The Workshop

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WOOPS I GOT DISTRACTED
So no epic poem yet. I HAVE NOT officially stopped with it, though.
In the mean time, two new poems about, well, you'll know.

Delight [Commentary: Same style as the thought-streamy poems of before, but with more coherence (yay)!]

She is the delicate flower creeping up the walls of my library
whose golden petals I seek to pluck, and feed into my boiling cauldron of tea.
She shall let glow the light of my stomach-lamp
with the colors of lavender, and the sweetest magnolias,
warming me in the coldest of winters,
cleansing me in the sickest of springs,
chilling me in the hottest of summers.

She is the red-haired dancer plunging the knife of envy into my enemies,
cursing them with half my share of madness;
she is the queen of my eyes, my eyes, my eyes:
one half-blind, and speckled silver-blue,
the other half-swollen, and clouded ocean green.

She is the queen mother of the distant tempests.
She blows the gusts of wind that sweep my patience away.

I shall be in Eden when at last, I reach her presence,
so that our sins will be the sins of mankind,
as our love will also be its love, our love, the love of the world
and as all things must pass
away from the earth from whom we are all born,
away from the seas from whom we are all made,
away from the skies from whom we are all enlivened,
so too shall our love pass into eternity,
into oblivion.

Return [Commentary: Also a personal favorite, though still in need of some cleaning up.]

Touch her
as slowly as curdled milk flowing from the bottle
She is delicate
her skin is as crisp as a fallen autumn leaf
Your breaths
must waltz perfectly with the wisps of her lungs

Cotton candy
flies from her lips into your blushing cheek
It sticks
with the salted caramel of your curled brow
Move closer
the treasure seeks an audience with her new owner

Two vein-lyres
play like the trickling of a soft spring shower
Two half-apples
are pressed for their juice by two pale sieves
Two black stones
collect morning dew upon their glassy peaks

Your hands
are burned by her tender head of flame
She licks them
but they fall off your arms anyway
Into the deep
they land upon the decaying remains of air

Silence
broken by little bursts of thunder from above
She remembers
but now the rising sun cannot blind you from the truth
Return to her
as swiftly as mother's milk flowing from the nipple
 
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Return to Her Library

Touch her
as slowly as curdled milk flowing from the bottle
She is delicate
her skin is as crisp as a fallen autumn leaf
Your breaths
must waltz perfectly with the wisps of her lungs

Cotton candy
flies from her lips into your blushing cheek
It sticks
with the salted caramel of your curled brow
Move closer
the treasure seeks an audience with her captive

Two vein-lyres
play like the trickling of a soft spring shower
Two half-apples
are pressed for their juice by two pale sieves
Two black stones
collect morning dew upon their glassy peaks

Your hands
are burned by her tender head of flame
She licks them
but they fall off your arms anyway
Into the deep
they land upon the decaying remains of air

You want to
peel her childhood off and suck her sweetness up
You want to
learn about each other and talk the night away
You want to
find oblivion with her even for just one second

Silence
broken by little bursts of thunder from above
She watches you
a single word of hers speaks a thousand volumes
Return to her
as swiftly as mother's milk flowing from the nipple
 
Still nothing? Oh, whatever.

Anyway, here's something with a bit more structure, and (I think) a bit more zest. And for the astute: no, this is not about necrophilia or anything, and yes, the ending does feel a bit awkward. Then again, in all my seasons of writing anything, I never can seem to get the endings right...

Humor

She loves in winter, not in summer blue;
her home is passionless and cold.
She never seems to cool down in the rain,
her breaths all fly like tongues of dust.

The flowers flowing from her auburn hair
are always wilting when they're caught.
Her eyes, though sapphire-like in sympathy,
are always oceans of despair.

And her rich, silken skin is ever pale,
milky grey splendor lacking life.
And her lips seem to ever hellward bow;
her cheeks are canyoned with the night.

But chiming like a clock on every hour,
she says she's glowing with delight.
She even dances, though her hips are cracked
and her feet step on empty time.

And when the morning sun shines in her mess
as she turns out her springs and cloaks,
she always reaches for my writing hand
and gives it ten soft raven pecks.

All this, when she's all garbed in dulled-out fair,
when her flat face is one blank slate;
and her long body's angled in acutes
embracing threads of fated air.

My love's a phantom, not a cherub-girl;
her honey's frozen through and through.
But I love honey still when crystalline:
her ice is fuel to my fire.
 
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Revisiting

Seasons and Spirits

I can feel the heat of summer swinging
to your bosom's respiration.
Rapping on your ashen temples
are my greedy fingers, stained red by wine.

The azure atmosphere of fall
nips at your placid countenance.
Enthralling smells of freshly-pressed cider
and boiling maple sap bleed the dull air.

Blossoming flames and heady beer
blend passion into our imprisonment.
The fearless rhythm of our winter love
blushes the silver blind beyond.

You're wearing that shift of flowers again:
your vernal musk, the wax to your honey.
A glen of cherry cordial lies
unsullied in our dim cellar.

End of the year, now. I might write more poetry before the true year's end, but for now, I declare THIS as my favorite (of my own works alone, of course)! Real passionate (in a somewhat simple sort of way, kind of like how some people glorify the tiniest things for a bit of romance), intimate, and delicate, with a structure that's nice and wholesome, but also very simple and subtle (though not so subtle as to be impenetrable: in fact, some aspects of the structure, especially with those related to the title, are made very obvious). I especially love the spring part, since it's the one that conveys the sweetest imagery for me.

Structural guide:
Each stanza is carefully syllabicated. All lines either have eight or ten syllables, and the order of the number of syllables is as follows:
10, 8, 8, 10
8, 8, 10, 10
8, 10, 10, 8
10, 10, 8, 8
Each stanza also contains one seasonal word (summer, fall, winter, vernal), and refers to one alcoholic drink (wine, cider, beer, cordial). The poem also contains a rhyme scheme (and I bet a lot of you missed this): for every stanza, the last word of the first line rhymes with the second syllable of the third line (swinging, rapping; of fall, enthrall; heady beer, the fear[less]; again, a glen).
 
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Final Announcements:
Yeah, most of my posts and edits tonight are night-fuelled. I hope I caused no offense in this, er, fury of inspiration. ANYWAY, I just realized I had enough stuff in here with enough of a thematic unity of sorts for me to compile a song cycle, something which I'd wanted to do since I started this whole thing! I'll just edit my chosen stuff, put them in a neat little format, and hire out some composer to make or help me transcribe melodies for them! I do not expect to finish all of this by the end of the year, but I do hope that by at least January 10, I'll have finished the editing and compiling! But ANYWAY....
yeah, that's pretty much it.
 
Can't stop listening to Talking Heads. Ugh. Anyway, think of a really active-sounding Talking Heads song (say, Girlfriend is Better?), take its tune, modify it by a bit, paste it on these words, and imagine that David Byrne's the one singing and all that.

Creatures of the Studio

Right down the hard bed
Stiff neck on sun set
Waking's a kick in the shins
Get up into it
Type now and rock it
No ears without a good blurb

A hustler's system
The lady stole it
When she got out of your head
Drink wine and dink it
Sniff snuff then sink it
You've got a hit in three states

A word of silence
Arrested sentence
Maybe that note needs a flat
Flat tires and car bombs?
Thick smoke and honking
The perfect gas for your ride

One two three
You got your showtime
Now all you need is twelve more
La-dee-dah
Scarlett O'Hara
That's just a filler, you know

Bring out your shellstrings, it's time for a ride
We're makin' music today
Beat on your cowhides like dwarfs of the stage
We're gonna go out and play
Tear out your throats, sink all your boats
Try not to leave but to stay
They're going crazy, they love us you know
We rule the radio

Too vague and subtle
Crosseyed and Painless
Her hair is flopping around
We're watching windows
We're braking barriers
We're Concordes down on the ground

I smell seawater
or maybe urine
The paper's crumpled and down
But still they listen
They'll never shut up
I kind of wish they would drown

They notice something
Indoctrination
They don't know nothing at all
They flock on Wednesdays
Sweet satisfaction
They still know nothing at all

Bang! Bang! Bang!
You've got your wonder
Now you don't need anymore
Twang! Twang! Twang!
We're so successful
We better try to make more

Bring out your shellstrings, it's time for a ride
We're poppin' bullets today
We're killing bullhorns for Ringo, my man
He needs a new set to play
A slicker sound, slinking around
Don't follow when I go sway
We're gonna play them, and they'll never know
We rule the radio

Bridge--going down the water
Deep--deep under the water
What wisdom will I find down there?
Sick--now it's in slow motion
Time--efficasent elution
Are we already on air?

Bring out your shellstrings, it's time for a ride
We're making music today
But we're a record, and concerts are bust
Can you repeat that all day?
Repeat one-two-three, rewind one-two-three
Can you repeat that all day?
But we're a record, and concerts are bust
We're making music today

Bring out your shellstrings, it's time for a ride
They left the road on a bun
Good waiter, drum up the kicking machine
We've still got twelve more to run
Tear out your throats, sink all your boats
I'm getting tired, let's be done
Did we make sense now? Oh, why should we care
We rule the radio
 
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Seasons and Spirits sound edits (just to make the rhythm and the flow of sounds more consistent)

I can feel the heat of summer swinging
to every humid breath you take.
Rapping on your pallid temples
are my greedy fingers, ten wine-stained snakes.

The bitter atmosphere of fall
nips at your nose, the noble hill.
Enthralling smells of cider, freshly-pressed,
and boiling maple sap bleed from your skin.

Blossoming flames and heady beer
are passions we behold while in these chains.
The fearless rhythm of our winter love
blushes the silver blind beyond.

You're wearing that shift of flowers again:
your vernal musk, the wax to your honey.
A glen of cherry cordial lies
unsullied in our dim cellar.
 
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Bulk-y riffic!

SUMMER: a little anthology of haikus inspired by the Philippine heat

sky blue skirt and smile--
each stride, the golden path snaps,
with sweat for flavor

snapping road of gold
with salt and vinegar sweat--
sky blue skirt and smile

Behind the trees,
a glittering concrete shell
waits for the dawn

water from the spout
clings to its metal mother--
the air is still

a wine bottle
and soul from the radio--
a pear tree blooms

She is all smiles
selling saffron by the spoonful.
Nothing rolls by.

violet sky--
The briny fisherman
hauls his catch
 
PAINTINGS:


Naive Melody

The candles on the stage
are burning red and blue.
His eyes are set afire in this
light.
I hold your hand --
it stings me.
I hold it even tighter.


Letter to the Boss

I mailed the sales report to you
yesterday,
with six stamps because
it was urgent --
one of them cost me a dollar!


Show Me Forgiveness

beads of hair around my
neck:
my hair --
scalp is now bare
and no eyebrows


My Condolences

I will be silent today.
All my air will be yours.
And if you need it, I'll leave you
honey-cake

too, and just do other things.


Good Humor

Another day to menopause!
Another pound of fat!
More things to add to your mess
of a pad!

But, best of all,
more love from all of us!
 
[BRACKET COMMENTARY TIME STAMP
PRE-COLON STATMENT: "COMMENTARY":
ALSO posted a translation of "Aking Anak" in the same style]
 
More Paintings:

See-Saw

A second swings, and I see
your smile turn sour-
Your love is like a see-saw,
with one half held high
by your warm and ancient arms,
and the other lying low,
roasting your child
in the flames of the pit.


Sad Old Men

Sad old men wander
streets of stone
all cracked and cold,
looking for love
when old loves are dead
and new girls leave their birthing-beds.


Planets of the Universe

From the tomb you chained me in, I see
the skin of the earth, the golden
leaves of grass that dry beneath
the tender light of the sun, breathe
with the veins of wood that run
deep into the fluid flesh of the sky
that dances by the gentle spins
and swings of the stars,
the planets of the universe.
 
Goodbye, Friend [Never really worked on]

Goodbye, friend.

I leave you by the shores of Oneiros
leave you waiting at the docks,
waiting for a ship,
a ship of grey birch, well-stained,
adorned with hyacinths, poppy-pods, and asphodels,
with horns, skulls, and whale-teeth,
whose sail is made of cow-hide
still drying under the light of the blood-red sun:
a ship to take you home.

You were faithful:
the stone on which my flames of passion rested,
the spark of inspiration for my olive-branches,
my equal in graceful discord,
my lesser in times of woe,
my greater in Sisyphean fits;
you were a good friend.

But now, I leave you,
as you leave me,
because your waking days are over,
yet my feet can never stop:
their soles are full of holes,
some filled by the sharp stones of the riverbank
we followed on the way here,
others, empty,
the scars of gadfly-stings;
and you can share the load no longer.

You miss the eternal night of Hyperborea,
as you have come to hate
the rosy fingers of dawn;
and as you were faithful,
I have been faithful to you, too:
I charged you leave,
I left you be.

Sweet dreams to you:
do wish the same for me,
as I climb up these mountains,
as I navigate these stone-banks,
as I try and keep hold of myself on this ice,
as I try to touch the light of the sun,
the blood-red sun,
whose light, the blind-seer said,
would cure me of the curse
Queen Motherhood cast on me.

Goodbye, friend.
 
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Wake Up, Ilya Alexandrovich! [Semi-prelude to something, best read aloud, since this material was meant for performance (I would link you a record of it, but the recording got deleted by a bad laptop battery. Gotterdammerung!]

Wake up, Ilya Alexandrovich!

Scythian hero, born between
the eastern eaves and the western woods,
cast off your cloak of sable skin,
and open your eyes to the light of the world,
to the golden love of Gaia, all mother!

Wake up, Ilya Alexandrovich!

You feel the winter winds cease
their nipping and scratching,
their slicing and biting;
you hear the winter winds cease
their groans and their moans,
their screeches and screams.
No more, their blades of ice, their black lamentations--
the odious odors of death and despair
are replaced by the sweetest nectr,
the rapturous rheum of the poppy.

Thus you slumber so softly:
now that the dawn
spreads her rosy fingers far above
our ash-covered heads, our snow-covered beds,
you dream of your duty's deliverance,
forgetting the fruit to be gotten.

But spring heralds summer: dawn heralds the day!
Good dreams prove good days,
good work to be done, good sights to be seen,
things to be touched and felt
rather than rememberéd.
The pear blossom is a sweet sight:
its petals, plump, its precious stalks
of hair and pollen, fine,
like threads of silk encased in gold;
but its child, the fruit, is just as sweet,
and also fulfills a famished friend when ripe!

Oh, she waits for you still, beyond this silver tower,
beyond the paths you've passed, the lives you've lived and lost,
beyond whatever wisdom you've acquired--
and yet she is just a whisper away.

She lies, as you have seen,
in a seed of sable stone,
hollow, hearth-lit, and hovering
between the ocean and Ouranos:
a box of basalt black, born
of the licks of flame from the lame-god's furnace,
covered without by many hooks,
and littered within with many traps--
a labyrinth greater than the bull-head's home.
It clogs the chambers of your heart
stops the waters flowing,
stops the spirits healing,
smothers the fire and scatters the smut,
blows out the wind and blisters the earth,
blackening all.

The world is ending, young hero!
The sun is burning all his children,
the moon is hiding from her sisters,
the stars are falling from their places!
As the old hymns have gone,
"All men will die, all women fade,
all saints will fall, all sinners burn,
and all their deeds will be forgotten,
regardless of their virtue.
Springs will choke with bitter poisons,
rivers, drown the vines and cornfields,
oceans, lose their precious treasures
to the unbound serpent.
Steel will rust and stone will crumble,
wood will rot and beasts will fumble,
mountains tall will crack and tumble
onto the valleys below."

Wake up, Ilya Alexandrovich!

Win your glory now-- break the seed,
and taste of the honey--
finish what your struggle started
before the bowl of bee-gifts breaks,
before all is covered by the ashes of the ages,
before all things pass through the pyre,
before the gods forsake the world!

This light, the peace of the winter queen,
your poppy dreams, your peaceful dawn:
the calm before the final storm.
(Oh yes, she is just a whisper away)
Spring heralds the scalding sun;
dusk and dawn are both cloaked in dark blood!

Open your eyes to the light of the world,
to the awesome call of Aegiochos, all father--
cast off your cloak of sable skins,
Scythian hero, born between
the eastern eaves and the western woods,
WAKE UP!
 
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WOO MORE POEMS, SOME REVISITATIONS, AND TWO SPOKEN WORD PIECES (WITH ONE OF THEM BEING YET TO BE PERFORMED)! A bit of a guide for the new content:

Post 1: "Dying Woman", "Ricial", "Parfait/Dusk"
Post 2: "Planets of the Universe", "Sad Old Men"
Post 3: Metered versions of "Seasons and Spirits" and "In Dover"
Post 4: "Seasons and Spirits Revisited" and "Planets and Windows" (Kind of a bad piece, though)
Post 5: "Heading for the Fair" (Yet-to-be-performed spoken word piece; Open to revision)
 
Dying Woman

Green skin
stretched into vast empty oceans:
A heavy sheath
choking the fine steel of a sword;

Hollow eyes
cloaked in the gloom of a coming storm:
Two bezoars
festering in their golden casket;

Shallow whispers
pressed through the lips of dawn:
Black bandits
robbing the lady's caravan
until, at last, there is nothing left to steal--


Ricial

A raven river
riding horses swiftly running
down slopes of fragrant chalk:
your hair.

As smooth as the moon,
but rounder and brighter still:
your cheeks.

Flecks of fresh orange juice
flowing through horsehair heads
of rich roan:
your eyes.

As hot as the sun,
always burning the blues away:
your smile.

A little flame
with the grace of wild horses
galloping down the green:
your eyes.


Parfait/Dusk [A sonnet in syllabic verse]

Sunlight falls all over the world
like the honey-water dripping
from the skin of a ripened peach
preserved in a jar of delight.
It mingles with the soft meringue
of syrupy dew carefully
folded into the heavy cream
of the chilly evening soufflé.

The heavens taste sweet to the eye. I wonder,
if they were served to me in a glass tonight,
would my stomach be so satisfied?
I cough, as the jeepney in front of me speeds
into the west, a crimson horizon
broken by the city's silhouette.
 
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Planets of the Universe

From the pits you threw me in, I see
the skin of the earth, the golden
leaves of grass that dry beneath
the tender light of the sun, breathe
with the veins of wood that run
deep into the fluid flesh of the sky
that dances, swirls, with the gentle spins
and swings of the stars,
the planets of the universe.

And then, my eyes return, and find
two crooked feet
choking in rusty chains.


Sad Old Men

Sad old men
wander down streets of stone
all cracked and cold,
from door to door and hour to hour,
looking for love
when old loves are dead
and new loves leave their birthing beds.
 
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Seasons and Spirits [with the theme of changes highlighted]

I can feel the heat of summer swinging
with your every humid whisper.
Writhing on your ruddy temples
are my fingers, greedy wine-stained snakes.

Smells of freshly drafted cider
ripple from your noble dimples.
Bothering spirits born of autumn's bite
follow this scent to steal our love away.

Blossoming flames and heady beer
refill your shriveled bosom with hot blood.
The fearless rhythm of our winter love
conquers the silver blind beyond.

Flowers are blooming on your skin again:
your vernal musk, your honey's wax returns.
A glen of cherry cordial lies
dreaming sweetly in our cellar.


In Dover [the experiment on symbolism]

Boiling milk on the skin of the seas,
fluttering into a shower of tin
as the flesh of the waters tear into the shore,
stings his wrinkled feet.

Walls of chalk built by giants long-dead,
locked in a battle of physics and time
with the treacherous salt of the ocean-born air,
guard his messy crown.

His eyes are closed: he dreams of peace and love.
His lips, they beam an honest, youthful smile.
His nape is resting on a blade of stone.

A rainbow glides above his quiet chest.
The dusk outspreads its crimson-sprinkled hand
across the young man's knife-torn gut.
 
Taking a break to watch Tim's Vermeer. I'll write the other two pieces down later.
 
Seasons and Spirits, Revisited [Admittedly not very good, though it was an impromptu performance. Still, something more well structured would have been better, like maybe "Goodbye, Friend"?]

I can feel the heat of summer swinging
with your every humid whisper.
Rapping on your pallid temples
are my greedy fingers, ten wine-stained snakes.

The azure atmosphere of fall
nibbles your nose, the noble hill.
Enthralling smells of cider, freshly-pressed
and boiling maple sap bleed the dull air.

Blossoming flames and heady beer
spark passion while we're locked within these chains.
The fearless rhythm of our winter love
blushes the silver blind beyond.

You're wearing that shift of flowers again:
your vernal musk, the wax to your honey.
A glen of cherry cordial lies
unsullied in our dim cellar.

Your love is like a see-saw!
One half, you hold high
with your warm and ancient arms--
the other, lying low,
roasting our child in the flames of the pit--
The heat of summer swinging
with your every humid whisper,
the rapping of your wine-stained snakes
on my greedy temples,
now the stinging forks of hell!

And then, the season cools--
fall falls, nibbles my nose,
enthralls with cider sweetness,
maple sap songs,
dull air bleeding.
And then, you freeze--
and blossoms of lotus and poison beer,
cracking books caught from winding rivers of oak
upon whose shores a thousand scholar-corpses rot,
the fearless rhythm of my winter palms:
they are the only things that keep me breathing!
Hot and cold and hot and cold--
but never spring.
Where is your shift of flowers?
Where is your vernal musk,
your golden honey shining
like the sun's silken cloak?

Return, return, return:
Let me
touch you
as softly as curdled milk foaming in the bottle.
Be delicate:
Let your skin be an autumn leaf.
Oh, your breaths
must waltz perfectly with the wisps of my lungs.

Again,
cotton candy,
Let it fly from your lips
onto my blushing cheek!
Let it stick to the salted caramel of my curléd brow.
Move closer:
seek, sweet treasure, an audience with your captive.
(Two vein-lyres
playing like the trickling of a soft spring shower
Two half-apples
pressed for their juice by sieves of gold
Two black stones
collecting morning dew--here they are!)
Let me smell your nape again!
My hands--
oh, how they burn like your tender head of flame--
lick them--
oh, but they fall off my arms anyway,
and they land on the decaying remains of noise.
Silence,
broken by little bursts of thunder from aboce.
Speak to me! Speak to me!
Your words are the universe--
Return, return, return,
please return....


Planets and Windows [Have I already mentioned these two pieces are basically the smashing together of various pieces? Namely, "Seasons and Spirits", "Return", "Sad Old Men", and "Planets of the Universe", all of which are much better than these two messes, I think]

From the pits you threw me in, I see
the skin of the earth, the golden
leaves of grass that dry beneath
the tender light of the sun, breathe
with the veins of wood that run
deep into the fluid flesh of the sky
that dances, swirls, with the gentle spins
and swings of the stars,
the planets of the universe.

And beyond the horizon,
the horned god, he walks down streets of stone
all cracked and cold,
from door to door and hour to hour,
looking for love
when old loves are dead
and new loves leave their birthing beds;
His giant member hangs
on a slick sling slung over the shoulders
of two small saints,
a phallic fountain ever spilling seed
on seeds, on the sons
of salty sinners singing bawdy ballads,
windows to the soul.

And then, my eyes return,
as you never did,
to find two crooked feet
choking in chains.
 
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Heading for the Fair [Not really a poem by my definition of the word, but poetic enough to be performed as such on a stage or whatever, I think. Also, this is a barely edited piece, and I've only just recently revisited this (the thing about the massacre indicates the rough date this was written), so I'm not really sure whether this is good or not]

I see the grey clouds swirling above the flats of the buildings and the pavement and our heads, whose crowns of blonde (fake blonde) and red (fake red) and black (real black) are trimmed by the wind, blowing softly but steadily from the east (or west), so that we all have to comb over our scalps every thirty seconds, or maybe forty (but we're not bothered).

Each finger of smoky water seems eager to touch us, and ruin our day -- we didn't bring our umbrellas since the fair can only be enjoyed in the open, and without having to look out for mud and slippery stones. But the whole of the sun is out today -- I'm no meteorologist, but I'm sure that's a good sign. Granted, just yesterday it did rain, however sunny that day was -- and it wasn't the good kind of rain, too, the one which happens upon you right when you most need it, when you're hot and in need of a refresher, or when you're sad and in need of a handkerchief, or when you're silly and in need of a crib.

Yesterday was a good day, a happy day, but also sort of a serious one, and my phone did not need to be so ruined, not while my budget's only enough to last me til' 14, the day when the bigots of Vienna (or was it Strasbourg) massacred this large group of Jews (I have never met a Jew before). But yesterday, she did also tell me that her name was somehow Jewish. I guess that parenthetical isn't true --

I see horsehair bristles drying out under the sun, with drops of green and orange paint dripping from their ends, falling on the asphalt below -- cars drive over them, but they make no sound, those puddles of leaves.

I see posts of steel and concrete -- but no, I don't see fences of plastic and silver, nor a towering beacon of rainbow lights flying towards the streets, the buildings, the people -- in fact, I don't see any people.

I do see a woman with auburn (fake auburn) hair walking, walking where, I don't know, wearing a dark blue skirt and a jacket made of tweed (of cotton) with high heels and white gloves and a yellow umbrella floating above her outfit poofily, like a crown. She steps on the puddles of leaves, but makes no sound -- it is the silence that disturbs me, since I called the night before for every hour until two, but no answer, and for every hour since I woke up until now (four o'clock), but no answer, and no calls back from her, from you.

Each swing of her legs follows the beating of David Byrne's fingers on his guitar (do you know him? He's probably too old for you -- he's too old for me, too, but I was born and raised in a time machine of my own invention) makes his tolerable (insightful) noise in my phones -- I would rather hear that simple Nokia ring (doo doo doo -- but I forget) than his voice right now, though my feet, too, cannot help but step into his rhythm. They are dragging me towards the gates, following a silver sedan that, just a couple of seconds ago, drove past me in a mad ash for freedom, (or the hospital built by the white and green church (cult) from across that river of a highway (I hope it doesn't crash) just outside the gates, those gates of rusting steel, those gates of horn and ivory stained by soot) though just a couple of seconds before that

my arteries were throbbing as if the very red flowing through them were afire, had convinced me that I should be heading the other way, the way back, the way past those posts of steel and concrete, those horsehair bristles, past the rains of yesterday, past the caking mud and the silver fingers and the crown of lies, to the fences of plastic, the rainbow lights, the masses, schools of people swimming to and fro the atrium and the food stalls, the field and the gill slits, or climbing the tower, the embryo's notochord, up to the peak of the wheel to their dooms, the wheel of fortune, the giant egg falling into the horizon, the embryo's head, or making the barbecue sticks (even though those prodders are banned within), spearing the drums of my ears, singing on the stage built on the backs of hacks, drug dealers, cultural desperados, idiots, the poor, the depraved, the dead-to-us, the lost, the modern, unknowing --

that I should be dancing, swinging, kissing well-breasted pigs or fucking in tents made of steel (romanticizing the past, the present, the undeniably impossible future -- sailing down the river of time on the time machine of my own invention) enjoying the music, however bad it is, like the spoiled seventeen year old bourgeois brat that I am, that I should be loving instead of (wistfully) hating, that I should be looking for her, for you, instead of leaving my world, the womb, behind for my comparative vertebrate anatomy, my masochistic pleasures, and my Minecraft and my Hemingway and my Ilya and my journal (this journal) and all the life I have so far established, that I should be following good old Reagan's advice, that I should tear down those walls, the walls of Berlin, of my heart (I hear Sunday Bloody Sunday being sung by a band of poseurs, and next to them, a band of the good ones, an old band in a new light, ready to sing something good) -- that I should be heading for the fair.

But I don't have the right excuse -- and the highway is already just one, two, three, four, five steps away (I can hear their first set playing now, I can hear the Sedan speeding to its destination again, I can see the Sedan reaching its destination safely, I see a jeepney leading homeward, I find a twenty peso bill in my hand, I feel my phone vibrate, I feel her, feel you....)
 
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