Inktrip

The Dying

2007-07-21T23:13:00.000+08:00

vines
garlanded about me
wrench my arms

and keep me perpetually ill

guillotined leaves
are raining
in their death
my limbs
i can no longer
raise
to the sky
to cry for help
nor praise

there is no sky.
only the howling wind
to waft in.

Woodcutter,
come be a hero
wield your ax
and cry out

timber

CHAI

the next time you ask me where I've placed you in my poetry,

2007-07-17T07:11:00.000+08:00

imagine this:

a random bookshop
silent and discreet

and a poetry book displaced
among medical studies that says,

Surviving the Loss of a Love.

I imagine I could rip it
Laugh a secret, mischievous laugh

and watch all that paper
torn to sudden forgetfulness.

VERA

Short Visit

2007-07-12T12:04:00.000+08:00

Feverish,
but without a shiver
or a gnash, I stop by
your little houses –online

Uninvited,
I let myself in
eyes enlarged, I slinkquietly, like a cat
searching for leftovers-

there are none
and without anguish
or fear,
I let myself out.
Hungry still.

RUSS

In Memoriam

2007-07-12T00:43:00.000+08:00

alone
on your treasure island
a summer princess
splattering
SOS's
in deceivingly neat strings of verse
that many simply look admiringly--
or enviously--
upon.

all along
a dark quilt in the weaving
that you now
sleep onto continue
an eternal weaving of dreams

regret
cirlicues in strings
spreading as squid ink
dyeing the oceans black
blotting out waves
smooth as gray silk
in dismal 5pm low tide

and we
the rest
are left adrift lost in all this black.

(For Ana. 1978-2007)

CHAI

Ana,

2007-07-09T09:58:00.000+08:00

Because I cannot call you, or meet you tonight for beer and crazy dancing,

I will try to remember that early morning in Tacloban
and you facing the sea,
some strands of your hair escaping
to lightly fan your closed eyes.

VERA

Cobwebs

2007-06-28T10:41:00.000+08:00

The cobwebs have grown
to cocoon around us
have wicked away the water
from the well we drink
from outside we see
an enchanting white
of the growing fetus
hampered
The cobwebs have grownto cocoon around
the little treasure islands
we used to frequent
a secret garden now
silent
in eternal waiting

CHAI

Untitled # 03

2007-06-28T10:38:00.000+08:00

Dear God
The Mad Hatter must have been waiting for you
Stuck in a seat with pretty little things stuck in her hat
and stuck in a story book
to amuse

Time lay in waste in her hands and got mad
now she has tea and broken cups for escape
sweet went bitter when
coffee spilled over juice
Mon Dieu
the place is a happy wreck
She must have been laughing her sorrows out
but
you didn't budge

there is a moon on standby
that's a smile that's an eyes
taring pryingto kill for kicks

and you don't budge

Dear God
they say we've all got purpose
why, I must be Alice
lost in the woods

but pray tell
what i should do
and why I'm in this Mad Party
waiting too
for you

CHAI

To whom it may concern

2007-06-20T02:45:00.000+08:00

I have forgotten your names,
They all start with J, I suppose
I search for you at night
when I miss you the most,
when everything is simple

But I’m beginning to think-
I am lost.

I wake up to an even more
complex labyrinth of sorts
There are no fauns to help me
only the wheezingof the middle-aged man
and the ramble
of an abdicated queen
They seem to send out clues
too crude to understand
There is nothing left to do
but postpone the search
until sundown and dread
the recurrent dream:

All of you,
like the tail of song undone,
cut slowly
by the turning of a knob
Your voices die,
like a wave goodbye
from a terminal.
I cannot stop the bus.
It is leaving.

RUSS

The Funeral March

2007-06-18T15:59:00.000+08:00

This is the certainty
of your sorrowin today’s newspaper
A sapling
has tried growing again.
It will end up
under the leg of a stool
It is green, this stool, this leg,
made of plastic

There is a bigger sense
of wrongness now
Most times, it is
the essenceof all this.
The only bubble in a puddle,
The big one, the color
of creamed coffee, the teaser,
-prick me and I will show
you how to disappear-

But that’s not it,
Only the funeral march
is certain
Chopin is the fiddler
on the roof of my head
and he stops
every once in a while
at sundown and sun-up
rooster-style.

It is dark again,
Like May in rain.
No weddings
for foxes today
or fairies in search of
girls with lung diseases
They’re all probably dead,
anyway,that’s not it either.

This will go on,
Until I get a new
swivel chair, with black
everythings.
with hooded strangers
in a large hall
built for strangers,
weird, black, and round eyed
That would be strange-
A strange day,
that would be
Let it come.

Then I wait,
attaching myself
to a piece of furniture.
I wish to be sat upon.
The question is-
losing itself insidemy bowels,
practicing its vowels.
Let it find its own way
to being sat upon-
while I wait-

I’m making a guitar
out of my ribs,
or a violin, perhaps
With it, I will play
my versionof the funeral march.
And I will see the boy
I saw in the mirror today,
His smile framed
in a glass window
he’d lay there,
home at last
in a large shoebox
made of wood.

RUSS

No more (rough draft of a funeral march)

2007-06-17T18:50:00.000+08:00

No more mopping of tears.
I see feet looking up. Eyes overhead.
Smiles of Cheshire cats. Pussycats.
No more strings looped round my wrists
And my fingers they are tired
Of stiffening up to your music. Lucy,
That is your name, collectively, young vampires
With red hair, you have sucked me out.
Sucked me down.
Is there anything else I can do for you?
Would that be all?
I have cartwheeled into your worlds
and have been given applause.
I have scoured the room floor.
There is no more.
Your mouths agape and your eyes
Are tearful, and your salted tongues
they lick my bloodless wounds,
for them to speak, to tell meto do more for you.
I have scoured the room floor.
Above the carpet, it is red
No more.

RUSS

Unemployed as of the moment...

2007-06-16T16:54:00.000+08:00

and in my ears:

I lie in my bed,
Totally still,
My eyes wide open.
I'm in rapture.
You've put a seed inside me,
And while you're away,
It's growing silently,
Starts in my stomach.
Embraces my insides,
And about to reach my heart.
This wasn't supposed to happen!- "This wasn't supposed to happen", sugarcubes

RUSS

Black

2007-04-12T10:26:00.000+08:00

And then you said
the black is back
in me

but you don't know
how black this black can get
when it begins
serpentine from the eyes
curlicuing
from my orifices
a noose
around the neck of my spirit
snapping

a flat line

but not the flatline

it the pause
before the scream
that inflates
suffocating
clocks to death

black
as music from a carousel
sung
to a brightly lit
empty carnival

it is this
when in the midst of your hearty laughter
i laugh with you in Aminor
can you decipher

you are far gone
high on serotonin
and i pant
for dear life

in as quick
as a ticki free fall into drishti
Alice down the tunnel
mayday the unlucky wind rider
sadness scratching skin
-- fingernails of a rape victim's
angry ghost --
wishing for something
as definite
as tangible
as concrete
to splatter
all this black
against

CHAI

Kuntento na ka?

2007-03-23T10:45:00.000+08:00

Pangutana sa babaeng nagputol sa akong buhok
Didto sa Salon de Rose

Sa akong huna-huna:

No.
Of course not.
Hilom palihug beh.
Hinay-hinayi pagkupot
Ug pagsudlay ang akong buhok.
Kahibaw ko nga baga kaayo na
Itom
Ug mangutana ka sama sa uban
Nga na-una na nimo
Nagpatina ka day?
Ug motubag ko sa libuan nang higayon
Wala. Of course wala. It’s natural.
Kahibaw ko nga mosukol na.
Bisa’g unsaon pagsudlay,
Lisod patumanon.

Apan naningkamot intawn ko
Nga malingaw samtang galakaw-lakaw nga nag-inusara
Dinhi sa SM.
So palihug lang, tas-i tas-i ang imong pasensiya.

Pahiyom sad ginagmay uy
Ipasangko sa akong alimpatakan
Nga I’m worth your time.

-- http://veraleigh.blogspot.com

Run

2007-03-20T13:26:00.000+08:00

in case of emergency
run to the nearest fire escape
you'd love a blinking exit
when things get complicated
Houdini with the polished ego
Where are you off to

And then you run
And then you run
And then you run

Run, run, it's all you do run, run
Run, run, it's all you do run, run
Run, run, it's all you do run, run
Run, run, run, run

You're not half the man my gay friends are
You bossa nova superstar
Run to me when a fuck is what you need
Run away when it gets to deep
i'd be a hermaphrodite for all i care
i've got more balls than you could ever dare
you're not half the man my gay friends are
you're not half the man my gay friends are

You're not running fast enough
You're not running fast enough
You're not running fast enough

CHAI

Two poems

2007-03-04T13:01:00.001+08:00

i followed your instructions.

keep all promises in a tightly sealed container
away from direct sunlight

keep out of reach
of prying eyes and ears
store in a cool, dry
place
only you and i could visit
in wee hours.

no labels.

yes, no labels
on this bottled, nameless thing.

but now that i've found
they're all rotten,
you impose:

no complaints.

keep all screams muffled
in a tightly sealed container
away from broad daylight
store in room temperature
as coolas if nothing happened.

otherwise,you explain,
this will be too messy
on the glossy pages of magazines
on Kris Aquino shows
on your friendly-next-door-neighbor polo
on your perfectly polished nameplate
on your perfectly polished guitar
on your perfectly polished ego

never mind if i'd bled enough already
and stained my clothes
never mind if i'd lost my poetry
or my self-respect
and messed my head up some more

and you prod me on,
be strong,
you can clean that on your own,
that mess in your complicated head
and i try to wipe memory
spotlessof you
but Mr. Clean's promises
of sparkling white
are as black as yours.

and i still follow your instruction.

don't spill.
keep still.
don't spill.

___________________________

the day brims with an absence.

the silence of

a thread of hair about to break

a drone of flapping lips
in a fastfood joint

a flatline
and that pause
before the scream

coming downfrom a carousel ride
into the sadness
of a brighly lit empty carnival
without your momma there

a fall
from the 13th floor
stuck in mid air
and wishing
there was something
as tangible
as solid
as concrete.

Two poems

2007-03-04T13:01:00.000+08:00

i followed your instructions.

keep all promises in a tightly sealed container
away from direct sunlight

keep out of reach
of prying eyes and ears
store in a cool, dry
place
only you and i could visit
in wee hours.

no labels.

yes, no labels
on this bottled, nameless thing.

but now that i've found
they're all rotten,
you impose:

no complaints.

keep all screams muffled
in a tightly sealed container
away from broad daylight
store in room temperature
as coolas if nothing happened.

otherwise,you explain,
this will be too messy
on the glossy pages of magazines
on Kris Aquino shows
on your friendly-next-door-neighbor polo
on your perfectly polished nameplate
on your perfectly polished guitar
on your perfectly polished ego

never mind if i'd bled enough already
and stained my clothes
never mind if i'd lost my poetry
or my self-respect
and messed my head up some more

and you prod me on,
be strong,
you can clean that on your own,
that mess in your complicated head
and i try to wipe memory
spotlessof you
but Mr. Clean's promises
of sparkling whiteare as black as yours.

and i still follow your instruction.

don't spill.
keep still.
don't spill.

___________________________

the day brims with an absence.

the silence of

a thread of hair about to break

a drone of flapping lips
in a fastfood joint

a flatline
and that pause
before the scream

coming downfrom a carousel ride
into the sadness
of a brighly lit empty carnival
without your momma there

a fall
from the 13th floor
stuck in mid air
and wishing
there was something
as tangible
as solid
as concrete.

Boy, wonder

2006-10-04T00:54:00.000+08:00

Forward, to the moon
Past the bronze angels dancing
hanging, banging on the windshield
There are no walls between us
Only a round door,
incandescent,
high up, over our heads
I wonder what color it is
on your side.
Green, blue, red?
or yellow, like mine?
And if it gleams on your sea
like it does mine,
wobbling about tomorrow,
hesitating, afraid
Or if it dances,
glimmering with excitement
No,
there are no walls between us
Only a round door,
ancient, yellowed
And I wonder
when the yellowing would stop
or how many rotations
or revolutions this earth
or these wheels have to take
to get us home
I wonder
when that round door would open
and you and me would fly up
and meet under a doorpost,
the halo of our stupidity
-a ring of stars.

http://readruss.blogspot.com

2006-08-30T13:32:00.000+08:00

In the morning,
I want nothing more than

an empty calendar
as bare as white sheets
blank
and waiting

-- not in weekdays' early morning shower; please no
not there where that towel lay waiting

while last night's dreams
go down the drain --

just there burrowed in the sheets
That empty calendar waiting

for Me to happen
finally
in Pen.

-- http://veraleigh.blogpot.com

Chai drafting Red Brain
Bo's Coffee, 2006

I am your manic-depressive

2006-07-10T06:27:00.000+08:00

Like overflown water
on cold iron sheets,
I am noise at 6:43 in the morning
Rising to the occasion of a dimmed sunset
staled by clouds from the global richness
of a world gone sour.

I am your manic-depressive.

Today, the leaves aren't so red,
nor are they so green to give me hope.
They are flimsy as toilet paper, the kind that renders
a smile, the kind you flush into the blueness
with a 20 peso bathroom ticket in
shiny hedonistic mall, a pearl in a black ocean.

I am your manic-depressive.

Television speaks like a miraculous idol
hypnotizing me into a mental relapse,
my subconscious hanging on to the words of a friend
five miles away, calling me out of a lightless demise and
Swoosh! I fly out of this liquid schizophrenia
beamed up by the news from a national hysteria

I am your manic-depressive.

Coffee or tea or milk or hot choco?
Cream shall suffice for the poverty stricken loco
Make my eyes shimmer from the steam of it all
and let them bleed salted water.
Let it flow, and dance and move in my face
and fall into the unknown fabrics of my skin

I am your manic-depressive.

Bare as a visceral shout from the gut,
out of fortune, out of the third world,
careening through, breaking the glass
in this emergency, this upheaval
from an existential dictatorship, I am free
and I realize confinement, I realize mercy.

I am your manic-depressive.

I am your sadness, my dear, dear friends,
and I am your stock of joy.
I come and I go, sometimes with two faces,
one that throws your head back
and one that throws it on the floor.
I am your wonder bra, and your stained sheets.

I am your manic-depressive.

- http://readruss.blogspot.com

The Genius of blue and red

2006-07-08T03:30:00.000+08:00

I saw a blue button on the floor,

shiny as thin red balloons
on a sunny birthday

and plastic as white sporks
from no-cook noodles.

It lay there quiet, shy.
It's blueness invites the redness of me.

Takes my hand
and my bones recoil,

I hesitate.

There should be no blue buttons
sprawling on the floor at this time,

3:49 on the clock, ticking "go to bed"

There must be a blue shirt where this button is from
or a red one that says "you are mine"

Perhaps it is from something orange,
with a print of two heroes, one in blue

and the other in red.

Of two flying creatures dressed as men,
posed in alarm. Can it be from the red robin

or from the blue bat?

Robins are red and bats are blue,
this button reminds me of the orangeness

of you.

I saw a blue button on the floor.

Red as thin, shiny balloons
on a sunny birthday

and white as plastic sporks
from no-cook noodles.

Reddened, I turn blue.

http://readruss.blogspot.com

Michael

2006-05-29T18:10:00.000+08:00

Tiny bits of square
paper
scattered, designed
the table that separates
us.

You made my name
in brown and dull silver
the packet of creamer
now reduced to letters.

I made the sun then
on the table's corner
With half-extended rays
in a half-ball of fire.

My name,
you said, is a masterpiece.
The sun,
I said, is you.

-- http://veraleigh.blogspot.com

Good Friday

2006-04-20T00:35:00.000+08:00

Yellow light bulb
and Jesus on the wall,

it is good friday

I lie awake in bed tonight
and the voices are sweet
and fluffy, cotton candy

Red and pink mouthfuls
of ineffable words

I faint to glucose,
levitating
skin and bones,
salt and sourness,
noses and eyelashes
to the ceiling

Jesus down there
and a yellow light bulb
on my face,

it is a good friday

The voices are sweet
from plastic mouths
to red ears
from organic beats
to electric beats
of your humanity

Jesus down there
and everywhere yellow
The music is love.

http://readruss.blogspot.com

Headphones

2006-04-04T19:43:00.000+08:00

I'm selling you a pair of headphones.

The wonderful world
in the headphones:
Dolby Digital Surround Sound in a theatre
where all the world is a music video.

I'm selling you a pair of headphones

sedative
to the manic depressive
orchestra in the head
the placenta, the womb
water muffling you desperate screams
for whatever, at whatever
sound proofing against
revving engines at green light
the dirge in a woman's wail at someone's deathbed
of the mother, the boss, the teachers nagging
litanies from your organizer

I'm selling you a pair of headphones

heavily used
but good as new
satisfaction guaranteed
money back if you don't get what you see
with a free trial, of course.

I'm selling you a pair of headphones

MP3 player with it for free
jazz, hip-hop, R&B
lots of Rock
and a bit of me
that's crawled its way through the wires
like urine
on dialysis machine

I'm selling you a pair of headphones

such a waste to discard
this teddy bear i've had all my life
and i'm too scared to see the garbage truck
devour them

I'm selling you a pair of headphones

for half the price.

Later, when i cross the street
i'll be standing on the yellow line without it
learn to rev at go
catch the words for the wailing woman
answer litanies
and erase the borders of the tv screen with the music video

and live beyond them.

i mean really die and live beyond them.

Heck, i'll give these headphones for free.

-chai
http://www.bummeround.blogspot.com

Eye Ball

2006-02-28T23:26:00.000+08:00

They roll their eyes
like ping pong balls
light, hollow, and plastic
Among them, mine bounce
from one set to another
seeking the fullness of dark irises,
endlessly spinning
moist vacuums of white
I could see them,
the browns of their eyes
I might
If just roll my eyes with theirs,
maybe they’d notice,
maybe I’d learn the patterns
of their erratic rotations
Or should I look harder?
Should I will with my eyes
for theirs to meet mine?
Or
should I just give up?
Hide my eyes under their lids
and cry?

http://readruss.blogspot.com

Sa Baluarte sa Simbahan

2006-02-27T17:11:00.000+08:00

Sa baluarte sa simbahan
uban ko ang mga kampana
nga gipuli sa mga kanyon
niadtong ang mga Moros
padayon pa sa pagdunggo
ning lungsod.

Sa akong pagkatkat
Gahinay-hinay ko,
daw bisitang naulaw
sa kuwadrong bato
nga lapas na sa gatus ang edad.
Huna-huna ko,
pila na kaha ka gatus ka mga Moros
ang gibugtuan og ginhawa dinhi.

Sa paglili ko,
Anaa gihapon ang mga vinta
sa mga dingding
Gabalibad sa pagkapapas,
daw padayon sa paglutaw
Gakugos sa mga agalon nilang
Igo lamang ibilanggo kauban ang mga dingding.

Sa baluarte sa simbahan
Paminaw ko
Padulong ka ug gahina-hinay sa pagkatkat.
Nalimtan ko
Nga kaniadto pa diay to.
Pulong mo pa niadto,
Tahuron ta ang pahinumduman ning baluarte.
Paminaw ko nuon,
Nahiapil ko sa mga kalag sa Moros
nga gialayan mo sa kahilom.
Gihimong uban sa mga panumduman
ning baluarteng bilanggoan.

- http://veraleigh.blogspot.com

Diwata sa Tinubdan

2006-02-27T17:08:00.000+08:00

Ang diwata kuno
dili kanang babaeng gabistida og puti
dili kanang taas og buhok nga galutaw.
And diwata mao ang paghalad
sa mga pagkaon
ug pagsangpit sa tabang
Amihan, Saladpan, Silangan, Habagatan

Gahilom ang Tinubdan
gahulat sa diwata,
pagkaong giandam sa hinayng kugi
pagkaong walay lamas
Alang sa tubig sa tubud
nga gabukal ug gadayhag sa mga palayan.
Amihan, Saladpan, Silangan, Habagatan

Sugid ni Mang Temyong
wala na karon ang diwata
ning tuburan nga wala nay undang sa pagdayhag.
Hinay niyang gituslub ang iyang kamot
sa tubud, hinayng giligo ang nangunut niyang kamot
ug mihonghong sa pasalamat
Amihan, Saladpan, Silangan, Habagatan

- http://veraleigh.blogspot.com

...

2005-10-11T12:23:00.000+08:00

loathing.
A slow-lingering from the violin…
wanting us to go crazy tonight
it’s not easy to hate your home…
but now, this girl, hates it much
—with every living fiber in her gut
wanting to depart, wanting to stop
wanting to widen the growing gap;
let’s get crazy tonight

pat
http://pat.pixelled.com

Blue cloud rivers and a tree on brown soil

2005-09-07T17:47:00.000+08:00

The tree

is my feeling

Its bark is my skin

It stands unfettered

by my noisy rings

in my head

the voice

of the plant

dies

a screech

into the wind

Carries me

far from you

all of you

little blades

of grass under

the blue cloud

Rivers of atrophy

running through

my roots of silence

old silence

mad silence

I sleep

standing

My feet

underneath

wet, brown soil.

-russ- http://readruss.blogspot.com

poetry, my dear (string quartets)

2005-08-25T00:22:00.000+08:00

string quartet 1

i’m afraid to close my eyes…
though bach and his strings
tell me to
lull me to…
close my eyes
and see you opening
those lids
that hide…
a humanity so simply beyond my own
i cringe and think myself too dirty
too dirty.

string quartet 2

i’m afraid to close my eyes…
and see you opening
those lids
in the pools of my mind..
that countenance
that stare
that glare…
i’m afraid to close my eyes.
to find you there.

it’s not you…
but simply the effect of a presence
that deems itself near unbearable
unbearable to the white dog
that’s within me.

i close my eyes.
the black dog feeds
feeding on the encompassing white…
i don’t die.
i live.
only to find myself gorged to death.

i’m afraid to close my eyes.
your stare will kill me.
i will die.

string quartet 3

these strings sing of death…
of love
and death
and the dying of one’s heart.
die my heart,
i want you cold.
i want you unwanting to behold
the aura of him
that makes you warm.
i want you stiffened.
i want you cold.

i want you unwanting
of what you want you’re told.
i want you looking ahead…
i want you all-focused
you need to imagine
being not attention-fed.
not to the world sold.

i want my dear heart…
i want it stiffened…
i want it cold!

http://pat.pixelled.com

untitled..again...

2005-08-18T18:00:00.000+08:00

a dance of severed red wings
ensues on a gray park.

fragments of them
collect at my feet
But the metro aide sweeps them
away in eight-beat.

and the garbage man,
taking his time,
will come to collect
on Sunday yet
a trashbin
of bright ember words.

--chai
(haven't written poetry in a long while. watchatink?)

...

2005-08-16T00:50:00.000+08:00

When?

—Did the world begin to spin?
When i decided i was it’s queen?
And perhaps, maybe, didn’t need your help?
Because his zest for life attracts me…
My zest for life, though, has no clear limit—
And that need is near, if not really, deadly.
Now… i’ve come upon the proverbial end
The rope, now, is too tight around my body;
Phlegm that’s escaping my lips, evidence of the decay…
As i decay the ropes strive to keep me vivified.
They do their job… oh so beautifully—
Oh, so painfully.
Whimpering… wanting his attention
Yet you know what i need…
Careless, impulsive, self-direction…
I’m enslaved by the wants i heed.
Ain’t it sad? —That i should be:
More fragmented than truly free?
These ropes are my freedom…
My perimeter of life.
Such peaceful coexistence;
Between heaven and strife.
Woe my insistence; woe my blind greed…
Woe my fear of facing my very own sin’s seeds!

Indignant at a term!

What is repression?–what is a rose?
How could i let it keep me
—on my tiny toes?
Such a word is but a word
And needn’t cause much worry.
I shall not become a fiend; a thief!—
Who sees the light and scurries.

http://pat.pixelled.com

The Room

2005-07-19T15:30:00.000+08:00

Feed me!
the door says
and I come in.

The nest lies beyond
piles of tin and plastic

I look at it

forgotten cave etched with words
from old years of young change

My feet brush floors
of wet color, green and red
The air sizzles
on the skin of my arms
and the dance begins
In the room

the dancer swims
spinning, whirling, splashing
placental fluids out
into primeval greens and reds
into the hum of crickets
into black and violent enigma

The room leads me
the unwilling but free

Feed me! I shout.

The dance stops.
The door shuts.

And the room

diminishes

into

a pulse.

-russ-

performer.

2005-07-16T17:16:00.000+08:00

(ey ver... i suppose this is the romantic blush you've been waiting for... it's not very comfortable. grr. struggling again.)

how does it feel
how would you know
you performer
have stolen
the show
out from recesses
deepest stagnations
you’ve found an altar
in thundering palpitations
i write to feel you
i write to let go
i write to say:
“my beat crescendo
much gratitude
much
remembrance
much of the dreams
are subconcious remnants
of unvisited
streams.”
singing
a lost witness in the wind
playing
the
performer captures
and needs your gaze
how does it feel
how would
you know
you performer
have stolen the show
how dreadful it is
“oh, dearest overseer”
that i should become
one of his dreamers

...fart... world end solution?

2005-07-11T09:29:00.000+08:00

“i wish not to follow-

i gazed, but for a moment,
into a darkling crevasse
it lead into my brain…
and saw a face
a man
a thing–
imagination-sent
eyes too kind—-
they were to be my bane.

ah!–but for the moment…
that gaze lingered
into a waterfall eternity
the deluge of dreams
surreal, untrue;
suppression-bred.

–a gaze… into uncalled doting
unwanted adoration
for a face
that was but a nonety
in the deepest, dustiest
recesses of my rumination.”

-pat
http://pat.pixelled.com

throwing myself down the cliff

2005-07-11T09:20:00.000+08:00

i was wondering if i have denied myself for something i can't put a name on, for so long a time already that i have gradually destroyed the yellows of my days - the suns, the stars at night, or even the yellows on roads and plains, specks of candy wrappers maybe,
or wild flowers displaced in the city sides -

all of them gone.

- VERA
http://veraleigh.blogspot.com

I am

2005-06-29T18:01:00.000+08:00

Thrown
as Sartre would say

into this bipolar confusion
that ends in infinite silence,

the period to finitude.
Should I dare? To move?

As the shout from the box suggests?
Or is the box a work of art?

Am I a work of art?
Or the work of random rain?

Of plenitude or imperfection?
The stars are clear

and far away for lizards
to sit on and croak

their loud decrees
and final sentences

More ears, wide pans
like quiet satellite dishes

arewaiting in isolation
for a few more words after

"I am".

-russ-
http://readruss.blogspot.com

miniscule

2005-06-23T22:30:00.000+08:00

there's this moment
of sullen darkness
black leaves
against black skies,
black tears from black eyes.
there's this coldness
that seep through me
of dead longing,
such of a once lush
withered tree.

and there goes your presence
traveling through a distance
carrying with youthe drops of rain
that drowns my heart.how could i be in anguished?
how could i be in chain?
how could i be coated with hope
from endless mires?

you step along on a wet pavement.
murky waters splashed by your heavy soles.
have you ever feel me melting?
have you ever feel me dying?
then, the river of yearning
that hopes
that wishes
to intertwine us together
keep flowing, and never again be silenced by a hush.

and by that moment i seep myself unto the ground.
let all that bleeds within me
be absorbed by the harsh land.
it was in that instance,
in that very moment.
when you think of me
as if,
im just a grain of sand.

2005-06-22T19:06:00.000+08:00

I came here with
wings of a lost angel,
wandering,
hoping,
praying,
murmuring
for someone to share
flights with.
But there is only
empty air.

vera

There is a mirror that I visit every morning...

2005-06-22T18:53:00.000+08:00

Everyday it sees me in uncombed hair and blank eyes.
"You should be grateful," I tell it slowly, tasting each word carefully, playing each word ever so slowly in my mind, my lips opening and my tongue clicking nervously.
Did it hear me?
I hate to think that it just stands there in a clear, liquid face and a rigid, solid body.
There must be something behind it.
I pray that there is something behind it, something behind my reflection.
A world maybe.
Or an ocean.
If its lifeline relies on a face it catches every morning, then it must be very full by now, maybe even barely able to hold itself with its fullness.
Maybe it will blow into pieces in front of me.
I would like to see what each piece looks like.
Would it hold my eyes?
a strand of hair?
hands?
legs?
nails?
Would it hold my heart?
Or my brain?
Or maybe when it shatters, it liquefies - a slow, silver flood of droplets of eyes, nose, lips, teeth, fingers, nails, veins...
Would ecah shattered piece or each silver drop tell a story?
I wonder if every time I stare at it, it absorbs my silence, or the air that comes out of me that paints white clouds on its face.
"You should be grateful;" I say it because I believe it might be happy to welcome me every morning - at least a soul visits it.
The mirror seems to have its own stories though.
It stares back at me and tells me the same thing - "You should be grateful."
But I cannot answer it.

'sorry that i had to post it here.
liyo, this is for you to read.

vera

helpless

2005-06-22T18:50:00.000+08:00

I step onto the street
and I fall with the hesitance
of a scared cat
among screeching tires,
or a hidden sun
among dark clouds.
The pavement is wet and hard,
my body dragged
among flattened bodies of animals
in cake-dried blood;
dragged along the rain-washed,
sun-dried paths reeking of sour smell,
as though rain itself is vinegar,
pouring down the scarred flat surfaces
that lay suppine -
helpless.

vera

wah...

2005-06-19T22:52:00.000+08:00

and i don't know if i like this, but it's to compensate for my lack of lyrical input as of late...

“She needs a new pair of eyeglasses
with black rims wrought of plastic
for her to better see the world
the world;
the people who live and go about it.
She dons modern spectacles…
of not so real glass…
to hide her wide wandering eyes
from other sights there yonder
—or so she likes to think.
three years, five years…
four years and two,
she donned the eyes beneath
a black-framed pseudo sheath.
She needs a new pair of eyeglasses
with black rims wrought of plastic
for fear the thoughts spill over
from the rather human exterior.”

sucky.
pat (http://pat.pixelled.com)

Petal

2005-06-14T13:59:00.000+08:00

I picked up a petal
from the window sill today
and it felt like
the softest thing in the world
I wondered from what tree
it came fromand if its fellow petals
were missing it
I felt through its velvet redness
and smelled, under my runny nose
the faint but terrible fragrance
of its memory
I wondered what the petal thought of me
or the mild disease I had
as I fixed it into the iron pendant
of a borrowed necklace
I wore it happily,
as if I were a hunter,
proud of his game
It stayed there for a while
comfortable under my neck,
sometimes it would fly
as though I'd blown on itfrom a sneeze
and when it hit the ground,
it would call me
with a whispered squeak
to pick it up again
Then I understood
that the petal was not an it.
It wasn't a thing after all
It was alive,or still alive
and it had a name,
a boy's name
the petal was a he.
He was a child.
And as soon as I realized
these few facts,
he flew once again
away from the cold metal
away from my hot breath
I looked for him,
not hearing the lightest sound
from the grey cement floor
he wasn't there,
I couldn't find him
and when I looked up
everything was red.

-russ-
http://readruss.blogspot.com

Rat

2005-06-10T13:33:00.000+08:00

The humble rat is at it again,
skimming through bathroom floors
into bathrooms for a fresh look
He glides along walls of glass,
dodging vertical life-forms
extending into the hot air above
With his view from his plump body,
he watches with a menacing smirk,
he knows their sweat wet shoes
and their fevered undergarments
With his tail, he touches them,
proud to spread his own plague

The humble rat is quick and clever,
he walks as though he is running,
overtaking wealthy fragrances
with his filth and violent odors
The humble rat is quick and clever,
he sees their swift little glances
and repels them with his black hide
The humble rat is quick and clever,
creeping through merchandise
hunting for the cheapest munch,
heavy and satisfying
The humble rat is quick and clever,
dressed, fed, and happy, human-like,
eating and walking amongst them
The humble rat is quick and clever,
he is a rat nontheless.

-russ-

http://readruss.blogspot.com

Cloud Ridden

2005-06-10T11:58:00.000+08:00

Riddled
by the soft angles
of your angry face
and the hazy cloud
that clout
the bright questions
of your queen eyes,
I rest,
unresolved,
in my dream
Cradled by the cream
and feathered wisps
of your clever winds,
Gently rocking
my quiet ruckus

-russ-

http://readruss.blogspot.com

My silence is that of a shattered glass

2005-06-08T10:23:00.000+08:00

I walked the streets alone.
It was a day of emptiness emptying itself
right through me.
A double blade cutting through my hands
that cover and wipe my stained eyes.
I was a faceless soul with an untraced map
walking on air-borne steps that cut the streets.
Sometimes i want to drown in this silence,
a floating symbol of death within easy grasp.
yet my silence was that of a shattered glass.
I picked up the pieces of sudden peace
one by one -
and they wound me,
afraid to let go of my pain.

- vera
http://veraleigh.blogspot.com

If sadness were to speak of my beauty

2005-06-08T10:22:00.000+08:00

If sadness were to speak of my beauty,
I wish for you to see me,
to pore through me.

It is only through my sadness -
my silent lilies sleeping in the waters of my decay,
that you will come to me.

If sadness were to speak of my beauty,
would you come nearer - finally,
as though my eyes that live in springs of pain carry you?

I do not wish for you to bare yourself in silent mourning,
even with me, even with my heart beside yours -
it will still be the death for both of us.

Our story flows in the dead of the night,
opening only when blackness spreads
like an everlasting roof of secrets.

Or if sadness were to speak of my beauty,
perhaps then I share my death with no one.
Not even with you.

- vera
http://veraleigh.blogspot.com

I sent my kiss through the night

2005-06-08T10:19:00.000+08:00

I sent my kiss through the night
with only the cold air
to carry it.
In the dark
I sent it,
as innocent and pure as the first
faint black,
seeping through the blaring white vastness
of you and your lover.

- vera

Monday Breakfast

2005-06-06T12:37:00.000+08:00

What is there to say of Monday?
It is hot toast and I am yellow butter,
sizzling on the rough sweetness of bread
All the rest my heart sings for
is either ham or cheese or mustard
Today, it is mustard
tossing me in the air like a banana peel
bluer than Monday midday sky
He is sweet and he is also sour
and here I am flying in this hot turbulence
Why?
Why do I always feel tossed like pancakes
when a man comes sending sweet syrup
into the bland blackness
of my phone screen?
Ah... the smell of sunny-side ups
dancing beneath my nostrils!
And smoothly diffusing-
the sweet, sweet, sour of mustard
from a far away fruit
Once again,
every meal
will be breakfast.

-russ-
readruss.blogspot.com

The Cage (Sylvia's bane)

2005-06-06T11:31:00.000+08:00

The cage closes in the afternoons
when the light is no longer innocent,
faint and weak, tamed by iron sheets
In the cage, I am asleep. I am asleep.

Away from the ubiquitous brown birds
and from the tree that whispers my name,
I sleep with the creeping old geckos
and the dead rat reeking boredom and regret

I sleep, looking out into the box
that repeats and repeats color and sound,
bad illuminations of an already dimmed world
I sleep until I am sleepy again,

I sleep, drugged by the infinite babbling
of soap and shampoo and prizes
and money and stories of robbers,
merchandise, fame, hate, crime, love

In the cage, I sleep with beautiful things
of plastic and cloth and leather and wood
that talk and walk and think and dance
and cry and sleep only in my dreams

I talk to to them, I move, I walk, I think
I dance, I cry. I eat, I shit, I sleep, I dream,
I wake from nightmares into the nightmare
that is the cage and the air I gasp for

becomes a suffocating madness, unbearable
and every breath inflates my already loose skin
into a black and beautiful balloon
that will one day burst me out of the cage.

-russ-

The dead robin

2005-06-06T11:20:00.000+08:00

Skulls! Skulls! Skulls! the lizards shout.
A death, a death has come!
Come upon the robin in the east.
Skulls! Skulls! Skulls!

Do angels mourn for wasted pearls
vomitted, and swallowed again?
Swallowed back into guts,
into guts, into worms, into acid.

The robin is dead, holding his pearls
from his mouth, a feather from his wing
two pearls on a feather, the weakling
is dead again, he will die returning

Angels and birds on the left!
Birds and angels on the right!
the robin is dead holding his pearls
Angels are mourning! Oh pearls!

Pearls! Pearls! Pearls!
The angels took his pearls!
Skulls! Skulls! skulls! the birds shout
Shove the pearls back the robin's beak!

Do angels mourn for robins?
They mourn for pearls.
The birds will shout until the moon comes
Meanwhile, wait, dead robin, wait.

-russ-

Persistence of Expectation

2005-05-16T16:14:00.000+08:00

The dark quietness numbs my ears
as you knock patiently in my head
A stranger I know, thirsty
calling me out by name
I refuse to listen.
No-
I beg my little angels and demons
to forbid me from listening
and hide me in silence instead
But you keep knocking
as one would offer a prince
his best drink
Until,
with ease
and without little hands and tails
on wings that hold me,
I come out
and open the door for you,
a prince with a glass of tears.

-russ-

non-taciturnity

2005-05-05T16:01:00.000+08:00

time, too
has decided
that a sudden flush
of trickling dams
be
made known
through
single interjections
done by words
that
could
mean
in all entirety:
a mere synonym of
joy.
and now
having
heard
of all the immense
possibilities
that
dictionaries
and
encyclopedias may tend
to bestow you,
i find
that
there really
is little
profundity
in the concept of genius.
it is but a
synonym
of drugged-up
and garrulous.

-pat (http://pat.pixelled.com)

Sniffer of Wet Earth

2005-04-28T17:20:00.000+08:00

I wish I really were a sniffer of wet earth,
an almost-liquid non-entity
that feeds on innocent soil;
moist, suddenly corrupted by a scatter

of wilting leaves
and broken twigs
that fall even in mid-noon;
heated. Was it not I who called

to them that fall
and plague my bed of coarse dreams?

- vera (http://veraleigh.blogspot.com)

sometimes i die inside....

frozen in fast-forward

2005-04-27T13:10:00.000+08:00

faster than the silence of drawing rooms and
round-clock miles of second-hand tick tock
faster than metro music beat blurring past
a stand-still jeepney
faster than rush hour and
flickering shadow plays in 5:30 summer sun
faster than speeding bullets of light
in nightscape
faster than caffeine
even faster than ten-second nicotine
green, red, and sickening yellow
kaleidoscoping
slivers of broken glass
lodged in trenches of thought

unable to hemorrhage.

chai (http://bummeround.blogspot.com)

from 'series of poems, uncounted.'

2005-04-26T21:41:00.000+08:00

“Hello…where have you been?
I walked the world and treaded on fire
listened to music
as i watched the pyre…

something changed
and i thought it horrible
–grimacing under a grin—
and failed to breathe for a week
this heart cramped for a month.

and so it drifted:
the mind,
from one visage to the other.
and wondered about too many things.
too many things.

a million-billion,
flustering, mind-wracking handful of thoughts…
caught in an instant
that in reality was a semester
of existence.

i wasted a semester on thought?
so it seems.”

-pat (http://pat.pixelled.com)

Sea sick

2005-04-26T11:09:00.000+08:00

Neptune stirs my sea
The blood of my fingertips warms
and my feet begin to struggle

The water renders my bones mellow
and my skin to rapid little shakes
Slowly, reeling my head into oblivion

The sea is no waiting room
and Neptune is not a welcoming host
I stand attacked, waiting for my ship

But- the waves come in large blows
and in threads of soft water leave
and Neptune, a sight of terrible beauty

Later, the evening crow will look for me
and my bed will long for my dreams
The sea is calling me and I must answer

-russ-

Funny thing with poems:
they're like paintings, they reveal the subconscious.
super perfundo!

The Lullaby of the Childless

2005-04-22T16:19:00.000+08:00

A barren field
is a song yet
to be sung.

So claims
the sower
of seeds

On her
wide sea
of soil,

Cradle
not yet
to fruit,

Unfaithful
to the summons
of seasons.

His thunder
stealing
her melody,

Her maladies
drowning
in his dreams

Of children
playing like
fire-tongues

That spark
on the horns
of the beast

Rushing
through waves
of sugarcane,

Changing
against nature's
conspiracies.

As his lighting
strikes
its last note,

Her voice
cracks in chorus
with the cry

Of a million seeds
washed away
by a single tear.

- jay malaga
(INTRUDER ALERT! [blink] INTRUDER ALERT! [blink] ALL SECURITY SYSTEMS ENGAGE!)

all i want you to do

2005-04-22T16:08:00.000+08:00

you peeled off my skin, stubbed out my eyes, cut my tongue, sewed together my lips,
broke my eardrums, and blocked my air passage.
you took away all my senses.
each day is a battle i am supposed to win.
but i go to the battlefield unarmed.
you took everything and you left me with exactly nothing.
my trust, my hope, my strength, my ability to love.
all of them!
i want you to realize the damage you have cost me.
i want you to say sorry.

- yen (http://forhermys.blogspot.com)

---

2005-04-22T15:59:00.000+08:00

On the far corner of the window
sits a solitary rose -
medium-sized
pale-red
short-stemmed.
It sits there listening,
stands breathing -
sweet, bitter air
clear, hazy air
slow, rapid air.

Red was its color.
A hundred times I held it.
A pure thing of soft head
and innocent, prickly legs.

Smelled it.
Held it.
Cradled it.
Cradled it.

Pure, red rose
bathing in near-white light
when the sun came up,
peeking from the window bars
altering all colors into a sea of red.

All red.
Heaving.
Swimming.
Swimming.

Dusk came up and snatched away
its innocent face
landscaped in smooth cheeks
of beautiful scented red.

Shrivelled.
Chipped at the sides.
Almost shrivelled.
Almost chipped at the sides.

Overlooking the night
is a soltary rose -
head stuck in your wordless bottle,
feet dangling in my dried-up ocean,
emptying itself in a cursed vase.
It still sits there,
still stands there -
breathing
sensing
unwavering.

- vera (http://veraleigh.blogspot.com)

Red

2005-04-22T15:57:00.000+08:00

Red.
like sunlight on henna-tattooed brown skin,
like iced-tea on the porch in the afternoon sun.
Sasuke's sharinggan
flag of Japan
engraved
in smooth
pale flesh.

that red stare--
a key hole on the door knob.

that red stare
commands me,
no, compels me,
to bleed
feathers.

in that red stare,
glaciers melt
into a mad rush of tides that
shatter glass
windows from the 31st floor
down
leaving trenches in the landscape
of my city
if i were a city
leaving people
like me
in a pool of
Red.

- chai (http://bummeround.blogspot.com)

What is it that you want to hear?

2005-04-19T14:12:00.000+08:00

What is it that you want to hear?

A solemn little song
of handkerchiefs dotted
with weakness and deceit?

Hands now blanketed
in your oceanic sheets.

Deeply and longingly
will it sound.

A hum.
A moan.

Oh, the restless syllables
rippling in crying tongues.

It is a gurgled speech
melodious
in its own end.

Melodious in its own goodbye.

I will wipe my eyes now.
And then you will listen.

- vera

(http://veraleigh.blogspot.com)

untitled, uncounted.

2005-04-16T09:29:00.000+08:00

a-gurgling
from the deep seated
need for perfection
in the abdominal
crunch
that was my
moral code.

a-seeping
from the plugged
insistence
of natural birthing
and notions
that eternal bliss
in centripetal moments
cause farce-amour.

did the wisps
of emotion
manage an
outmaneuver
once again?

(hmmm... i have to relieve my just woken up tummy. this is as strange as it gets--or not.)
-pat (http://pat.pixelled.com)

nothing

2005-04-15T15:44:00.000+08:00

hey.
so i ended the long pause.

-russ (http://readruss.blogspot.com)

today i speak of wet earth

2005-04-12T12:26:00.000+08:00

of leaves in their seasoned red
and conservative green.
of flowers that bloom
and gather together
in their plains and valleys
and craters
and rainbow-colored streets.
of stalks that rise -long
but less proud;
silent
taking careful steps
to wake the roots
gesturing
floor-point
picking up needles one by one.
i do not disturb them
in their funny and silly distortions
as though artists in costumes
and masks of teeth
and cheeks
and sweet-smelling saliva.
i do not wake them from their prayerful stance.
i was told one should talk to the plants
even poke playfully
their pots
and the tips of their leaves.
but i grow distant from that suggestion
for every time i speak to them
they close their ears;
even eyes close
and petals sleep again.
my language may speak of love
and care
and admiration
but they will hear none of it
none of my words
and pauses.
so today i speak of wet earth
it is what i smell anyway
earth touching water in the early morning
coarse skin bathing in rivers
of love
and care
and admiration.
it travels towards me
and when i turn my mouth to it
it enters me through my ears
and through my mouth
and through my tongue.
and finally they set their stage
and they let me see them
grow.

- vera (http://veraleigh.blogspot.com)

ideation in black and white

2005-04-12T12:24:00.000+08:00

They own the world
while it mellows --
Cat paws upon ripples
of dancing shadows
on rooftops
flooded with pale light
While we all drown
in black and white.

- chai (http://kurdapya.blogspot.com)

Pag-ampo sa Inahan

2005-04-12T12:20:00.000+08:00

Nagtukaw sa kagabhion ang akong inahan,
rosaryohan ug nobinahan iyang gikuptan
Madunggan ko ang hinay niya’ng paglitok
pulong sa pag-ampo ngadto kang Maria

Kang tatay nga naglawig
sa dagat nga dili ato
Maghimaya Ka Maria
bantayan mo siya

Kang ondo nga sa eskwela
magtarong sa pagtungha
Santa Maria Inahan Ka
lamdagan mo siya

Kang inday nga sa kanunay magbinuutan
dili musupak sa iyang ginikanan
Putli’ng Kasingkasing ni Maria
tudluan mo siya

Sa katapusan akong ngalan
ang akong nabatian
“sa akong kamagulangan”
sampit sa ‘kong inahan

“bantayan mo siya sa adlaw nga tanan”
“lamdagan sa hunahuna, iiwag sa dautan”
“tudluan sa dalan, pangandoy makabtan”
“siya ang paglaom namo’ng tanan”

“Sa ngalan sa Amahan
Sa Diyos nga anak
Og Diyos nga ispirito santo
Amen.”

- yen (http://forhermys.blogspot.com)

poetry, i tell you, need not careful inspection

2005-04-12T12:13:00.000+08:00

you just read it
silently
then louder
louder by the second
until you run with the words
with needled leaves
or flying cottons drenched in blue
orange
red
violet
with gates suspended in air
or photographs covered in mud
salt
water
cake
with balloons that burst to dust
or screens that talk in dreams
songs
shouts
curses
you run, not walk; not stroll but run
periods are hatedwhy put an end?
a minute, merciless globe that says "and so I am."
there should be no fixtures
imagine yourself crying and laughing
or sitting down by the side of the road
or lying down nursing a throbbing head
do you say, "this is it. I shall be," or "so I am. so I am?"
what a pitiful exercise on living then!
and reading and writing poetry, too (most times they come together -poetry and life)
you gather images and run along with them
not imitate them
not memorize them
not eat them
not study them;
get a piece, find another
blow them to the wind if you may;
there is no fixture
no end

- vera (http://veraleigh.blogspot.com)

Videoke

2005-04-12T12:08:00.000+08:00

Nag-uwang og mga tono
ang videoke nga mikupot og mikrpono.
Kaskas 'sab sa kanta
ang videoke nga ngakupot og gitara
Hunat g'yud sila sa makaya
Kay ang gusto nila
pun-on sa gugma
ang kada nota
sa mga kanta'ng dili ilaha
Samtang ang ilang tingog
Nalubog
Sa mga nagsing-along nga mga hubog.

- chai (http:kurdapya.blogspot.com)

ours, fallen

2005-04-12T12:07:00.000+08:00

We can be anything
but us.
Always masking flowers with mirrors
hardened from clenched fingers
soiled in whispered songs.
And the leaves fall
two by two.
Only them in the beat
of held hands
and locked eyes -
only them,
for the petals suspend themsleves
in the air
sick and disgusted.
They refuse to speak
of scented beds
or of scented windows
or scented doors
or scented pillows
waxed in sweet sweat.
So I turned to the paired little carpets
in blazing greens
landing in your closed palms.
They wilt in browns
in dead yellows
in sudden surrender.
in sudden death.
There is nothing else I can turn to now.
Not even you.
Not even I.

- vera (http://veraleigh.blogspot.com)

write more

2005-04-12T11:59:00.000+08:00

from sirMyke guys:

Date:
Tue, 5 Apr 2005 08:09:23 +0100 (BST)
From:
"Obenieta Michael" View Contact Details
Subject:
Re: poetry
To:
"vera leigh"

Hi, Vera:

I have lined up your poems for future publication. Send me more.

Myke

- vera

Bulagi Ko Kay Na...

2005-04-12T11:51:00.000+08:00

Mamihok ug mangluspad
kining aping nga manggahon

Mukiyos kining lawas
kay wala’y gana i-kaon

Kining mata nga singkit
manghubag gyud intawn

Kining akong huna-huna
tugkad gyud ug lawom

Kasingkasing nga putli
kanimo nagsampit

Kay sa gugma nga tiunay
kini nagapitik

Ikasakit og ikaguol
ang imong pagtug-an

Nga sa lain mukuyog
og ako biyaan

Maglutaw ako
sa kaugalingong luha

Sa kawad-on
magkuyogpos ra

Bulagi ko kay na,
mahuman gyud ang istorya.

- yen (http://forhermys.blogspot.com)

yeoh.

2005-04-11T20:37:00.000+08:00

On the other side of this room my sister babbles like an old lady. Hello, we've moved. Here we are. http://inktrip.blogspot.com

http://poetica.blogspot.com is taken. Bard was another choice... but it sounded bland. Russ and Pat thought Ink Slinger sounded neat, but that seemed taken, too. Inkslingers, too.

headtrip, ("A mentally stimulating experience. An act or a pattern of behavior undertaken primarily for self-gratification." dictionary.com) sounded nice, but some crackpot beat us to it. Come to think of it 'crackpot' does sound nice.

Inktrip, however, has been registered and is our name. haha. What does it mean?--you figure that out.

-pat (http://pat.pixelled.com)

unspoken

2005-04-11T20:27:00.000+08:00

Yeah I remember..
It was blue
And it was red.
It was damn cold
And nothing has ever been said..
--could I miss the lights
those flickering seasoned lights?
--could I miss the hymns
of that Thursday night?

I am in blue
And you were in red.
Those days of old
--with nothing has ever
been said.

-liyo
http://hotmug.blogspot.com

“romantic scouring: -

2005-04-11T20:09:00.000+08:00

clean as you leave
clean as you go
clean the empty orifice
clean the red plateau
clean your hands
clean your face
clean that mind
and that earwormed phase.
lucy in the sky with diamonds!

clean this mess
and her chest.
scrape that wretched scum
clean your tongue.
clean as you leave
clean as you go
notice that you almost managed
to steal the show?”

-pat (http://pat.pixelled.com)

Third visit to an annual wake

2005-04-11T16:20:00.000+08:00

The church is as still
as the celebrated corpse
Dimly lighted by static candles,
it hides its guardiansand angels,
blinding them with royal purple satin
And every living face it houses
streaks of sadness and remorse
THE CHIRST IS DEAD, yet again
and his body lies in front of the altar
three meters from the golden retablo,
two thousand years and more after his death.
He rests in a coffin of hot glass,
his flesh of cement and paint
veiled in white lace
and wreathed with paper flowers
Nuns, like relatives sit by him,
three pews from where I look
and wonder and ponder
why these morners in line
and in party clothes mourn.
Why these mourners mourn
for the handcrafted divine
Why they mourn inside this church
and revel in the plaza
with exuberance in merchandise and song
Why they mourn for the dead statue
they know is bound to wake up
in three days to fulfill its promise
and fill their tables with colorful food
and roasted pigs and fat chickens
and bottles and bottles of beer.

-RUSS (http://readruss.blogspot.com)

brown addiction.

2005-04-11T16:17:00.000+08:00

brimming with what
the corporates call blood.
encapsulated by seams–
unbound; distrust.
for by this spittle
that's brown or black
are bones made brittle–
memory made…
or the lack.

-pat (http://pat.pixelled.com)