pants!
-Kever!
- . . . Pa-tay.



All this, among other things.

(This is NOT a poem.)







Screw the internet,
this is a job for fucking longhand.
O blank page, let me cathart!



PS
"I write this with a hardened..." :)
Ahem.
Fuck pride --
Sasha misses y'all.

Love, love.

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Sunday, May 06, 2007

When she's laying in her Sunday best


Packed.

May have bought too many clothes, but even now they don't seem enough. "Do you need all this underwear?" my mother keeps asking me. And then she drops a five-inch book on my lap.

"Where's your toothbrush?"

I leave tomorrow, noon-ish. Will wait two hours, then board a plane that may or may not plummet 102,483 miles into a pond, then maybe, just maybe, resurface in "humid" Dumaguete, lost the minute the air hits me splat.

Blink, blink.

One nostril is runny, the other one's clogged. My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton, and someone's wringing it to get all sanity out. My throat is sore, I sound like a drag queen on Prozac.

Have to shave my legs. Shit. That's an hour's worth of bending over. 45 inches each leg, thirty minutes each.

I'm starting to think that all this [my] talk about Dumaguete is getting snooty. Ew. I don't want to be one of those persons who introduce themselves as, "Hi, I'm Moonbeam Von Liverwurst. I went to the Dumaguete Workshop," then insert simpering smile directed at everyone in a five-mile radius.

I wish I can carve out all my snot and brain spasms then deposit them in some politician's tushy.

Good night, everyone. See you when I see you.

World peace.

PS
I haven't opened my cellphone in a week. So apologies to those who sent me messages that didn't get replies. Especially you, Mr. IKYFMH.

XD

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Saturday, May 05, 2007

I think I'll get a lover and fly him out to Spain


I am spelunking for respectable books, you're steering me to the decidedly non-respectable books section.

"Follow your heart, kiddo." Your face is in its
"Seriously, I'm serious" mode, which is enough to warn me that you're up to something. I look up at you, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.

You hold up a florid book. On the cover, there's a woman in a corset. That's it. In raging red letters, super-imposed on a shiny, Turtle-waxed butt cheek, are the words
First Impressions LUST. (Emphasis not mine.)

I manage to catch a waterfall of snot before it embarasses us both. My sniffle reverberates inside the musty bookstore. I hold my polite-company books closer to myself.

Primly, I say, "I don't read those kinds of books."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

"Trashy books with Fabio covers, right?"

"Not
that trashy. And sweetie, that's not Fabio."

"I've seen you before."

My eyes narrow further and I shift my respectable books from one arm to another. "No, you haven't. I don't read those kinds of books."

"I know where you keep them." You shrug, check your watch, take my spelunked books, and drag me to the cashier,
all at the same time. All with that maddening, I Know You Find Me Hot smile, patent pending.

"You're not buying that," I tell you through gritted teeth.

...

Five minutes later, Alice Hoffman and Lillian Braun Jackson in my bag and "First Impressions LUST" by Mistress Something Something in your back pocket, we waddle around.

"I can't believe you did that!" Insert sniffle here.

"Don't worry -- I'll let you highlight the juicy parts."

I stand on tiptoe to give you a respectable swat to your head. You dodge it with irritating ease.

After a few moments of aimless walking, you turn to me, IKYFMH smile in place. "Wanna watch Spider-Man?"

"James Franco, ayuh."

"In spandex."

"Of course," I sniff.

As we wait in line for tickets, I remember Senseless Principle #342, "Don't hit on me while I spelunk for books." I tell you this, as we walk blindly into the movie theatre, Harry Potter's nasal screams from the trailer ringing in our ears.

I thank the gods the IKYFMH smile isn't glow-in-the-dark. "I wasn't hitting on you. That would be redundant."

Damn, but my hand in yours feels good.

"Got you," you tell me, over your shoulder. I don't have to look up at you to know you're smiling a decidedly less smarmy smile. The one I prefer.

"Got you."

And that's how I learn that my smile glows in the dark.

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He tastes like you, only sweeter


To Dumaguete tomorrow. Hopefully.

For the past few days, all the extra moisture in the metro has found refuge in my sinuses. I sound funny. I've got a migraine so bad, so consistent, I can't even snarl at bright lights, loud noises, and pungent colognes. Even my bones hurt.

I'm sick. Yey. Sick sick siiiick.

(-_-)

It's hard to be excited when you discover that you're finding it hard to breathe through buckets of snot, when you can't even form a coherent thought without setting off mini-explosions in your brain.

On the other hand, I am thrilled about this affected indifference. Haha. This could be the start of something fascinating, you little airplane you. Can't wait to jetset. I start with Dumaguete. Ready, jetset, go.

*snigger*

Hai, jetset.

Oh, brain.

*

My luggage, like my word use, is suffering from elephantiasis. Clothes vomit. Fashion diarrhea. I have too much clothes in my itty-bitty suitcase. My mom's acting as luggage editor. "I'm here to serve as your common sense," she tells me.

Yes, mother.

Ayoko kasing maglaba. The last time I did that, I turned a brown-ish shirt into a brown-ish shirt with red stripes. The red bra addition wasn't one of my better ideas.

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