Tag Archives: fuck that shit

IWFTFTPLTLW:

An ekphrasis, Finish What You Started, on the Philippine Free Press Online.

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TWBHYDSYBWN:

Pardon the awkward
giraffe of my affections.
Spindly-leggedly trotting
through the wastelands
of your acknowledgement.
Deceptive and doe-eyed,
peering effortlessly into
your third-floor bedroom
window but not on purpose,
I promise. Slowly chewing
with its soft mouth half open,
showering damp leaves down
upon you wherever you go.

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APWBTBWLDTRFM:

Not A Love Poem

I have feelings for you but mostly they start in my pants. So when we are pantsless
together, my feelings have nowhere to go but up, the way hot air must rise,
how you would rather look at the sky while walking, no matter the weather,
rather than study the undulations of a sidewalk that will, inevitably, lead to me.
No need to look so miserable when we kiss, though a lover is like a high ceiling
in a house you’ll never own, a beautiful reason you can’t afford. Still you belong
in the dreams where I have misplaced something valuable, the ones from which
I wake with my hands in the air, my mind turning cartwheels down the fairgrounds
of possibilities, and in the distance the hum of a great machine revving up,
unseen. Night is coming and all the lights must be set in motion, somehow.

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WWDNTFWMHBLVMS:

To think about pain is irrelevant to the process.
One shoulders through it, strong-arms their way
around it; what matters is that you take it
into your own two hands. Or one hand,
if you have only one. Those missing a limb
do report the phantom pain, the twinge
in a finger not there, the ache of a writing hand
confiscated by the cruel world. Nobody cares
about the hurt that’s there to stay, because scars
are a fact. As thick and solid as the white line
that divides countries: The District of
What Had Happened right next to The Land
of What Will Make It Better. Which is populated
by kisses, I think, and time alone. And poems,
whether read or written, with a hand
long gone, always and forever twitching
under an imaginary weight.

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FCTWSBTBTSNNR:

Principium Individuationis

Your ticklishness was the bane of the time we spent in bed
     how you would flinch whenever I’d run a hand up your leg
In the end I touched you unlightly
          dug my nails in instead.

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