Processing, and wondering
where the fucking beer is,
why I can't get the song
Moon River out of my head,
how come I still taste
tempura, among other things,
at the tip of this mad tongue.
Waiting for the geckoes
to begin their weather report,
the sun to rise orange-pink
from where we lie on dying grass,
someone to call me Nidia.
Who else in the metropolis
sniggers upon seeing a scooter,
wants to raise hell at 50-peso beer,
can't exactly give an answer to
what happened?
Trying to placate my wanting
of moongazers and sudden torrents,
of Stella the Goat, and bodies born in parts,
of poet-whores and poet's whores,
of Feist and quesadillas,
of the next pun,
of everyone's mumbles in the morning
after a night of the usual alcohol, cigarettes
and "Silliman beach tayo, please?"
Post-Dumaguete Syndrome, tss.
Life-changing, my ass,
(-_-)
-Nabasa mo na yung for tomorrow?
-Uh, Pancake?
-Yes, Butter?
-Saan tayo lunch?
-Hayahay tonight?
-Put a whore in a whorehouse,how many moves have you got?
-I think it's a love poem.
-Sted's lang ako, bili ng yosi.
-Asan na lighter ko?!
-Khaye, put the beer down.
-This can be stand-up comedy.
-This could be a fiction piece.
-This would work as nonfiction.
-Turn it into a poem.
-Arrr, the Minotaur!!!
-Janina, borrow ng Biodisk?
-Without pants!
-Kever!
- . . . Pa-tay.
All this, among other things.
(This is NOT a poem.)
Screw the internet,this is a job for fucking longhand.
O blank page, let me cathart!
PS"I write this with a hardened..." :)
Ahem.Fuck pride
--Sasha misses y'all.
Love, love.
still walking somewhere else
Bumper-to-bumper traffic and occasional rainshowers - these two, more than anything, really prove that I'm back here in my Manila.
Bumper-to-bumper traffic and occasional rainshowers - these two, more than anything, really prove that I'm back here in my Manila.
I continue to resist accepting this, though; part of me is still eating tempura and sulking at the Boulevard, waking up with the ceiling less than four feet away, trudging to Sted's for avocado shakes and cigarettes (but I quit smoking again already), or alternately marveling over or laughing at some workshop piece in our manuscripts.
It frustrates me that everything is not anymore a five minute walk or a tricycle ride away, and I'm scared stiff of keeping still and quiet long enough to acknowledge how much I've changed over the past three weeks. In addition to this, I dare not think about anything related to writing just yet; the words "poetics" and "finding your own voice" and "processing" send me running out of the room and screaming, "shutupshutupshutup!"I guess I'm still smack in the middle of that terrible, terrible state called denial.
It's best I keep hiding under the covers for now; twenty-four hours into my attempt at civility, I've already acted bitchy towards at least two people who didn't deserve such behavior, skipped three meals, paced a mile around my room, and only heaven needs to know what else.
-SHENG
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