Tag Archive: image


All but love curls up into a ball
And bounces around you.
Red and light like a slightly heavy balloon
That bursts with deliberateness.

My fingers are restless:
Today, I drew a sad boy
In shades of black and dots of white-
For contrast.

All in the name of being your missus.
Missus my surname hyphen your surname.
Hyphens become demeaning,
Like a prolonged negative sign.

It is the eve of Christmas
And a turkey is roasting
In my imaginary womb,
Stuffing stuffing the turkey stuffing me.

And you, the proud father,
Wait across my virtual vagina
With anticipation
And of course, a carving knife.

I wheeze-wheeze-wheeeeze
As you cheer me on
Simultaneously salivating
And feeling light in the head.

One great push
And my foot skims hell.
I am ripped apart
And bring forth your feast.

The turkey is burnt
With dots of white- for contrast.
Today, you eat a sad boy.
His fingers are bitter.

The red ball bounces around you
And explodes with deliberateness.
Like a slightly heavy balloon,
Love curls up into a ball.


Revolution at the Square


Posing for inspiration
I make out your form
Across the vast square
Where figures of revolt
Stand frozen with
Passion in their expression.

I curse my vision
For its incapacity
To make out
Your face. I rely on
Imagination to paint a smile
Directed towards me.

Judging from the way
Your arms hold on to the pack
Resting on your lap,
I surmise that I fit you
Or that you fit me
(Or both) perfectly.

The statues’ frozen

I wish you were likewise.
Frozen in the space
Interchangeable, this square
My house
My couch
My bed
My heart.

Instead you stir-
Prepare to leave.
And while I journal
Our imagined encounter,
You vanish.

How beautiful
We could have been,
Adorning a vast square
Like this.
Passion in the expression.

In revolution.


inspired by bjork


The blanket of Night.

I am caught in self-embrace.

Wonder where you are?




I was blog-hopping to increase some traffic into my wordpress blog.

Yes, WordPress has a feature that ticks off my competitive/obsessive nature… BlogStats. It’s a horrendous affirmation of my need for attention. Yuck, I am such a three-year old.

credits to Angel: http://curiousanimals.net/

So I did something that really helped out. I joined a blog community. And I started posting links on my Facebook Wall.

Sad to say, the weekly assignments were suspended (after the week I joined) so my blog has been in the dark for a bit.

So I was hopping. Nyl, who’s a trainer from work has a blog in Blogger. And Nikki’s been telling me that I should check it out. So I did. He’s done so well already. Nyl’s a good writer. He writes nice fictional stories.

As you can see so far, my prosaic skills leave much to be desired. I’m not a very good storyteller. I like to write poetry though because it comes more naturally to me, and because I like rules and going around them.

So I checked out Nyl’s followers and I was clicking on the links to the other guys’ blogs and I sort of got disheartened.

I mean, I enjoyed their blogs. They made me feel queasy and voluptuous (see, that I got from Anne Rice). But they were mostly about hot sex!!!

My mother reads my blog from time to time. And I don’t think she will appreciate prosaic accounts of my “gallivanting” floating around the internet. I have posted some of those before, but they always turned out to be jarring. (I use poetry to talk about sex, so I can always tell her, that it’s just “poetry.”)

And I feel that if I posted articles like that, it wouldn’t have the same effect other people’s accounts would.

I’m terribly insecure about myself.

I feel that when people read my sex stories it would be like they’re watching an accident happen, or a fire in progress. It’s interesting, but so… pitiful/sad/painful.

You know when a guy gets run over by a truck in the highway and cars slow down because they’re oddly attracted to the gore? That’s how they’d probably feel.

Of late, I have had not a lot of sex adventures. (Somewhere in California, my mother is thanking the Lord)

See, I’m not necessarily a looker.

I mean, people only get attracted to me after I get their attention. I’m not the kind of person that steps into the room and has a “presence”. I feel a little sad about that. But I feel stupid for not doing anything about it. And of course, the moment I open my mouth, all thoughts of sex vanish from everyone else’s mind (Oh my God, a successful IRONY).

Sometimes, I wish my life were more relatable. I wish I was more… into the gay scene. I wish I never lost touch with the people I used to hang out with in Malate. Oh, I would have flourished in the drama of it all.

But then I realize, there is a reason I left all that. There is a reason I built a wall around me to anesthesize myself, to create my own experiences, no matter how unsuccessful they were.

I couldn’t stand being a brick.

I couldn’t stand only writing about sexcapades, and drunken nights, and popularity contests. They’re all very entertaining, I agree. But I was constantly looking for something else.

I’m happy though that in my wandering, I found that there are people out there like me.

The key, I found, to make the world better, is not to stop at the first sight you see and make a judgement about everything.

So I’m still hop(p)ing.

Die Hard


I awake to the sweetness of your deserting
Scalp raw where you tore off clumps of my hair
A stinging manifestation of how I cannot get you off my head.
On my sheets, the bloodstains have dried a rich chocolate color
Summoning the rest of my sap to flow forth.
My lips have the familiar taste of rust where you bit them.
I lick them and it is your tongue that I am reminded of.

You adorned my skin with bruises,
Just now turning royal purple against the black and
blue and yellow of days before.
I trace their patterns, pressing here and there as
I do with embroidered silk.

The aching becomes your fingers caressing me once more.
Like a love song, your curses ricochet in my ear.
Each syllable of profanity sending pulses of heat through
my body to the beat of a tango.

I am the clay whereupon you leave your imprint.
I am the vessel that turns your sweat, your saliva, your
urine into wine.
I am the well from which you draw sanguine nectar.
I am the bough you break to partake of the forbidden fruit.

My flesh is your ambrosia.
My tears are your precious gems.
My pain is your delectation.
My cessation is your genesis.

Should you feel the urgency to heed the carnal calling,
Pick the flesh I left underneath your fingernails.
Or return to this fetid bed

Where I will lie half-conscious and dilapidated,
Where I will corrode slowly in the mixture of our semen,
Where you will love me nonetheless

As I will you.



Summon gravity to the interstices
Of my unraveling.
Mass does produce only as minute
A cohesive force as the silky strands
Of my sanity.
My words
Like my feelings
Intermingle and confuse and pollute
Fray at the ends.

Paint myself on paper
To bind my mind
As a rope
It goes around my neck
A guillotine

Losing air.

As air is emptiness
Emptiness escapes me
Neither filled

A vacuum.



Yellow Flower


The day hangs
Over my head
Hangs over my body
Dangles from a rope
Upon the tree
You planted and tended
Intended for me
They flash before my eyes,
Before, when you and I
Sat under the shade
Of forgotten yellow flowers
Slowly wilting away
Home towards the ground
Is covered by a yellow winter
That withers to spring
Forth the succullent fruits
You picked the sweetest, how sweet
Of you to give to me
Underneath the tree
Where I dangle
A forgotten yellow flower.

Click here to read more from other One Shot Poets

On Building a Family


Having no legislation for gay marriage in the country, I am faced with a crossroad in my life. I am a 26 year old gay man with a stable career, a home, and the emotional stability required to start and build a family. The problem: how does a gay guy build a family?

If you belong to a progressive culture, this question hardly seems a connundrum at all. It would have a more existential effect, in a way of speaking.

I know that a lot of gay men like me dream of having a traditional family structure, where there are parents and probably children. However, the gay culture in my community seems to have resigned to the fact that gay men are destined to linger in a sort of relationship limbo. It’s not very uncommon to find that the gay couples who have lasted a long time have morphed into open relationships.

It’s a tragedy that some people think that infidelity is an unavoidable consequence of being gay.

I have no delusions that this challenge does not exist in straight relationships. However, there is less of a stigma that comes with infidelity among homosexual relationships. After all, if you view homosexuality as unnatural then infidelity isn’t so far down the slippery slope.

I was talking to a friend of mine the other day and I told her how much I wanted to settle down already. I want to invest in a family. Ever since I understood myself, I realized that I was meant to be a homemaker. In high school, I was Secretary of my school’s chapter of Future Homemakers of the Philippines (FHP). (Yes, I’m also a geek.)

Now how does having legislation solve my problem?

It doesn’t.

But having legislation will allow other gays to be able to visualize that possibility for them. Well, not really, because people don’t make rules for things they can’t even visualize yet.

All I want, as any person does, is to have a home to come to at the end of the day and have someone there that I want to take care of. Someone I chose. Someone who also chose me. I want to be able to give that person all the attention and all the care that I have learned to develop as Secretary of FHP.

That seems to be a long shot. Right now, the best thing that I can take care of is a plant. A plant can outlive you. A plant won’t cheat on you and best of all, a plant won’t leave.

Good thing we had gardening in FHP.



You make for a hit

As you face the lens
Only enough so that they can see
(That you are looking but not at what
Nor) the pupils of your eyes,
Which are always elsewhere aimed
(at the nothing behind lights)
At the justification
That beyond this paper world
There is no more

Truth (is, that all is unreal):
The doors lead to no adjacent rooms
And the pupils of your eyes
Are really hollow.

So you linger,
Until the credits roll
And they look away.

And you pretend not to feel
The feelings you were pretending
When you feel like pretending
A pretend feeling is real.

There drops
A single tear
Born of your imagining.
You feel it sting
It streaks your cheek
And not unlike God

You created something.

On Seeking the Romance in Rape


You still yourself-
Despite the flight that wells with fear-
To feel the cushion on the fingertips
Of the hand that leaves a white impression.
You fill the numbness with blood
In that millisecond
Before the advent of pain.

A reprieve between gasps
The lingering note of plea
Between sobs.

Romance requires a giving in-
An acceptance.

It dawns when everything has been taken.
Right before the moment

Emptiness fills.