i dont know why, but i have been having dreams lately. i know everybody dreams, though most of us barely remember them. and for the past years i have not remembered a dream, which is something quite odd. but then, the past few nights have been something different. recurring dreams. or better yet, call them nightmares. its not that they are the scary or gory kind. its just that they make me remember so many things about my past, about a face i know i will never forget but one i would really like to stay away from my nocturnal journeys.
and it doesn’t help that the last book i read was from connie willis, entitled "lincoln's dreams" (check this one out, its worth your time!) and yeah, by the title itself, it tackles some issues about what dreams are. Freud tried to explain them, though other people think that dreams are worth nothing. but like connie, i do believe dreams are something. its just that i dont know what it really is.
perhaps it could be my hidden desires raging, wanting to come out, or fears in my subconscious, trying to break free. perhaps. i dont really have an idea.
or perhaps a dream, the occurrences of dreams is what every one of us longs for, a secret place. a place where we wish to run to, a place of solitude of some sorts. a place that may be dark and cold, and yet comfortable. a place that may be bright and warm, and yet whose light reveals shapes and colors we are afraid to see.
wish me a good night sleep tonight, and for the other nights ok?
now, about the dreams that i have been having.
there is a woman there. yes, i do know her, i know her as much as a person could possibly know another person. i am familiar with her face, the way she smiles. and yes, she is smiling, no, she is not mocking me, but smiling nevertheless, a smile that you could say is a mask for the desires in her heart that she hides.
though there is no sound there, we are having a conversation. we go places. and then other elements come, elements i dare not mention...
and then i wake up. its not scary i know, but it hurts because those are images of a season now long dead. its only a fucking dream.
but a dream that i would like to become true, even if only for one last time, before i die.
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
early morning with venus...
about 3 nights ago, one of the eletrical post went with a blast, bright lights before plunging the streets into darkness. as you may realize if you gaze up the sky, the moon is nearly full (or has it already been full, i dont know...) and so are the stars. then, i found myself staring up at the sky. it feels cheesy though, remembering that line from an old song about two people far apart looking at the stars, thinking of each other. not only cheesy, but it also sucks, cause im sure there were other people looking at the sky at that time, many of them in pairs, while i am very sure that no one is thinking of me though i am thinking of someone. self pity
background music - 3 Libras by A Perfect Circle
though the moon was full, it was a good sight of the stars, clear skies. i tried to remember the constellations that i remember, small dipper, orion..the rest i forgot. it must have been the planer venus that shined the brightest. then suddenly, i felt, remembered, that though the stars have served as guides for voyagers, the constellations reminded me that my own is down the drain. there i was looking at the lights, soem dead, some living, some perhaps newly born. i saw the light of the stars and remmebered that they are mere fragments of the past, their light that is.
and where was i? i felt insignicant. i wanted to go inside and write, find shelter between the pages that i always tuck with me. but something kept me rooted. and gazing. remembering.
3 Libras
Mer de Noms
threw you the obvious and you flew
with it on your back, a name in your recollection,
thrown down among a million same.
difficult not to feel a little bit disappointed
and passed over
when i've looked right through
to see you naked and oblivious
and you don't see me.
but i threw you the obvious
just to see if there's more behind the eyes
of a fallen angel,
the eyes of a tragedy.
here i am expecting just a little bit
too much from the wounded.
but i see through it all
and see you.
so i threw you the obvious
to see what occurs behind the eyes of a fallen angel,
eyes of a tragedy.
oh well. apparently nothing.
you don't see me.
you don't see me at all.
(watch the video..you wont regret it!)
after sometime, i found myself feeling empty. i dont know if the stars and moon have taken it away from me, or if i somehow offered it to them, and they accepted it. empty, yes, but i had a smile on my face. and the reason? i dont really know why...
i guess it had something to do with venus, flaring for mortal eyes such as mine...
background music - 3 Libras by A Perfect Circle
though the moon was full, it was a good sight of the stars, clear skies. i tried to remember the constellations that i remember, small dipper, orion..the rest i forgot. it must have been the planer venus that shined the brightest. then suddenly, i felt, remembered, that though the stars have served as guides for voyagers, the constellations reminded me that my own is down the drain. there i was looking at the lights, soem dead, some living, some perhaps newly born. i saw the light of the stars and remmebered that they are mere fragments of the past, their light that is.
and where was i? i felt insignicant. i wanted to go inside and write, find shelter between the pages that i always tuck with me. but something kept me rooted. and gazing. remembering.
3 Libras
Mer de Noms
threw you the obvious and you flew
with it on your back, a name in your recollection,
thrown down among a million same.
difficult not to feel a little bit disappointed
and passed over
when i've looked right through
to see you naked and oblivious
and you don't see me.
but i threw you the obvious
just to see if there's more behind the eyes
of a fallen angel,
the eyes of a tragedy.
here i am expecting just a little bit
too much from the wounded.
but i see through it all
and see you.
so i threw you the obvious
to see what occurs behind the eyes of a fallen angel,
eyes of a tragedy.
oh well. apparently nothing.
you don't see me.
you don't see me at all.
(watch the video..you wont regret it!)
after sometime, i found myself feeling empty. i dont know if the stars and moon have taken it away from me, or if i somehow offered it to them, and they accepted it. empty, yes, but i had a smile on my face. and the reason? i dont really know why...
i guess it had something to do with venus, flaring for mortal eyes such as mine...
Saturday, September 25, 2004
a confession
for quite some years now, there have been friends who have, in one way or the other, told me that i have an addiction. admittedly, i had a previous addiction, you know, the killing kind to the mind and body, but this is a different addiction. and whenever they point it out, i would strongly disagree, saying that whatever i am doing is a part of my craft, a payment that i have to hand over as i hone my art. but for the past 3 months now, i have began to realize that my friends were quite perceptive. or perhaps it was I trying to be blind to the obvious. and the addiction?
i am addicted to women. ha! and quite sad actually, but redeeming at the same time to accept one of the truths about my life.
since i was a kid, i was the observant kind. i had my normal childhood, playing with the other kids, whether real games or imaginary ones, but if there is a camera somewhere, a camera of god perhaps, reviewing it would see me sitting down and just thinking away. i was not a loner, but as a child i learned to savor my solitude, and a good thing that i learned that because that acceptance of being alone has helped me a lot these past few years.
and i spent quite some time of those years observing women.
perhaps i am a voyeur of sorts. old women, young women, mothers, maidens, the highs and lows, the beautiful and the ugly, the silent and the meek, the abused and the domineering, and everything else possible i have observed about women. and i should say that my poetry is full of them. perhaps the adjective is "reek", that my poetry reeks of women i know, i tasted, i met, i left, i lusted over, women i have hurt, intentionally and otherwise.
and what an addiction.
i do believe in god. why? because only god could have drawn the schematics, the portraits of whom women are nowadays. nah, im not trying to get some brownie points at you by saying that i do adore women, but it is the truth.
without women, where would i be? what would i be? of course, i should make it clear that women have not been responsible for any of my evil deeds. but i would say that they have been, in one way or the other, a source for some of the purest things about me, my poetry for one.
it is my wish that before i would leave this plane, i would be able to give back what women has given to me. if not, then die attempting.
to the women of the world, i offer you my words, my heart, and my voice.
and my love, whatever remains of it.
i am addicted to women. ha! and quite sad actually, but redeeming at the same time to accept one of the truths about my life.
since i was a kid, i was the observant kind. i had my normal childhood, playing with the other kids, whether real games or imaginary ones, but if there is a camera somewhere, a camera of god perhaps, reviewing it would see me sitting down and just thinking away. i was not a loner, but as a child i learned to savor my solitude, and a good thing that i learned that because that acceptance of being alone has helped me a lot these past few years.
and i spent quite some time of those years observing women.
perhaps i am a voyeur of sorts. old women, young women, mothers, maidens, the highs and lows, the beautiful and the ugly, the silent and the meek, the abused and the domineering, and everything else possible i have observed about women. and i should say that my poetry is full of them. perhaps the adjective is "reek", that my poetry reeks of women i know, i tasted, i met, i left, i lusted over, women i have hurt, intentionally and otherwise.
and what an addiction.
i do believe in god. why? because only god could have drawn the schematics, the portraits of whom women are nowadays. nah, im not trying to get some brownie points at you by saying that i do adore women, but it is the truth.
without women, where would i be? what would i be? of course, i should make it clear that women have not been responsible for any of my evil deeds. but i would say that they have been, in one way or the other, a source for some of the purest things about me, my poetry for one.
it is my wish that before i would leave this plane, i would be able to give back what women has given to me. if not, then die attempting.
to the women of the world, i offer you my words, my heart, and my voice.
and my love, whatever remains of it.
An Epilogue for Crossed Out Hearts
i may never recognize your smile even as my hands retrace the contours of your face, nor name the secret name in your eyes even if i am to meet, and hold and drown in your glances, not because i am blind, or my limbs and flesh are numb, but because your smiles and your glances are no longer meant for me.
there will never be a poetry from me faithful enough to reconcile the burrows i dug in the earth of your face when i made you frown, nor a poetry potent enough to heal the breach i broke in the dam of your eyes when i made you cry. there is no poetry for the dead and fallen leaves of yesterday whom we gathered, and burned by the fires of our distance, our regret, our shame, and our forgetfulness.
but there is poetry for the blossoms of yesterday. faint, almost absent, transparent, and yet they lace every breath that i take, they tint every shape i know. they flare like stars in the empty skies of my dreams.
and so i write to you now. this may not be poetry, but this is for your gifts, your ancient gifts that are pieces of my soul, of my pride and shame.
yours were the first lips who sought mine and taught me a language i could speak for the moments when words that sound could not duplicate. yours was the shadow who stood at my side and thus i discovered that i had my own. there you were in your island home of Basilan, a destination full of love, worthy of navigating the violent waves of the stormy sea so that i may touch you. you will forever be the fruit, ripe, sweet, nourished by earth, wind, water and fire whom this boy once plucked on a summer day nearly a decade ago, and i became a man.
you are the lesson i know and yet dare not learn when you took your first steps away from me into a city half a world away in the clutches of a winter whose fingers would ultimately touch me, far as i may be from you in my kingdom of sun and rain.
you craved the trinkets of the world much more than the tattered clothes of my soul, i know that now, but thank you for loving the seeds of sleeping promises inside of me whom you planted into your womb, whose name i wish would always be Jian, the Beautiful, as a testament that before the breaking of things, before sunset claims those whom the sun caressed, there is Beauty. there is Beauty! however brief and painful it may be...
i love you with such passion and intensity that no stars could outshine, no poetry of mortals or gods and goddesses could ever define, and i would have bestowed them upon you if only, if only it did not mean my own long and suffering death. and that is why i kept it far away from you, even until now.
i am dead now, in your eyes, in your glances and in your smiles. i dare not explain how i have bound my life inseparable to my art, of how the boy who became the man died, not by your arms, or from the wine of your regret and shame and abandonment. i died on the hands of my own, dying with every drop of ink, every page after page of paper i stain as i attempt to chart the map and portrait of where i long to be and whom i would like to be.
once loved.
twice betrayed.
never to be forgiven, and forgotten. a poet.
there will never be a poetry from me faithful enough to reconcile the burrows i dug in the earth of your face when i made you frown, nor a poetry potent enough to heal the breach i broke in the dam of your eyes when i made you cry. there is no poetry for the dead and fallen leaves of yesterday whom we gathered, and burned by the fires of our distance, our regret, our shame, and our forgetfulness.
but there is poetry for the blossoms of yesterday. faint, almost absent, transparent, and yet they lace every breath that i take, they tint every shape i know. they flare like stars in the empty skies of my dreams.
and so i write to you now. this may not be poetry, but this is for your gifts, your ancient gifts that are pieces of my soul, of my pride and shame.
yours were the first lips who sought mine and taught me a language i could speak for the moments when words that sound could not duplicate. yours was the shadow who stood at my side and thus i discovered that i had my own. there you were in your island home of Basilan, a destination full of love, worthy of navigating the violent waves of the stormy sea so that i may touch you. you will forever be the fruit, ripe, sweet, nourished by earth, wind, water and fire whom this boy once plucked on a summer day nearly a decade ago, and i became a man.
you are the lesson i know and yet dare not learn when you took your first steps away from me into a city half a world away in the clutches of a winter whose fingers would ultimately touch me, far as i may be from you in my kingdom of sun and rain.
you craved the trinkets of the world much more than the tattered clothes of my soul, i know that now, but thank you for loving the seeds of sleeping promises inside of me whom you planted into your womb, whose name i wish would always be Jian, the Beautiful, as a testament that before the breaking of things, before sunset claims those whom the sun caressed, there is Beauty. there is Beauty! however brief and painful it may be...
i love you with such passion and intensity that no stars could outshine, no poetry of mortals or gods and goddesses could ever define, and i would have bestowed them upon you if only, if only it did not mean my own long and suffering death. and that is why i kept it far away from you, even until now.
i am dead now, in your eyes, in your glances and in your smiles. i dare not explain how i have bound my life inseparable to my art, of how the boy who became the man died, not by your arms, or from the wine of your regret and shame and abandonment. i died on the hands of my own, dying with every drop of ink, every page after page of paper i stain as i attempt to chart the map and portrait of where i long to be and whom i would like to be.
once loved.
twice betrayed.
never to be forgiven, and forgotten. a poet.
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
the bane about reputations...
i woke up this morning and for some yet unknown reasons, i remembered a conversation i had with a female friend, a close one, one of my many "sisters" that i have collected over the years. it went something like this...
* * * * * *
she: so bro, when was your last time?
me: (gazing up from my book) my last what?
she: you know, your usual sexcapades.
me: well... (thinking) about...
she: about?
me: (beaming with pride) its gonna be three months.
she: (curls up her middle finger and gives me the infamous sigil then..) fuck you! yeah right, 3 months my ass!
* * * * * *
i was gonna argue then, but i just laughed. whats the point of arguing when they won't believe me, no matter how true it was that it would have been 3 months since my last sacking in the sheets? i could not blame her that time, and i have not blamed her eversince, but it got me to thinking how reputations can somehow stick to us, like when your eating peanut butter, the way it sticks to the top of your mouth.
and another time, a friend asked me about my lovelife, soemthing like this...
* * * * * *
him: so damon, who's your girlfriend right now?
me: i dont have a girlfriend these days.
him: who are you courting right now?
me: im not courting anyone.
him: hmmm..so who is your crush these days?
me: i dont have one.
him. ( a long pause) is that really you?
me: why?!
him: just wondering if you are sick or something...
* * * * * *
admittedly, i had my share of fun between bedsheets. i even went for sometime thinking that a fuck is a fuck, and its better if the fuck was good for both parties. but those days are gone now. i cant really say what made me change my ways. though i do remember the time i did it in the car of one of my "friends with benefits" in front of the chapel of tetuan, in the parking lot while her parents and brother was attending mass.
seems like my reputation has grown larger than i have hoped to be. yes, its nice to know that some people admire me for some things i do better than most, no matter how "immoral" the deed may be, but its another thing when it gets thrown out of proportions, the way the truth becomes distorted after how many tellings.
i was and never ever was a hacker. admittedly, i was only a fast learner, thanks to my teachers.
i am not a sex machine. i am only mortal, and i have had days and nights when getting my other head to rise the occasion becomes a task even hercules and that guy who rolled those boulders would understand and pity me. and if you know soem of those who had the pleasure, and the displeasure of knowing me carnally, they can attest to the truth that i failed a couple of times, just like any mortal would.
but then, reputation stays longer than the deed. a legend of sorts. of the wrong kind.
honestly, the last time i went out and spent time with one of my "friends with benefits" was about a month ago. it was pathetic. only got as far as foreplay and that was it. no digging and plumbing with my tool. it was not because of not being able to get it working, but i guess after so many "a fuck is a fuck" thinking, things have changed. i am getting old, and the play has lost its allure.
i guess it finally dawned on me the inevitable truth, that its a different thing when you do it with someone you love. and if there is a god, then god knows i love her so much that no matter how many cherries i pop, she will always be there, taunting me, haunting me.
but that is another story.
* * * * * *
she: so bro, when was your last time?
me: (gazing up from my book) my last what?
she: you know, your usual sexcapades.
me: well... (thinking) about...
she: about?
me: (beaming with pride) its gonna be three months.
she: (curls up her middle finger and gives me the infamous sigil then..) fuck you! yeah right, 3 months my ass!
* * * * * *
i was gonna argue then, but i just laughed. whats the point of arguing when they won't believe me, no matter how true it was that it would have been 3 months since my last sacking in the sheets? i could not blame her that time, and i have not blamed her eversince, but it got me to thinking how reputations can somehow stick to us, like when your eating peanut butter, the way it sticks to the top of your mouth.
and another time, a friend asked me about my lovelife, soemthing like this...
* * * * * *
him: so damon, who's your girlfriend right now?
me: i dont have a girlfriend these days.
him: who are you courting right now?
me: im not courting anyone.
him: hmmm..so who is your crush these days?
me: i dont have one.
him. ( a long pause) is that really you?
me: why?!
him: just wondering if you are sick or something...
* * * * * *
admittedly, i had my share of fun between bedsheets. i even went for sometime thinking that a fuck is a fuck, and its better if the fuck was good for both parties. but those days are gone now. i cant really say what made me change my ways. though i do remember the time i did it in the car of one of my "friends with benefits" in front of the chapel of tetuan, in the parking lot while her parents and brother was attending mass.
seems like my reputation has grown larger than i have hoped to be. yes, its nice to know that some people admire me for some things i do better than most, no matter how "immoral" the deed may be, but its another thing when it gets thrown out of proportions, the way the truth becomes distorted after how many tellings.
i was and never ever was a hacker. admittedly, i was only a fast learner, thanks to my teachers.
i am not a sex machine. i am only mortal, and i have had days and nights when getting my other head to rise the occasion becomes a task even hercules and that guy who rolled those boulders would understand and pity me. and if you know soem of those who had the pleasure, and the displeasure of knowing me carnally, they can attest to the truth that i failed a couple of times, just like any mortal would.
but then, reputation stays longer than the deed. a legend of sorts. of the wrong kind.
honestly, the last time i went out and spent time with one of my "friends with benefits" was about a month ago. it was pathetic. only got as far as foreplay and that was it. no digging and plumbing with my tool. it was not because of not being able to get it working, but i guess after so many "a fuck is a fuck" thinking, things have changed. i am getting old, and the play has lost its allure.
i guess it finally dawned on me the inevitable truth, that its a different thing when you do it with someone you love. and if there is a god, then god knows i love her so much that no matter how many cherries i pop, she will always be there, taunting me, haunting me.
but that is another story.
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
should i apply what i have learned, or should i forget?
memory memory memory.
memories from the past have been having their time with me lately. it started with a dream that was something like this....
"my friend was hesitant to tell me something. yet after the silence that was there, he tried his best to look into my eyes and told me that he did not want to be the bearer of bad tiding but he had to tell me that..."
and i woke up. i never knew what the bad news was about, and then for some reason i got to thinking about this particular woman in my life. hmmm... you could say that she is a thorny part of my life. i got confused, and is started asking myself if i have been repressing feelings from seasons so alive of long ago who are now dead. perhaps. perhaps not. and after that, memories came rushing by, uninvited. unwanted.
still, the question is, should i apply what i have learned, or should i go for a tabula rasa ?
and what are the lessons i have learned? well, lets say i know by heart the basic tenets of sun tzu's the art of war. as well as some lessons from the man himself, machiavelli.
of course, i read a lot of gaiman, and i learned a lot from dream's imprisonment and changing and ultimately, his dying.
i know you don's have the answer to my question. i know that only i could possibly answer them and make them true. i guess it won't hurt to blurt it out.
im outta here.
memories from the past have been having their time with me lately. it started with a dream that was something like this....
"my friend was hesitant to tell me something. yet after the silence that was there, he tried his best to look into my eyes and told me that he did not want to be the bearer of bad tiding but he had to tell me that..."
and i woke up. i never knew what the bad news was about, and then for some reason i got to thinking about this particular woman in my life. hmmm... you could say that she is a thorny part of my life. i got confused, and is started asking myself if i have been repressing feelings from seasons so alive of long ago who are now dead. perhaps. perhaps not. and after that, memories came rushing by, uninvited. unwanted.
still, the question is, should i apply what i have learned, or should i go for a tabula rasa ?
and what are the lessons i have learned? well, lets say i know by heart the basic tenets of sun tzu's the art of war. as well as some lessons from the man himself, machiavelli.
of course, i read a lot of gaiman, and i learned a lot from dream's imprisonment and changing and ultimately, his dying.
i know you don's have the answer to my question. i know that only i could possibly answer them and make them true. i guess it won't hurt to blurt it out.
im outta here.
Monday, September 20, 2004
the persistence of memory
when i was a kid, i was really afraid of losing my memories. as a child i tried to satisfy the cravings of my senses in recording the sights and colors and sounds and smells of the world. then, i thought it was just something about being a kid, a ravenous hunger for stimuli. now, i think that was when i started to be the starving, struggling artiste-poet that i am. back to the memory, i was afraid i would one day lose them. i set my eyes to remember the details, details that i would run like a movie inside my head when i close my eyes in the darkness.
if only i had known that some memories are better left forgotten.
you could say i had a very good childhood, i was a happy kid, i was loved, and i guess that is a reason why i did not want my memories to fade away like photographs being eaten by the hungry patient mouths of time.
but i grew up. and as they say, the rest of it, is history. or so it seems.
memory is such a good backstabber. you sit on your favorite spot, sipping coffee with the cigarettes and then someone would pass, and a whiff of a woman's perfume ignites memories, unlocking them, and they hit you fast and present, with each breath. you cannot help but stand against the waves of memories, of emotions raging and overflowing. hate love lust anger envy rejection, each has their own way of being drawn together, to produce something greater, much more painful.
i have friends who always comment that they envy me. they envy that i could spun my crafts i dare call poetry as easily as i breathe. or so it seems to them. i always tell them that i would be willing to trade my poetry if they could give me back one thing.
innocence.
if only i had known that some memories are better left forgotten.
you could say i had a very good childhood, i was a happy kid, i was loved, and i guess that is a reason why i did not want my memories to fade away like photographs being eaten by the hungry patient mouths of time.
but i grew up. and as they say, the rest of it, is history. or so it seems.
memory is such a good backstabber. you sit on your favorite spot, sipping coffee with the cigarettes and then someone would pass, and a whiff of a woman's perfume ignites memories, unlocking them, and they hit you fast and present, with each breath. you cannot help but stand against the waves of memories, of emotions raging and overflowing. hate love lust anger envy rejection, each has their own way of being drawn together, to produce something greater, much more painful.
i have friends who always comment that they envy me. they envy that i could spun my crafts i dare call poetry as easily as i breathe. or so it seems to them. i always tell them that i would be willing to trade my poetry if they could give me back one thing.
innocence.
Sunday, September 19, 2004
on being fucked by a poet (PG-13 Rating)
Warning : As the title suggest, this is going to be one of those topics your mom always warned you never to talk about or listen. it is not my intention to make u feel what you would feel after reading this particular entry, not my fault, but yours, because you chose to read it. agree?! =)
On Being Fucked By A Poet
i could say that being fucked by a male poet is something most women haven't experienced yet. the truth could be said about males being fucked by female poets, but then i know my kind, we dont care of the "fucker" (that is the one who fucks) is a poet or not, and even if she was, it does not really matter, cause a fuck is still a fuck, more more so if it is a good fuck. but going back, i would say that a poet fucker would make the whole experience more than the ordinary for the "fuckee" (the one who is getting fucked, duh!) i will try to give plausible and believable reasons for this outrageous if not seemingly-wrong statement.
of course, we have to agree that the fucker we are talking about is one of those rare and true poets. not those who write thinking that every word they write is good enough, or those who think that being tagged as a writer/poet is "cool", or those who prefer to have artistic lifestyles. i should stress that there's nothign cool about being an artiste, and its not about lifestyle: its a way of life.
since he is a real artiste, then let me assure you that he does not see the act as the simple mating and bonding of female and male flesh. he does not see your breast as mere breast. it reminds him of mountains, mountains that one gets to the peak not on a blink on an eye but each step up should be savored, endured. he sees your face as if he sees something new, something beautiful being born right before his eyes, a creation of sorts, which is actually where poets get satisfaction. he parts your legs not just top reveal your hidden treasure but with a tenderness and knowing that it is not just about a part of you that makes you worth discovering, but it is all those parts joined together, sky, earth, and wind, fire and ice and salt, waves, starlight, and so many more.
and he does not just pump into you to be merely inside you.
he goes inside you because he knows you would like to fill up a void, and he wants to be hugged, embraced in this world.
i am not a poet, yet, and perhaps i never will, so i guess i should stop writing about this.
i have to go and try to enhance my "skills" for now.... fingering skills.. on how to hold the pen when i write my cheesy mushy lovey dovey wastes i call poetry that my father P. Neruda would shun me if he ever gets to read them.
perhaps he already is.
hey, im getting late.
On Being Fucked By A Poet
i could say that being fucked by a male poet is something most women haven't experienced yet. the truth could be said about males being fucked by female poets, but then i know my kind, we dont care of the "fucker" (that is the one who fucks) is a poet or not, and even if she was, it does not really matter, cause a fuck is still a fuck, more more so if it is a good fuck. but going back, i would say that a poet fucker would make the whole experience more than the ordinary for the "fuckee" (the one who is getting fucked, duh!) i will try to give plausible and believable reasons for this outrageous if not seemingly-wrong statement.
of course, we have to agree that the fucker we are talking about is one of those rare and true poets. not those who write thinking that every word they write is good enough, or those who think that being tagged as a writer/poet is "cool", or those who prefer to have artistic lifestyles. i should stress that there's nothign cool about being an artiste, and its not about lifestyle: its a way of life.
since he is a real artiste, then let me assure you that he does not see the act as the simple mating and bonding of female and male flesh. he does not see your breast as mere breast. it reminds him of mountains, mountains that one gets to the peak not on a blink on an eye but each step up should be savored, endured. he sees your face as if he sees something new, something beautiful being born right before his eyes, a creation of sorts, which is actually where poets get satisfaction. he parts your legs not just top reveal your hidden treasure but with a tenderness and knowing that it is not just about a part of you that makes you worth discovering, but it is all those parts joined together, sky, earth, and wind, fire and ice and salt, waves, starlight, and so many more.
and he does not just pump into you to be merely inside you.
he goes inside you because he knows you would like to fill up a void, and he wants to be hugged, embraced in this world.
i am not a poet, yet, and perhaps i never will, so i guess i should stop writing about this.
i have to go and try to enhance my "skills" for now.... fingering skills.. on how to hold the pen when i write my cheesy mushy lovey dovey wastes i call poetry that my father P. Neruda would shun me if he ever gets to read them.
perhaps he already is.
hey, im getting late.
Saturday, September 18, 2004
pirating for the ears
if i had lots of money, i would gladly pay for all the music that i have listened to. though i have to say that i did have my share of paying for music, way back when cds where not really that available and music lovers like me had to buy tapes which had a very short lifespan especially if you really dig the sound. but that was before, and a lot of those tapes were stolen. nowadays, i go for mp3s, and theres no better way to get them than through the net.
yeah, napster is gone, the company still exists but not as how they used to. still, the advent of so many peer-to-peer (P2P) softwares around keeps sharing music files possible.
now as i am writing this, i am on the process of burning a cd for some rare to find songs, the ones i grew up with.
thinking about music, i am sad about the new ones, the listeners these days. except for a few old dinosaur bands still around, the rock scene is dead. new bands sound like all others. i guess i was lucky to have been there when the changes happened, from new wave, to glam rock, metal music from sepultura and the likes, the grunge era of the seattle bands and yes, sadly, until its demise.
i guess that says i am quite not so young. ok i will say the word, old.
but one is never too young, or too old, to enjoy music. of course one is never too young or old to pirate music.
yeah, napster is gone, the company still exists but not as how they used to. still, the advent of so many peer-to-peer (P2P) softwares around keeps sharing music files possible.
now as i am writing this, i am on the process of burning a cd for some rare to find songs, the ones i grew up with.
thinking about music, i am sad about the new ones, the listeners these days. except for a few old dinosaur bands still around, the rock scene is dead. new bands sound like all others. i guess i was lucky to have been there when the changes happened, from new wave, to glam rock, metal music from sepultura and the likes, the grunge era of the seattle bands and yes, sadly, until its demise.
i guess that says i am quite not so young. ok i will say the word, old.
but one is never too young, or too old, to enjoy music. of course one is never too young or old to pirate music.
Friday, September 17, 2004
on being a pirate of the electronic oceans and seas...
as im doing this, the pc of a friend is on its way to recovery. krieste's pc decided to take matters into her own hands and performed an electrical form of suicide, the one that gives you a plain looking black screen (black screen is better than the dreaded Blue Screen of Death (BSOD)). after quite a few hours trying to find out which build of WINXp am i pirating this time(microsoft has this attitude of making so many builds, must have something to do with the number of bugs they put into each release), and succeeding, i decided to take a breather, and it got me to thinking about my life.
that is my life as a pirate of the electronic oceans and seas. yeah, i am one of those bad guys.
i have never paid a single cent regarding the softwares i have used throughout the years. started way back windows 95 until the present, and of course, my # one company of all time, ADOBE, makers of adobe photoshop which i started using way back when they released version 4..
but i should say that i never made money out of my pirating hobby. if truth be known, i shared what i had with my friends, free of charge. of course, this is not an excuse. but thats the truth.
anyway, me and my friends made a deal: that one day, about 5 years from now, we are going to pay back adobe by buying a product. yup, buying it legally.
now, if only i am alive that time, and still have money.
i never wanted to pirate, but then for a third world country such as ours, i and my friends dont really have a choice.
and so i am still a pirate.
that is my life as a pirate of the electronic oceans and seas. yeah, i am one of those bad guys.
i have never paid a single cent regarding the softwares i have used throughout the years. started way back windows 95 until the present, and of course, my # one company of all time, ADOBE, makers of adobe photoshop which i started using way back when they released version 4..
but i should say that i never made money out of my pirating hobby. if truth be known, i shared what i had with my friends, free of charge. of course, this is not an excuse. but thats the truth.
anyway, me and my friends made a deal: that one day, about 5 years from now, we are going to pay back adobe by buying a product. yup, buying it legally.
now, if only i am alive that time, and still have money.
i never wanted to pirate, but then for a third world country such as ours, i and my friends dont really have a choice.
and so i am still a pirate.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
videos
funny that i spent the whole time watching videos, ranging from the newest korn video "y'all want a single" which is a kick against the music industry, to slipknot videos old and new, and yeah, some of the videos released by the band a perfect circle. had a nice time enjoying the eyecandy of the video "3 Libras"... funny that no matter how loud they are..hmmm..where was i? ahh, that i am finally sleepy. cant believe that i am writing this entry at this time..without the benefit of sleep.
i am really not sure if this is gonna make any sense.
i believe in God. Yeah, i do. how can i not, when he is the greatest sculptor alive. only God can sculpt women.
i hate her. damn her. why did we have to be so good with betrayals?
i miss her. someone else. i dont wanna be cynical, but i guess i should try it a bit. it cant be that bad.
im a bit sleepy. gotta publish this stuff.
i love her. she doesn't care.
i am really not sure if this is gonna make any sense.
i believe in God. Yeah, i do. how can i not, when he is the greatest sculptor alive. only God can sculpt women.
i hate her. damn her. why did we have to be so good with betrayals?
i miss her. someone else. i dont wanna be cynical, but i guess i should try it a bit. it cant be that bad.
im a bit sleepy. gotta publish this stuff.
i love her. she doesn't care.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
burn burn burn
Something Like A Bridge
by d. steine
We parcel our selves
And trade with each other,
Through glances, gestures and words
A handful of fears
And a sky filled with our desires.
We trade quotations of our lives
Fruits and goods of experience harvested
After being toiled in the garden
Where the sun lives and dies
All over and over again.
We even trade our silence,
We breathe deep
While memory seeks to unearth
The pieces we lost or misplaced,
At times finding those pieces
We choose not to trade.
I spread our traded pieces,
Yours alongside mine
And discover they share
Bursts of red passions,
Hues of blues,
Warm white and cold black
On their skin and flesh and smell.
There is that space between us,
Silent as the dead,
Distant like the stars of no particular time
And I would like to fill it
With something I crafted on my own,
From the memory of the pieces of what we trade and traded.
Something like a bridge
To span along the ocean of gray space
between us.
by d. steine
We parcel our selves
And trade with each other,
Through glances, gestures and words
A handful of fears
And a sky filled with our desires.
We trade quotations of our lives
Fruits and goods of experience harvested
After being toiled in the garden
Where the sun lives and dies
All over and over again.
We even trade our silence,
We breathe deep
While memory seeks to unearth
The pieces we lost or misplaced,
At times finding those pieces
We choose not to trade.
I spread our traded pieces,
Yours alongside mine
And discover they share
Bursts of red passions,
Hues of blues,
Warm white and cold black
On their skin and flesh and smell.
There is that space between us,
Silent as the dead,
Distant like the stars of no particular time
And I would like to fill it
With something I crafted on my own,
From the memory of the pieces of what we trade and traded.
Something like a bridge
To span along the ocean of gray space
between us.
Monday, September 13, 2004
the equation of my poetry
there is no one rule on how to write poetry. if you would like it simpler, there is no rule actually on how to write or what to write or what not to write.
i am not saying that this makes poetry easier to write. it actually does the opposite: yes, it nakes it even more difficult. its like the lights are out, your eyes are useless, plus your limbs are cut. hmm..something like that.
if you are gonna write, don not write like the past masters. you can't beat them, you can't be like them, and if only they could rise up, i am sure they would beat up the hell out of you for trying to imitate them.
i tried to write like my father did, and im sure he is glad that i realized my mistake.
so, where does that put me now? now rules? no right or wrong way. there is only one catch though; that the written works must be good enough to survive after its creator. ha! the only way to find that out is when the poet is already dead. plus, nobody among the masters wrote to become famous. they just wrote and wrote.
im gonna do the same thing.
write and write and write, until i die. the rest, is up to the world.
i am not saying that this makes poetry easier to write. it actually does the opposite: yes, it nakes it even more difficult. its like the lights are out, your eyes are useless, plus your limbs are cut. hmm..something like that.
if you are gonna write, don not write like the past masters. you can't beat them, you can't be like them, and if only they could rise up, i am sure they would beat up the hell out of you for trying to imitate them.
i tried to write like my father did, and im sure he is glad that i realized my mistake.
so, where does that put me now? now rules? no right or wrong way. there is only one catch though; that the written works must be good enough to survive after its creator. ha! the only way to find that out is when the poet is already dead. plus, nobody among the masters wrote to become famous. they just wrote and wrote.
im gonna do the same thing.
write and write and write, until i die. the rest, is up to the world.
Sunday, September 12, 2004
i would like you to know
it is not my intention to let my silence be the language that we would use with each other beloved. its just that there are just some days, most days actually, that i would like to cover the ocean of distance between us and yet see myself unable to do so. i am a starving struggling poet, you know that, and i am one because of choice.
not hearing my voice, not hearing anything from me in any manner does not mean that i do not whisper your name whenever i wake up and before i sleep. my silence does not mean that you are forgotten, discarded.
but i cannot blame you if you would doubt, and feel otherwise.
i am just here, here where you are not. wish you were here.
not hearing my voice, not hearing anything from me in any manner does not mean that i do not whisper your name whenever i wake up and before i sleep. my silence does not mean that you are forgotten, discarded.
but i cannot blame you if you would doubt, and feel otherwise.
i am just here, here where you are not. wish you were here.
the long painful and sweet truth...
"only with fiery patience will we conquer the splendid city that will shed light, justice and dignity on all men."
- Arthur Rimbaud
- Arthur Rimbaud
Thursday, September 09, 2004
what we should do sometimes...
sorry, but i have to go on with my shadow as my only friend. i could stay with you, but everyone is born alone. i have my own road to walk, and you should walk your own.
we dare not be blind to the illusions of comfort. confusion does not die when our voices dance together. there is no escape for the prisoners held inside the dungeons of our minds.
this is not a push and pull away. this is for what words, no matter how sweet, could never sway. inside loneliness lies the secret key to unlock us, to set us free.
there are things we should never forget. memories that should never be reborn as dried up, rotten fruits of regrets. we could share the sunset. we could trace the path of dying falling stars. but i must go on and you must go alone. together, apart as we are, let us discover for ourselves the many different things we still dont know.
we dare not be blind to the illusions of comfort. confusion does not die when our voices dance together. there is no escape for the prisoners held inside the dungeons of our minds.
this is not a push and pull away. this is for what words, no matter how sweet, could never sway. inside loneliness lies the secret key to unlock us, to set us free.
there are things we should never forget. memories that should never be reborn as dried up, rotten fruits of regrets. we could share the sunset. we could trace the path of dying falling stars. but i must go on and you must go alone. together, apart as we are, let us discover for ourselves the many different things we still dont know.
Sunday, September 05, 2004
just another lazy sunday...
most people spend their sundays cooped up inside their rooms. or getting the most out of the cushions of their private beds. or couples humping like electronic bunnies. or fingering...fingering the buttons of the remote control in search of some mindless(?) way of fishing for electronic information ( damn, im too much a fan of w. gibson). admittedly, the town is crowded with the sunday patrons, some going to mass, worshipping, while some do other kinds of worshipping, usually between legs and tongues. some spend it sitting until their butts ache, muscles immobile, reading a book while sipping cold coffee with marlboros after marlboros in hand. like me.
but i did that earlier, and like always, i find myself in town.
penniless, just enough to go home and some spare change for some cancer sticks. and yet i never tire of going to town, of seeing it everyday, as if i was an insistent stubborn rejected lover always coming back for something that could never be mine.
i guess i am just trying to sick in all about zamboanga. crazy as it may be, considering that i have been almost here since i was born. but then, there are places in this city that i haven't had the pleasure of visiting, though i should say that most of these places are usually those that are not pleasurable to go to in the first place.
i guess im just a crazy starving poet, trying to savor every scent before leaving. leaving?! i guess i am...
but i did that earlier, and like always, i find myself in town.
penniless, just enough to go home and some spare change for some cancer sticks. and yet i never tire of going to town, of seeing it everyday, as if i was an insistent stubborn rejected lover always coming back for something that could never be mine.
i guess i am just trying to sick in all about zamboanga. crazy as it may be, considering that i have been almost here since i was born. but then, there are places in this city that i haven't had the pleasure of visiting, though i should say that most of these places are usually those that are not pleasurable to go to in the first place.
i guess im just a crazy starving poet, trying to savor every scent before leaving. leaving?! i guess i am...
Saturday, September 04, 2004
bad weather...
Clenched Fists
by d. steine
Mother Heaven,
What sadness has the winds
Carried to your clouds?
They are full, dark and mournful,
Their cold tears fall from their many eyes
That mortals such as I remain
Beneath covers
Attempting to contain
The remaining warmth
Your crying children are stealing
From my clenched fists
Who remember and hungers
For the colors and textures
Who were once citizens, friends and lovers
Of my now sepia tinted memories.
by d. steine
Mother Heaven,
What sadness has the winds
Carried to your clouds?
They are full, dark and mournful,
Their cold tears fall from their many eyes
That mortals such as I remain
Beneath covers
Attempting to contain
The remaining warmth
Your crying children are stealing
From my clenched fists
Who remember and hungers
For the colors and textures
Who were once citizens, friends and lovers
Of my now sepia tinted memories.
is it really?
And To Love
by d. steine
Only silence is enough
To speak of the beauty
Of Love’s birth,
Of how its infant cries
Defy time space and chance
That angels and beasts,
Bees, leaves and trees
Strain through the screams
To listen to its every whimper that,
When joined together,
Spawns a sonata the world
Will hear unlike any other.
Even gods would pause, and breathe
And as if the sole bonfire
At the height of winter’s fury,
Many are drawn together,
Many would gaze at the stars
Amidst its ocean of silence
And the same many would find
Their chilled blood infused
With more than just warmth.
Only silence is enough
Only in silence while comets chart their maps
Only in silence when paintbrushes
Are held still in space,
Only in silence where the poet would gaze,
Close his eyes, breathe,
And write once again.
by d. steine
Only silence is enough
To speak of the beauty
Of Love’s birth,
Of how its infant cries
Defy time space and chance
That angels and beasts,
Bees, leaves and trees
Strain through the screams
To listen to its every whimper that,
When joined together,
Spawns a sonata the world
Will hear unlike any other.
Even gods would pause, and breathe
And as if the sole bonfire
At the height of winter’s fury,
Many are drawn together,
Many would gaze at the stars
Amidst its ocean of silence
And the same many would find
Their chilled blood infused
With more than just warmth.
Only silence is enough
Only in silence while comets chart their maps
Only in silence when paintbrushes
Are held still in space,
Only in silence where the poet would gaze,
Close his eyes, breathe,
And write once again.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
remembering...
Sunday On La Vista Beach
by d. steine
I went back to where your eyes
Once joined with mine
While the sun gave us
Her final bursts before
Falling to the sea.
Here, were we consoled ourselves
That unlike the shoreline and sea,
We could hold each other longer,
Where our souls, through our fingers and lips,
Could clamp tighter and drink deeper.
I sat and let the wind,
Laden with salt from the waters caress me
While I let the voices of the waves
Coo to me a lullaby as ancient
As the first ears that ever listened
There were dark clouds
Being born at the horizon,
And behind them I did not see
The sun plunging to its absence
Until I saw the first smiles of the stars,
Distant and silent
As we are now.
And so I left,
And the chair were we once
Kept each other was laced
With the dust of yesterday.
by d. steine
I went back to where your eyes
Once joined with mine
While the sun gave us
Her final bursts before
Falling to the sea.
Here, were we consoled ourselves
That unlike the shoreline and sea,
We could hold each other longer,
Where our souls, through our fingers and lips,
Could clamp tighter and drink deeper.
I sat and let the wind,
Laden with salt from the waters caress me
While I let the voices of the waves
Coo to me a lullaby as ancient
As the first ears that ever listened
There were dark clouds
Being born at the horizon,
And behind them I did not see
The sun plunging to its absence
Until I saw the first smiles of the stars,
Distant and silent
As we are now.
And so I left,
And the chair were we once
Kept each other was laced
With the dust of yesterday.
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