ogres are like onions

dynamics of Human interaction
complex because of sheer Simplicity
blinded, no, governed by Ego
Ruled by emotion, distanced by perception
narrow-minded to the point of Self-Destruction
the tragic Flaw made manifest

view the world through a Lens
Your lens, My lens, but never the Same lens
varying shades of a dulling Gray
so what is Reality? what is Existence?
cast off the rose-colored glasses
only to See that we are once again deceived
hidden behind the seamless paneling we call senses

the Hypocrisy runs through your veins, animating your limbs
transforming, misinterpreting actions once destined to be Noble
peel away the Layers of monstrosity
leaving behind only the bare Essence
in an attempt to justify Humanity and Cynicism
and your brand of Morality, stemming from a twisted take on life

striving for Perfection, trapped in the confines of your own mind
never stopping to ask, is Ignorance really Bliss?
or perhaps there exists an Obligation to character
outweighing the sense of shielding Chivalry
falsely saved, with aid of the deus ex machina
rewrapping your Soul, never to be seen again

Mermaid

I find myself delving deeper and deeper into this:

like digging through the ocean from a sight above the precipice
with a dolphin shovel made by mer-maid hands.

First I'll uncover a layer of salt,
then crystal,
then diamonds,
then something holy and profound;
something that can only be reached at abysmal decades--
something that can only survive treacherous temperatures and wanton hope
(only bacteria would venture to such heights).

Then, the shovel will shrink
in comparison to the ocean floor.
And when I believe that I've hit the bottom of the maelstrom,
and that I've found myself within the core of the Earth,
the whirlpool will kidnap me somewhere--
a place predestined or predetermined,
chosen perhaps by the fate of humanity
or by "His loving hand".

I will carousel back, I imagine;
It will flounder down nicely with me,
and we will be sitting at the precipice together instead,
eating peanut butter and gluten-free bread,
tossing our leftovers at the loquacious seagulls,
never looking down.

seven words

She backed her knife’s momentum with her memories

and swamped the kitchen with the clatter of a

television set droning,

Which reminded her of The Now,

and familiar voices that rebounded

off the edges of her brain into the air.

These stories—The Old, as she called it—were

delicately garnished over her freshly-cooked pancit

like the juice of a Filipino orange.

A bucket of auspicious promises and tribulations

was pouring its insides out from her head to her hands,

decanting some nostalgia

onto the savory juices of burnt garlic and yellow onions,

patis and soy sauce,

yesterday’s jasmine rice sautéed with eggs and tomatoes.

But the housefly didn’t mind it;

(was there something he missed?)—

his saliva spilled waterfalls and his mind

digressed, dumb over his five "human” senses.

But can you really blame him?

---

I had to write this poem for my Beginning Poetry Writing class. We had to write a poem with the following words: momentum, clatter, edge, delicate, orange, bucket, and housefly.

not quite.

truly, i don't know what my mind fabricates when it crochets this unfaulty image of you
quite so pristine, young, and even rock hard.
much less, i don't understand why it is this framework of you that i manage to see.
but there you were, in my weak jelly arms, your heart split into two.
your limbs splayed into disappointing directions, and your large eyes hidden beneath layers of crystalline tears.
it takes so much for you to release and unravel the binds.
in my illness and chill, you would brush the strands away from my flustered face
in the compounds of an empty apartment living room. look over and above from me, and watch me
flail in confusion from your incorrigible presence.
and you'd initiate the grounds that 'this is what happened', and proceed to flounder yourself
next to my blushing shoulder down to the bosom, when which i am thrown off, apart, and to start.
while i am on the floor recollecting my stability, i can't.
you had me at 'you are me', 'i am you.', and 'this is what i do.'
oh, the things i'd do to have a glimpse of you.
i know this isn't the best time for an entrance, and there may never be that opportunity to bask behind the curtains and play.
but certainly, there is a flash flood of interneural connections that we share
forbidden to one, and unthinkable to bare.
oh how i tremble and tread the pebble bridges of the public campus, dreaming of more and more
of me suffocating in the compartments of your chest as you grapple and hold me
but only for a brief yet playful moment of time.
and then your smile above me, with exposure to tracks and metallics that i happen to ignore, folds discretely to the shapes and wrinkles of your innocence and intoxicated air.
it is the spark of the hunt, the fakeness of a cold front, the idea that we are seriously being serious
that wills me to think the unimaginary facets of you.
we complete, we coincide, we c o l l i d e .
it's not so easy to hide the idea of our perfect fits if it's been the talk of the town.
you might as well ought to believe it
that it's a possibility, but unfortunately a possibility too difficult to suit.
/
i dare continue myself to disclose these immensely impulsive desires i have for the youth of you,
and it is likewise not the same for sure, though fine with that i am.
i can not bare to contain myself while i sit here with the dim-ending thought of your soft lips brushing my unworthy cheeks.
and yet, i must entreat from the desires of which i seek.
for this other half of your blaze is an anti-seductive counter, that which fights to regulate our fingers and actions that attribute to wordless conversation.
so no matter, anti-seductress, you have my fullest support in this grandiose scheme of a soul captor.
i look to venture for his unending fountain of dreams and have it all for my own,
to pleasure myself and bask in the feelings of the moment.
but anti-seductress, that must not be and i fully consent to you.
have at me sheathes if i unsheathe my flaming heart.
my hard head won't have at him.
don't allow me.

I did a contest in February called February Album Writing Month; much in the same vain as NaNoWriMo, participants are asked to write a 14-song album in a one month period (or 28 days). I epically failed, largely due to midterms and such and only finished half of the album. Maybe sometime in the [far, far, far] future I'll finish the second half, but I'm hoping to finish up mixing and recording extra vocals for the first half by the end of spring break. My concept was the iconic story The Velveteen Rabbit (hella quick read - link). This song in particular is a conversation between the Velveteen Rabbit and the Skin Horse. Musically, the album is an "experimental-pop-lulliby"; something haunting and beautiful.

Once You Are Real - Mark Sescon


Once You Are Real

Does it hurt to be real?
Does it happen all at once?
Does it hurt to feel?
How much strong can you get until you are wasted?

It doesn't happen all at once.

Treasure map

That taciturn stare,
it wears me down to the
latest drips of a
cultured vial
-the ones that I see in the hospitals.
That (glistering) way
you fix yourself in my kaleidoscope eyes.
That (devious) laugh,
that (meticulous) demeanor,
your regular attire.
So regular to the eagle eye,
so regular to the passer-by.

Your Wedding Ring

I am but a ring:
A tiny, circular object
Useless and cold without your touch.

I am but a ring:
Small in every physical form,
Large with every symbolic meaning.

I am but a ring:
Wrapped around your finger,
Moving only when you desire.

I am but a ring:
Something you wear for all to see
But only when you desire me.

I am but a ring
And engraved in my interior
Is your broken promise
Of fidelity, loyalty and love.

I am ring.
I am your ring.
I am your wedding ring.