Now We Are Six

i'm moving

Fri, 21 Nov 2008 18:55:47 GMT

a friend in need's a friend indeed
a friend with weed is better

.

Fri, 18 Jul 2008 19:35:44 GMT

It all started with what seemed like a cheap imitation of a 1920's vaudeville act. Rihanna's overplayed Umbrella blared in the background which made me feel lost in that strip bar, almost as lost as that contemporary song finding itself in an old setting full of performers wearing bright costumes lit by colors that all bled in a puddle of brown. A drag queen came out lipsynching a song he, obviously, had no idea the words to backed up by midgets dressed as rodeo clowns who didn't help with improving what was turning out to be a freak show .

Old men in Armani tux who looked nothing less than perverts, sitting at the table next to mine, laughed menacingly. I cursed the part of me that nurtures my escapist tendencies for taking me to that dingy cabaret where someone who looked like the devil in drag shares a stage with little people. I smirked when Queen of the Night started playing, thinking how such an awful show could sink even lower by degenerating itself to cliche. Then came out another drag queen who was far uglier than the last. A few loud boo's from the old perverts prompted him to step down and pave way for chorus girls and a different kind of queen...

A burlesque queen with nothing on but black stockings, electric pink feathers that covered her intimate parts and an ermine cape for additional dramatic effect. She had eyes that made you pity her boldness. She was the most beautiful thing that ever came out of that circus, very much like a beautiful dream that is an interlude of a horrible nightmare. I sat there slackjawed as she dimmed the lights and slid off her costume that used to cover the contours of her body that were, now, greatly emphasized with every risque movement she made that left my eyes beginning to water from going so long without blinking.

Men started waiving dollar bills [if only to get a whiff of her] while I, this little catcher in the rye, scrambled to catch her eye. She danced right past me and sat at the table next to mine. The perverts in Armani won. I lost. so I raised my hand for the check and rummaged through my pocket for some bills I could tip the waiter on my way out. I left that bar but not without writing my number on a Mermaid-embossed napkin and carefully dropping it right in front of her dressing room while praying to God she'll find it and call me.

.

Tue, 11 Mar 2008 18:36:56 GMT

the thing I hate most about going home is having to leave it again.
:(

.

Thu, 13 Sep 2007 02:51:11 GMT

Solitude, I learned is an ugly thing up close.
so I wove wreaths of begonia whose intricacy
was meant to be construed as beauty suggestive of passion
supposedly hidden under sutured yellow petals
whispering finely practiced words of deception
I used to lead you on and have you
stay with me in exchange for the petals
I wove with my hands that I now
press painfully on my lap.

out of shame, if nothing else.

you still wear the wilted petals of begonia that remind me of dreams
about white picket fences that we used to etch our names on,
around carefully carved hearts that became relics
of the past I want to get rid of

Our past mostly consisted of nights spent
under pink satin sheets we used to make love under,
a ritual succeeded by another ritual
of staring at myself in the mirror and feeling the hands
from which shameful realizations manifest:

i held yours not because I loved you
but because I was dwelling in the overwhelming fear
of solitude.

=============================
this is my FIRST stab at poetry so if I didn't quite hit it, feel free to bury me alive. :D

.

Fri, 27 Jul 2007 23:35:32 GMT

when there is nothing left to burn you must set yourself on fire.

Your Ex-Lover is Dead - Stars

I've watched you staring at a vista that is a deviation from your otherwise empty world. Finally free of whatever associated you with the rest of us has given you an air of arrogance. Feigned confidence ,if I may add. So you walk around, rather condescendingly, thinking you're above us, that you're better than us. You are so convinced that they released you because you're well. I find it funny how you have never considered the idea that they might have let you go because they gave up on you. The chance of you getting better is hopeless as you are pathetic. We watch you try to put back the pieces of what could loosely be called your life when even a blind man could see that such attempt is as futile as trying to make whole the powders of pulverized glass. Oh yes, we watch you. In sheer amazement that some of us could only shake our heads.

But still we let you�.try. Nobody dares to stop you probably because nobody wants to bother. We all know you're headed for a very devastating failure. Yet nobody cares because, considering the state you're in, how could you get any more broken? You have led yourself to believe that you will get well because you are breathing. You're misled by the notion that as long as you're alive, there is hope. But that is only one side of the coin you are looking at. If you flip it you will see that you are alive only because death is not a strong enough arnica to heal you.

You are what many would call a sad case. A proof that fate has inadvertently drawn some of us to walk this earth like zombies. Nonchalant. Passive. Unfeeling. Stare at the battle scars that have marred your body and remember the countless times life has bastardized it, beyond all repair, beyond all recognition and accept the fact that you're no better than us. I have seen you cower in your sad little corner. Your incessant feebly stifled sobs render me sleepless.

If you take a good look around, you will realize that life presents you an alternative. It might not be the best but it is a fresh breath from the pathetic excuse of an existence you're dwelling in.

Give up. Insanity isnt so bad if you come to think of it. When you get used to it. Or you could go on with your hurried, yet futile attempt to convince yourself that you're well.

And die trying.

.

Thu, 17 May 2007 03:19:12 GMT

somebody asked me what happened to Her

In an empty graveyard, I saw her sitting on a rusted bench seemingly waiting for something. Her dress was frayed and her nails were chipped and dirty, looking like she's spent hours digging the ground. But what was most noticeable about her were the eyes that held a gaze of someone whose hope was tested over and over again, has weathered and ultimately flatlined. The world that night was dark, almost as dark as the coal black sky above her. Yet I could see her eyes because they held a look that flashed of long-held agony.

She started to feel the cuts on her wrists with the same hands that wounded them. While these slits signal a gesture of cowardly surrendering, she saw this as an acceptance of what life has cast upon her. A painful yet graceful exit from the world that didn't want her. She is now basking in the measureless understanding that she was never meant to live. And it is with the final resignation to her destiny that she calmly awaited her death.

She felt every drop of blood that escaped from her .. embracing every pain so as to numb the part of her that was most aching-- her heart that still holds a tempestuous scream like that of a banshee's.

Fate has been cruel to her. And she, now, is more convinced than ever that it has a fixation for bizarre and sensational entertainments as it manipulated things to take on a farcical turn. The skies opened to pave way for the moon's beam illuminating the lines on her face, each holding a story of misery and despair. She looked up at the moon and wallowed in its glow of sardonic mockery while the stars watched what resembled to be a deathly theatrical spectacle and wept for her. Their soft silent sobs blended with the wind's howl which became the song that beckoned her to dance along its allegorical rhythm of death. Each step brought with it memories of a woman, who as a child, learned many things littles ones shouldn't know. The moon shone arrogantly still, bringing flashbacks of her life. A life that, I could only conclude, was molded by a very sadistic prankster. Every memory was remembered with screams that tore at her insides, reverberating across the empty burial ground, culminating in slow baited breaths. She used whatever strength in her left and made a move to go to the deeply excavated ground which, in her mind, was her final resting place.

But fate, until this time, was still cruel to her so she dropped on the ground, just inches before her grave and died with her eyes open.

.

Sun, 13 May 2007 04:17:27 GMT

last night i saw a lonely star

sitting on an unlit corner of the firmament,

putting up the middle finger at the ones that shone brightly.