wrongs

they are more into
exclusions
we do not mind somehow
we are also
not into inclusions

outside inside
they are the same
it is the circle
it is the cycle that only happens
front of bars
or behind bars
nothing matters much
it is how one sees it
either from the heart
or from the mind

echoes

when i sleep with you
i listen to the echoes of your moans
in the hills
i hear every word that misses
the pointless
the phrase that needs badly
a clause
to complete the periods of life
the commas of death
the exclamation of
surprises
there is no end to this quest
for the meaning
of my skin
the maps of love that fingers
closely monitor
the nests of forgiveness
still birds
without wings
clipped claws
and blank stars to the boundless
horizons
bluish afternoons
on shadows of trees
and hills on fading colors
green then black

wearing the masks

for fun
the masks too wear masks
the world does not play
dropping dead
it meets the mask with another mask
and then
laughs
there is this feast
of pretensions
away from the serious shelves
where books only
read about
the chapter where the heroine
makes love
her only weapon
her whiteness against the night skies

"does no less than denude its object of the one thing which he has which is of value, and so it degrades him effectively."

subjectify me?
where?

it is only through our
communion
that you make me a
subject

when you go away again
you may think
that i have become a stone

you are wrong
you have already subjectified me as a
bird with eight wings

did you not see it in the navel of my body?
did you not smell it on the scent of my armpits?
when you were inside me did you not feel that i am someone so different
than before
when you only caressed my hair and kissed my neck
and licked my butt?
lover, do not underestimate my being
for i am being and you are being
in fact
i am more free than what you are
to your pebbles i am the river
to your twigs i am the leaves
to your clouds i am now the winds of chances
i now own the world
inside my mouth
and my tongue knows how to play your games
i am now a goddess transformed by your love
from the mud that i used to be
it is enough then
as you leave to your world where your heart belongs
i have already sprouted as a
Phoenix.

this place is not a room for sadness
sorrow is a stranger here
and cannot stay that long
there are no sonorous eyes here
not a place for emaciated cheeks
and unshaven beards
this is not the place for mourning
no one comes here wearing the black shirt
of fasting
this is the place for passion
(not promiscuity)
this is a private place for our shared whispers
the zip-less reunion
of two souls not wearing any name tags on their bones
when you come here
it is because
you have decided to be free
from morality from the mortality of your prisoners
welcome, bare yourself, brace yourself
for another experience
someone you love shall be summoned
to completely make you
home again.

blue is not just a color
not just a color, it is a metaphor
it is a memory of you
in the islands of our desire
when you look at me
i quiver
your hands rest on the
muscle of your thighs
something in me
screams for joy
like a mad woman inside
a room with a man
on top of her body
as your plump chest wrestles
with the nipples of my breasts
i bite my tongue
there is pain, but so sweet just then
this is passion
this is my poetry
there is no other unless you ask
for more of its flesh
and more of its soul

i may give in
if i shall have learned to love
a lock of your hair

ecstasy

my eyes stare at
your body
my hair falls down
freely
my hands hold unto
a bar
my breasts shake
my lips all wet with
your lips all wet
my tongue moans
for your name
i am on top of you

in this struggle for
freedom
this revolution of
love

we come at the apex of this climb
we surrender
all in defeat to the powers of our flesh
you & i

Upon my hill
of beauty
you shall walk
in tongues.

at the tip
you do not
strangulate.

you know what
word is there.

this is a picture of you
my man, on white brief,
masculine body, strong,
firm arms, gentle eyes
determined eyelashes,
bold fingers, drinking
a hot cup of coffee,
well cut hair, shaven face,
smooth skin, hair on the
slab of his skin, firm legs
easy on the floor, calm nipples,
peaceful on the sofa,
waiting for me.

yet i still ask for more

when he steps out of my door
i may cry a little bit
three or four tears are enough
for a decent parting
a little time for mourning
a pint of vodka to shake him off from my system

tonight, i'll make a call
another man enters my door
into my womb, my system filled with his spurts
i stoop, i kneel, i worship this man
i lick every drop of him
and then he goes again
at dawn, fitting in his black underwear
back to his pants and polo
sliding his belt
buttoning his pants
zip his pocket

yet i ask still for more
to fill this emptiness of my being

they are all men that step in and out of my door
hinges still strong and intact
i am suspended so well between the space and the frame

i am a woman. They are just men.
I swallow and spit them all.
i vomit and swallow them all again.
this is the cycle of my
skepticism.

do not hate me,
for i am, this is all that i have
wind in your palms
when you close
you know what happens
when you open again
you know what is next

love me then for what i am
a rose in your lips
when you say something
like
i love you
you know what happens next
surely.

The zipless fuck is absolutely pure. It is free of ulterior motives. There is no power game . The man is not "taking" and the woman is not "giving." No one is attempting to cuckold a husband or humiliate a wife. No one is trying to prove anything or get anything out of anyone. The zipless fuck is the purest thing there is. And it is rarer than the unicorn. And I have never had one.

IIt is "zipless" because "when you came together,

zippers fell away like rose petals,

underwear blew off in one breath

like dandelion fluff.

For the true ultimate zipless A-1 fuck, it was necessary that you never got to know the man very well."

– Erica Jong, Fear of Flying (1973)

to the recent subject of my affection

i lay myself naked

waiting

you do not have to knock my door

it is half-open

it has an eye that has always been peeping for your coming

i am hungry and thirsty

not for the spaghetti and the cocacola

and the red tomato ketchup

i am thirsty of your kisses

i am hungry of your throng

step into my fields

it is open and vast

but there is a cave there that has been wet for years

waiting

come and join me in my ennui

save me from my

f

a

l

l

i

n

g.

for Raul

it is you in handcuffs, you claim to be,
not your body, you're in for something borrowed,
as we all are,
you do not sell
to me what you have, a body, a soul, a mind
in trichotomy,
i have much of these already, and i do not mind
getting into these all again,
your body, my body, without the mind and soul
it is possible
i did it and shall do it
over and over again
for i learn no lesson from anything
neither from anybody
nor any book

i shall set you free from handcuffs, and have me handcuffed
instead,
in return by & of your hands
and arms
i will not kiss you, you will be surprised
i will not even hold you, you will be appalled
i simply want to be a black bird perching on your
shoulders as branches to a tree
in my mind,
and then you see me flying away,
no drama, just a plain
for general patronage movie
it's like deplaning PAL
from New York via Cebu with a note that i cannot
be in Looc, Oslob, not even a shadow of
my giveaway phone
and then back to my hometown in Dipolog
you bet, i expect no arms, i hate streamers
and the band.
i still love to do all these
and finish all these tricks all alone by myself.
Till then, if you are not happy at least
Don't be gay.

it is not the backhoe

what caused all the miseries of those
who were massacred

what is the symbol? it is not the backhoe
it is not even the driver of the backhoe
it is not the armalite
neither the bullets
it is that man who denies that he was there
it is not the impunity
it is those who used impunity, those who used the backhoe
those who used the drivers and the soldiers
it is those who use them all
up there

those who voted for them
finally
those who get the money
those who do not do anything
those who simply watch

about you

your thoughts are not mine
and i do not wish to read your mind

for i have my own,
i have this light and i am keeping it alive
it is a candle and my palms shaped like a boat
keeps its light shining

i keep on writing
and you may not read what i write
i don't mind
i say things and keep some ideas hanging in the air
like the clothes on the wire

when they become dry
i iron them all
and keep them back well folded
on the dresser

do not look for your pants
or underwear there
there are no places reserved for them

i keep my heart somewhere else
and it keeps beating

now, no longer for your name