14 April ‘10

I’m quitting,
bit by bit.
So be my
cigarette instead,
that very alluring

–Death Stick.

31 August ‘10

I let him drink
a glass overflowing
with words sharper
than a double-edged sword;
because he, in turn, drowned me first in it.

But the chest fights,
like a blind samurai,
against the mind who knew
but did nothing about.

Missed Informed

A writer — and, I believe, generally all persons — must think that whatever happens to him or her is a resource. All things have been given to us for a purpose, and an artist must feel this more intensely. All that happens to us, including our humiliations, our misfortunes, our embarrassments, all is given to us as raw material, as clay, so that we may shape our art.

Jorge Luis Borges, writer

Hello. I have no one to talk to.

Hello.Reader?

Are you lost?
I believe you.
Don’t mention it.
Reader? May I ask.
Why do you find yourself?
When you’re there, right now, in your seat.
Do you speak the truth?
Or, you hide it.
It’s okay. We all lie, anyway.
Don’t feel bad.
I fabricate myself, too.
I, sometimes, try to humor reality.
I’m a natural comic, they say.
That’s where you know
there’s real tragedy.
When was the last time
you fucked someone?
I don’t know anymore.
Mostly, I really do well
with fucking the mind.
But, no one’s willing.
So, it’s rape.
When was the last time
you got fucked by someone?
I know. I always know when
I’m fucked by someone.
Are you a virgin?
I’d like to be virgin again.
You know what?
That’s something I’d like to have again.
No. Not innocence.
Just that sense of virginity.
Oh.
There’s something else.
A love returned
this time.

The Hypocritical Corporate Bullshit

    (from a secured virtual gateway, pausing)

    +++

    in a corner
    on a chair
    hearing whispers
    from a gossiping blain

    somewhere left
    with my ear
    hearing complaints
    from a straight queer

    at my right
    is a lull
    considering technological
    clicks-a-blunting

    userid: basssiac
    on emblazed vision
    thinking homonyms
    like a moaning maniac

    up above
    with my eyes
    seeing holes
    of parallel seas of polygons

    in my center
    a little left
    above a gland
    are counted beats of paranoia.

A Private Thought Gone Pubic (An Excerpt)

the eyes see tears
dropping hard
on the pavement

run over by wheels
of fortunate despair

stepped on by hurried soles,
scurrying on tipped toes;
feeling its queer
–fearful and fearing

the eyes see the drops
they copy fishes –you see?
them breathless fishes,
like some caught anchovies

in a fishnet with immoral holes,
drawn by lustful hands
from a very,
very hungry man

          Ouch.

Time and Hair

A change of hair,
then a whole lot of heart.

Portia’s 6th Mom is "i"

mother & daughter

READ MOTHER

READ MOTHER WRITES TO DAUGHTER

READ MOTHER BEFORE CAME DAUGHTER

Dear Stranger [Ep3]: "I Am Your Washington Roebling (I Am Your Purple Pill)"

Dear Stranger,

Read me as Washington Roebling
while he writes to his fiancee
by candle light.

  My candle is certainly bewitched.
  Every five minutes it goes out,
  there must be something in the wick,
  unless it be the spirit of some man just made perfect,
  come to torment me while I am writing to my love.
  Are any of your old beaus dead?
  If I wasn’t out of practice with spiritual writing
  –I would soon find out.

This kind of language
was as essential to a respectable man’s
wooing kit as a condom today.
[JohnMcWhorter, ISBN 1592400167]

But I am woman,
so let me be your very own…

    Purple Pill,

    Alphecca

Dear Stranger [Ep2]: "Allusions. Illusions. Delusions."

Dear Stranger,

If you ARE reading this,
then my heart skips a beat…

I cook it up that way;
rounding that very twisted hope
of planting this idea in your head.

No. I’m not Leonardo.
How dare you compare me
to a MAN?

    Picture me

I. Am. Angry.

But I whisper;
a sweeter anger management.

So picture me,
stranger, whispering
intimations in your ear.

    But where?

Where would you
want me to whisper?
Left? Right? Or –right in your mouth?
Hmm… I can do that.

I know you’ve heard me
speak before.
Oh, not just once:
 

You heard me while you drove.
You heard me while you ate lunch somewhere.
You heard me while anticipating the arrival of

     n
        o
          o
            n
                t i m e…
 

A little blabber, here and there.
Trying so much faking a voice.
I was paid for it VERY cheap,
but let me bring you back in the scene.

What brings flush to my cheeks [now]
is that you knew me way before
you decide hearing me.

 
7 years ago,
you were the first to offer
a helping hand;
when I went down somewhere with a barricade.
 

The very first hand of a man
to hold my hand with EARNEST.

So I write to you
in this sweet delusion
that you know YOU are who
I am wooing about.

    […]

Would you still
want me
whispering?

in your
ear with
a voice?

    Because.she.could.always.stop,

    Alphecca

Dear Stranger [Ep1]: "A Fool’s Pry In Paradise"

Dear Stranger,

I write because
I do not have better
words to speak.

To you, I write,
because I am
afraid.

We’ve known
each other
for 7 years.

I do not seek,
and an unfortunate
vis-a-vis.
 

    BUT

Will you say YES,
if I did?

Will you say YES,
if I am now?

Will you go out
on a date,
with?

    Me,
    Alphecca.

Idling At Lahug

Woman in black skips
A puddle of acid rain
   learning a wish-wash.

Man in white looks back
With a headband
  smelling like androgynous stash.

Gay in violet hollers
a whispering echo
  going through keyboards.

Dyke in grey sighs
lends a hand on a lap
  petting underneath.

But it continues to rain
beating the faux orange bricks
  imitating a wet NY November.

I in pink hood
blinks a tiring vision
  deceiving post-menstrual period.

    And

 
Man in orange parasol stares
under the morning rain at 4:59
  looking beaten and wet with cheap

SPARTAN SLIPPERS.

I Grieve.

I grieve.
Because I felt.
I grieve.
Because I loved –still.
I grieve.
Because I hoped.
And I grieve.
Because I thought.

So I grieve.

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.