Unable and Disabled

FATJAZZ

Cottage 22

[ U N D E R  C O N S T R U C T I O N ]

Bai

He tasted his first beer on her lips.
She let him drink it, bit by bit.

And it was so much better…

Jeepney

[A “Drive” sequel]

What am I to say? (echo)

Take me away in a Jeepney ride… (echo)

So, what am I to say? (echo)
Could you take me away in a Jeepney ride? (echo)

Mistitled

(indie psychedelia in piano bits with clean, blues riffs)

What’s the color of your lies?
Is it cream, or off –or just dirty white?
What is that you have to hide
with those lies of a million and a nine?

[ U N D E R  C O N S T R U C T I O N ]

You ask: What’s the color of my lies?
It is green and blue –but, hell, not dirty white.
That is what I have to hide,
with these lies of a million, in denial.

That Mary Jane

F#m7 - (Unclipped) B7
[Blues Guitar and Bass Riffs, missing Sax Tenor]

that brain-penetrating, Mary Jane…

She makes you speak your mind,
an overstatement.
She takes so much of your time,
but unintended.
She’s your uncommon cure for your comical,
common plane.

MISNOMER: that Mary Jane
She can drive ya much
insane in the membrane…
a headache, that Mary Jane;
and a heartache, that Mary Jane.

that brain-penetrating, Mary Jane…

but LET ME TELL YOU:

don’t feed her vanity;
no matter how unusual she may seem.
that Mary Jane is vain,
that Mary Jane is vain

THE ILLUSION OF MARY JANE

that brain-penetrating, Mary Jane…

Cunning Mary Jane
Moody Mary Jane
Mean, Machine
- -break- -
That Maria Jane.

Sultry Mary Jane
Tactless Mary Jane
BITTERSWEET,
but she can sweep you off your feet!

Just six feet high…
You said:
“You’ve learned how to fly…”
I say:
“Land me, slowly now…
I’d like my feet flat back on the ground.”

Land me, Mary Jane…
Slowly now, please, Mary Jane…
Slowly now, Mary Jane…

Mary Jane.

…

Superficiality [Final]

G#m7 - D#m7 - Dm7 - C#m7
(broken chords, abrupt breaks, fast tempo)

Superficiality, ain’t you lovely?
Superficiality, ain’t you funny?

Let me scrape off a bit of your FAUX skin,
to circumvent the inhibition within.
Can’t you see? I’d like to peek
of what you’ve disowned, that beautiful bare skin.

Why can’t you show the madness of it all?
SO BREAK –your imaginary wall!
Why can’t you break that fantasy wall?
And don’t go trickling with your ticklish, fickle wall…

Ain’t it lovely, YOUR superficiality…
Ain’t if funny, YOUR superficiality…
But you’re just laughing, you LOVE this superficiality…
And you think I’m kidding, you LOVE this superficiality…

Oh!

You love every bit of it.

Oh, No!

You love every bit of it…

Oh, No! No!

You love every bit of it…

You love every bit of it..

Mister… Mister Pretender!

Pretender…

*fade out with abrupt halt*

Don’t You Love Me For How You Think I Am

?

Intawn, Dong.

Intawn, Dong…
Ayaw ko ug ib’gi,
kay abi
kahibalo kuno ko
mo gitara, Ki.

Intawn, Dong…
Ayaw sa ko
ug higti’g pisi,
kay di. sa. ko.

magpaHIGOT…

Skin [rough draft]

[ U N D E R  C O N S T R U C T I O N ]

Good Sir!

Hear Ye! Hearsays! Hear Ye!

Historias

Binogo Nga Bisaya

Gm - F7

Sepia Afternoons

(kapoy type chord pattern, hehe)

Sepia Afternoons.
those soothing yellows
from a fading
tune, lay-a-waiting;
gentle, randy breeze –please
blow some subtle tease.
Now, Why
Do I find it comforting
when you catch
my falling tears…

Lazy afternoon
Some crazy afternoon…
It’s called a Sepia Afternoon.

it stung, love.

It stung, love,
like the first strum
of virgin finger-tips
on your rusty strings.

Blindfold

You are one masquerade I’ve longed for years,
and I wear my glittering feathered mask, barefooted.
I will not mind the exploitables, because
murdering the literals softly, indeed, is loveliest every day.
I will not mind, because I know my mask is securely tied
at the back of my head; at the back of my mind, a knot hard.
I grin, then I live; no smirks, nor smugs ahead.
I am masked, and I dance in a game the world likes to play.
I am invited, so I attend

to this masquerade called Facebook.

The Last Of Mister

I must have
imagined while you sip,
and froth coffee
with your lips, that
it seems you are,
behind the foam,

RISQUÉ.

A Frolic

I wished for a drink.
You didn’t.
But you drank it,
and I haven’t.

Ghoul On Reverb

Footsteps echoed like moaning bitches of the night,
bounced off walls, the sound did.
It bounced off walls like some pinchbeck sheroism,
like a Scapegoat running in circles, panting.

She faced the velvet sky of the night,
that drizzled the last of its mayhem.
But still came the reverberating footsteps
of the Scapegoat running.

Do not haunt the helpless Shero.
Why haunt She, who refuses the echo?
Do you ask of the echoes that She - that I run from?
Why not ask of whom the echoes come from?

~Ellipses: Girl’s Lips were, are and will be~ 

His footsteps echoed like battered bitches of the night.
That bounced off the walls against my skull, in my mind.
It bounced against my walls, mocking my tales of pinchbeck sheroism:

That Scapegoat forever running, and the so-called Shero, forever panting.

The Angry Jig

Sniff. I sniff.
These blossoming smokes of tiny bits.
Tiny bits. bits.
I bit these blossoming smokes of tiny bits.

Sniff, sniff?
These crowds of flaming angry jigs.
angry jigs. jigs.
I mock these crowds of flaming angry jigs.

Jitters in the rain.
Angry bitters down the drain.
bitter-jitters just so plain
I need neutrals on those grains.

these jigs
these bits
these mobs of angry bits.

Here tits.
those ~ what bits?
those grudgy, tiny awesome crits?
coulda tattered more
this dazzling galore
this that of those giant jigs.

Hear me,  swallow me
these smoking blokes of angry bits.
Hear me, see me swallow those bitter-litter grits.
litter, better, knitter, jetter…
those jigger laughing niggers.
why why blokes not linger?

I say, “It’s just a harmless, little ole angry jig?”

The Boy Who Wore A Man’s Holler

2 AM.

The jeepney stirred,

and I stared a boy.

It was orange… No, it was brown.

The shirt he had on was brown.

I don’t know, and didn’t know.

I’m pretty sure those were bulletholes.

He hollered across Escario street.

He walked and, oh yes he did.

He dared walk at a man’s pace.

One, Two, Three, Four

His head down, counting his saddling steps.

It owned the rhythm of melancholic blues.

The boy was beat.

And the dust on his feet had told it all.

Maybe he had walked a mile or two.

Maybe he had walked hours, a couple or more.

But I don’t know, and I just don’t know.

His skin tanned.

His hair tousled.

His arms gripped the saddlebag.

And he gripped hard, alright.

One, Two, Three, Four

His head down, and owned the rhythm of melancholic blues.

He hollered and then he paused.

He looked at a man.

A man in a pressed white polo and hard-gelled hair.

A man who stood, not even half a man the boy was.

Then, the man bought an egg.

An egg that he cracked and littered.

And the boy kept the coins he gained.

From the litterbug, he earned.

He resumed steps, he did.

One, Two, Three, Four

His head down, and now his steps a rhythmic Jazz.

2 AM

The jeepney hastened.

and I stared a boy.

The exhaust blurred the view, now a mirage.

I turned, sat and shifted.

In my mind, I recalled.

A boy in a brown shirt with bulletholes.

A boy who dared walk the streets of Escario.

A boy with a saddlebag of cooked duck eggs.

A boy who owned steps of a rhythmic blues melancholia.

A boy who yelled Balot that echoed.

Then, the jeepney hastened more at 2 AM.

And I stared a boy who wore a poor man’s holler.

Mood Music

Fever fiery like splatters of light on cobblestone streets
I listen to Ben Webster’s saxophone warm as the heat of moon.
Rain of neon needlepoints.
Past midnight.
Silence falls like a lonely woman’s hair.
I open the window.
No birds passing by.
Distant sound of solitude fast approaching–
A song with blue words.
Torn pages sleeping on the table.
A poem waits to be written by starlight.
It hangs like a haze in my head.
A pen waits to bury itself into my palm.

Cigarette smoke pirouettes
Like a ghostly ballerina.
A Degas daydream.
Your hand I hold in my thoughts,
tucked between neural spaces of gin and wishing.
Mentholated moon burning its way
through billowing clouds of forgetfulness.
Muted trumpet sound paints
scenery of balmy streets and
passions bleeding into sulfur lamplight.
Martini mirrors memory
mirrors mazes of darkness
Until they lead to doors where
words no longer mean anything.