Poetographie

I sit at the center,

the red metal stool

carries my weight.

the girl in blue stares

at me with tiger eyes.

I face the other side, drag

the red metal stool as

it screeches—

as though my thoughts are

wailing.

The man in eyeglasses

shouts, “what’s the central image?”

the girl in blue nods,

not once

but twice

as the man hammers

my poems

on the table.

I face them

carrying

my own weight,

he hurls the sheets

up in the air,

Our eyes witness

as my syllables

fall

like loosened

leaves of a tree.

The knifed horizon bleeds,
Its streaks gleam—
piercing my eyes like air.
I steal a look backward
the translucent rays
penetrate under my arms
I tried to cup its light
but still, it leaves me in the dark.

The
tiny
pink
petals
dance,
thumping
in the
rhythm
of
the
wind,
my taut
hands
scribbling
melodies
of
words—
nothing’s precious
other than the
cadence of my syllables,
thumping of the petals
and scribbling of melodies.

Usa ka sagpa ang natilawan nako
sa akong bana kagahapon, nihawid ko sa puno sa narra—
nagtuo nga gunitan pud ko niya taman sa iyahang ginhawa,
matod pa sa akong bana,“wa kay pulos, usa lang
ang naay pulos sa imo, mao na ang imohang
lawas na kanunay nakong ginagamit
sa akong pang-adlaw adlawnga kusog!”
gigunitan nako ang puno sa narra sa ikaduhang higayon,
sa paggunit nako sa narra,
nidagan ang paghuna-huna
nga dili tananggahi nga
butang
kay
makasugakod
sa imong
kabug-at,
sama
sa narrang
gigunitan
nako
karon
ug
kagahapon—
dili makahatag
ug kusog
sa maskin
unsang
higayon.

Andy Warhol’s knives—
Scratching your gut
Leaving it with a muzzled dot.

A flickering red bulb,
scent of vanilla atop
of a glass table,
white embroidered curtain
undulating in
the wind,
picture frames of
irregular shapes-
facing the doorway,
an array of books
above the closet with the
T.V on,
playing
Beethoven’s symphony –
the wooden door
bangs,
orchestrating
the pulses of the wind.

I wanna die
inside
your womb,
Rot in your belly-
while meat devours my
tiny little fingers,
Slowly
as it gorges my flesh,
Your claws that knead
My breathing
space
digs a hole,
As they dump me like shit-
The flavor
so bitter,
so sweet-
like
someone’s
selfish
PASSION.

I sit at the center,
the red metal stool
carries my weight.
the girl in blue stares
at me with tiger eyes.

I face the other side, drag
the red metal stool as
it screeches—
as though my thoughts are
wailing.

The man in eyeglasses
shouts, “what’s the central image?”
the girl in blue nods,
not once
but twice
as the man hammers
my poems
on the table.

I face them
carrying
my own weight,
he hurls the sheets
up in the air,
Our eyes witness
as my syllables
fall
like loosened
leaves of a tree.

Words
are
hungry
wolves
foraging
in
deserted
alley ways
with
thick saliva
drooling
on the pavement—
Eyes of
burning flames
moon
for preys
under a
starless
doomed
sky.