Scientific

Science screams down every road
I can explain what it is you do
I will be there when you go
I am the one who will free you
You will figure out what I know
in time to save those after you

the words you write with shaking hands
they describe machines no one else can
and so it is with joyous soul
I grant to you more things to know

for on this day it is found
more secrets hidden
way deep down

If you are one of those to whom this voice whispers, that is awesome.  For the rest of us, have a great day.

———————

Malate, what is you?

What is you whose center kills us, dragging sore feet through your doors, newly-laundered from a hard night’s release, what is you? What is you, spiked temptation, whose slaves dance in tight underwear, mixed dragons and glowsticks and bland sunglasses? What is you where eyes, not lips but lips, can kiss and tell and blow from across a room lit in darkness? What is you, what is you where minds get doubled, where touches mean nothing but touches upon something? What is you where faggots and sluts and call boys and dirty old men and corporate accountants sway, where drag queens and drag kings hold court, where pink is but a shade of a rainbow, what is you? What is you, Malate, where in sweet drunkenness I pass out among the flying sweat and spit and smog and raging testosterone? What is you where gods walk among the peasants, where we swing around poles again and again and again to shift our views – up, down, right, left, right, right, right, right? What is you whose miracle drug turns fat boys to Darnas, where ugly men can land the fairest prince of your holy body? What is you, o MeatMarketMalate, where we jump and slip unto platforms hogging the limelight trying not to fall from the graces of the lords of the lubes? What is you, where we shit on Jane Austen’s remains, shouting FUCK YOU JANE AUSTEN I AM BEAUTIFUL BRILLIANT AND A SLUT, what is you? What is you, beautiful hell, where the smoke can be your dangerous friend or a benevolent fiend? What is you where men dream, eyes shut, the subconscious ruling out every movement of the judgy eye, the spiteful mouth and the bitchy brain? What is you where we frolic in Bed as guys in pink grind their asses up our crotches, seeking short thrills and rapid ascensions, what is you? What is you with your unwritten laws no one obeys or everyone obeys or someone out there unknowingly obeys, mistaking glances or movements or broken veins? What is you where we spot the guy of our dreams lip-locked to a transgendered whore or perhaps a fetid plant? What is you where we pee with each other, peeing on each other, peeing on the super natal super fabulous extrasensory dungeon of our existence, what is you? What is you where we show in two-way mirrors a world of ecclesiastical voyeurisms, putting on a show of apathy when we all want is to get laid? What is you, what is your magic, Malate, where we can grope and touch and slide and moan and slither and hiss and be around baboons of our own kind in a zoo of our making? What is you where even girls come, girls cum, girl scum (right) to be in a factory of horned men not wanting to stick their forks in them, what is you? What is you where men with crooked teeth dance in front of me, stealing from me my right and will to say no? What is you where some leave happy, some leave their happiness, some leave happy and next week leave lonely, some leaving only to return in sixty nine seconds, some leaving for a quick hit, some for paid sex, some for the necessity to crap, some leaving you, some living in you? What is you where we remember Queer as Folk and seek to be Brian Kinney or to fuck Justin Taylor or to be Justin Taylor or to marry Justin Taylor or just be in a weird love-hate-fuck relationship that isn’t that weird to begin with, what is you? What is you where I can dance against the wall, in front of the wall, behind the wall, grinding below the wall to be in front of god, behind god, inside god? What is you where everyone is a fetish of everyone and everyone gets on stage and acts a whole Tony-award-winning scene with an Oscar-worthy performance but no one claps? What is you where beer is consumed, morbidly overpriced beer to flaunt as if everyone cares you have a beer or that you have money for beer or even if that beer tastes good, what is you? What is you, secret Antony of my dreams, where we march in rows of nameless, faceless profiles protesting the violence of war and the unstoppable dominos of the institution? What is you where we shout in hushed voices our souls as they intertwine with the floor into an ephemera of colorful wisps evaporating to the neon beats? What is you where we pass drugs through clenched fists, the ecstasy pounding on our ears the on-going beats of the drums of the execution? What is you where my partner dances out of beat, randomly bumping me, randomly bumping into me, shoulder hitting shoulder, fist hitting chest, leg heating foot, knee bruising knee, hair straight to the nose, fleeting images of dandruff shampoo exhausting my nose as I put my arm around him, what is you? What is you, Malate, what is your secret password to mend pains? What is you where everyone acts straight, everyone pretends to be something else, everyone is buff and strong and manly until the bartender plays Christina Aguilera and we bow down in reverence? What is you where my mind oozes out, where being the only person who has the read the Oresteia thrice or who can solve differential equations in a snap or who has received a medal for outstanding conduct does not matter, what is you? What is you, pink Mecca, stately queen of the homosexual bars of Manila, what is you? What is you, in your secret corners of Nakpil and Orosa, that drives cars, hits bumpers, squeezes the lifting tube of the trains? What is you where we forget the on-going crusades, forget the inverted triangle, forget the silicone-enhanced penises, forget the men who dress as women and women who dress as men who dress as women, forget the gunshots, the stabbings, the torture and irrevocable pain in lieu of the threefold universal truths: the dance, the love, the touch. What is you where hatred and wrath are intertwining snakes on my head, where I despise myself because I love you when I don’t love you for I love myself loving you? What is you, why are you fucking me, raping the goodness of my soul, blasting the white walls with a myriad of demonic pink and black? What is you where I bump into a stranger once and a friend twice and the laughter that that person is gay or that person likes random encounters or that person had a random encounter with me, what is you? What is you, where in a joyous parade, we wave our thongs, jumping up and down and up and down, twirling until the flashing lights force us out, celebrating life and everything good and everything taboo in it? What is you where we stop to pretend and we rush, naked, open to the eternal embrace of your double-edged Nirvana? What is you where I pause in the middle of a dance to breathe? What is you, maiden, mother, crone and heavenly bitch, where I cry every night, shivering in my apartment as I undress, sleep alone and masturbate about you? What is you where every morning I crave to suck on your tits, sucking the milk, the fluid dripping around me, dripping around everyone, with no colors, no smells, no sounds, no whispers, no eternal damnation, no death, no destruction, only love and pure, virginal sex, what is you? What is you when there is no tomorrow, when everyone packs up, groggy and high, stumbling through the streets, hailing cabs and buses, going home, going to work, dying, being reborn in a vicious cycle, what is you? What is you, what is your cosmic secret, what is your divine, Malate, what is your god, what power permeates through you, permeating through me, through us, through every single pore of every single area of skin, through every vein, every organ, every erect and flaccid penis, what is your goal, what is your miracle, what is your device, what is your climax, what is your orgasm, what is your erogenous area and how do I lick it? What is you, Malate, what is your name? What is you where everyone is queen of the night?

What is you whose center kills us, dragging sore feet through your doors, newly-laundered from a hard night’s release, what is you? What is you, spiked temptation, whose slaves dance in tight underwear, mixed dragons and glowsticks and bland sunglasses? What is you where eyes, not lips but lips, can kiss and tell and blow from across a room lit in darkness? What is you where we smile in painful grimace through tight shirts and short shorts and shoes that kill as proverbial Cinderellas rushing to your door? What is you, what is you where minds get doubled, where touches mean nothing but touches upon something? What is you where faggots and sluts and call boys and dirty old men and corporate accountants sway, where drag queens and drag kings hold court, where pink is but a shade of a rainbow, what is you? What is you, Malate, where in sweet drunkenness I pass out among the flying sweat and spit and smog and raging testosterone? What is you where gods walk among the peasants, where we swing around poles again and again and again to shift our views – up, down, right, left, right, right, right, right? What is you whose miracle drug turns fat boys to Darnas, where ugly men can land the fairest prince of your holy body? What is you, o MeatMarketMalate, where we jump and slip unto platforms hogging the limelight trying not to fall from the graces of the lords of the lubes? What is you, where we shit on Jane Austen’s remains, shouting FUCK YOU JANE AUSTEN I AM BEAUTIFUL BRILLIANT AND A SLUT, what is you? What is you, beautiful hell, where the smoke can be your dangerous friend or a benevolent fiend? What is you where men dream, eyes shut, the subconscious ruling out every movement of the judgy eye, the spiteful mouth and the bitchy brain? What is you where we frolic in Bed as guys in pink grind their asses up our crotches, seeking short thrills and rapid ascensions, what is you? What is you with your unwritten laws no one obeys or everyone obeys or someone out there unknowingly obeys, mistaking glances or movements or broken veins? What is you where we spot the guy of our dreams lip-locked to a transgendered whore or perhaps a fetid plant? What is you where we pee with each other, peeing on each other, peeing on the super natal super fabulous extrasensory dungeon of our existence, what is you? What is you where we show in two-way mirrors a world of ecclesiastical voyeurisms, putting on a show of apathy when we all want to get laid? What is you, what is your magic, Malate, where we can grope and touch and slide and moan and slither and hiss and be around baboons of our own kind in a zoo of our making? What is you where even girls come, girls come, girls come (right) to be in a factory of horned men not wanting to stick their forks in them, what is you? What is you where men with crooked teeth dance in front of me, stealing from me my right and will to say no? What is you where some leave happy, some leave their happiness, some leave happy and next week leave lonely, some leaving only to return in sixty nine seconds, some leaving for a quick hit, some for paid sex, some for the necessity to crap, some leaving you, some living in you? What is you where we remember Queer as Folk and seek to be Brian Kinney or to fuck Justin Taylor or to be Justin Taylor or to marry Justin Taylor or just be in a weird love-hate-fuck relationship that isn’t that weird to begin with, what is you? What is you where I can dance against the wall, in front of the wall, behind the wall, grinding below the wall to be in front of god, behind god, inside god? What is you where everyone is a fetish of everyone and everyone gets on stage and acts a whole Tony-award-winning scene with an Oscar-worthy performance but no one claps? What is you where beer is consumed, morbidly overpriced beer to flaunt as if everyone cares you have a beer or that you have money for beer or even if that beer tastes good, what is you? What is you, secret Antony of my dreams, where we march in rows of nameless, faceless profiles protesting the violence of war and the unstoppable dominos of the institution? What is you where we shout in hushed voices our souls as they intertwine with the floor into an ephemera of colorful whisps evaporating to the neon beats? What is you where we pass drugs through clenched fists, the ecstasy pounding on our ears the on-going beats of the drums of the execution? What is you where my partner dances out of beat, randomly bumping me, randomly bumping into me, shoulder hitting shoulder, fist hitting chest, leg heating foot, knee bruising knee, hair straight to the nose, fleeting images of dandruff shampoo exhausting my nose as I put my arm around him, what is you? What is you, Malate, what is your secret password to mend pains? What is you where everyone acts straight, everyone pretends to be something else, everyone is buff and strong and manly until the bartender plays Christina Aguilera and we bow down in reverence? What is you, what is your cosmic secret, what is your divine, Malate, what is your god, what power permeates through you, permeating through me, through us, through every single pore of every single area of skin, through every vein, every organ, every erect and flaccid penis, what is your goal, what is your miracle, what is your device, what is your climax, what is your orgasm, what is your erogenous area and how do I lick it? What is you, Malate, what is your name? What is you where everyone is queen of the night?

————————————-

Want to listen as the poet reads this poem? CLICK ME!

Last night, instead of penises,

I dreamed of vaginas.

One vagina, two vaginas, three vaginas.

Pulsating crimson vaginas.

Hairy vaginas in three sides.

Square vaginas that hum themselves to sleep.

Wide vaginas, thin vaginas, striped vaginas, vaginas that want vaginas, vaginas that spit on vaginas.

Vibrating, licking, throbbing vaginas dancing out of sync.

Wet vaginas seeking clothed comfort.

Flowery vaginas. Vaginas that tickle and trickle on vaginas.

Scratching itchy vaginas.

Purple vaginas that have had too much too soon too little too fast.

Vaginas that squirt outward inward.

Contracting vaginas expanding vaginas to all sizes.

Houses that fit through vaginas, trees that fit through vaginas and the planet that seeks to fit itself in a vagina.

Grinning vaginas, vicious vaginas, gluttonous vaginas, magnanimous vaginas.

Flying vaginas swooping from cliffs, blowing dust over my head.

Vaginas all around in hordes of endless millions, billions, trillions, vagillions of vaginas.

Armored vaginas attacking with shiny shields.

Swaying vaginas, thrusting vaginas, swarming vaginas that chase me, chase me, chase me through the doors where the vagina queen lives. Perfectly irresistible vagina queen baring fangs of disillusion.

The vagina queen flies from her throne.

Slow circular motion – a tango with the vagina queen.

I lead with a one and a two.

She steals it with her three and four.

She misses a step.

I fall.

Vagina queen standing over me.

No hand to offer.

And again!

She leads with a one and a two.

I take over.

She misses a step.

And again!

Unrhythmic laps with the vagina queen.

Dancing vaginas all around

Cheering and jeering, chanting and panting

My union with the vagina queen

Who cannot dance

Not even a bit.

And again!

The vagina queen twirls me

Twirling me around and around

Upon my axis

A panoramic vision of blurry elated vaginas

Clapping

Until I fall from dizziness.

And again!

Around and around and around her throne

The vagina queen leads me

Flocked by her minions

Until I collapse

A limp heap

On her wooden throne

Unable to rise.

Sensations on sides, sensations on tops, sensations below, within, without, beyond, all around.

I don’t want to want to want to want vaginas but carnivorous vaginas are eating me from all sides.

Preparing the way for the vagina queen, slowly making her way up.

RESISTANCE!

Victorious vagina.

And I want to want it.

Stay straight and don’t love me for if you do you’ll get to know me, and by me, I refer to the bigger me, the me within me and the me that envelops me, the me that shuns regrets, that falls to knees at slightest command, that flails hands and feet chained to a four-post bed of dried roses;

To the falls I fall, pitfalls, ravenous falls, falls without depth, cascading waterfalls, yellow waterfalls, false dimensions and falling dreams in the bleeding pool of imagination;

To being strangers no more, strangers evermore, strangers who are strange yet whose contact we know but whose names we draw;

To kisses, kisses, not on lips, ears, not on lips, abs, not on lips, nipples, not on lips, asshole, not on lips, balls, not on lips, cock, not on lips;

To bathrooms whose flushes don’t work, movie houses in Recto, last trains in MRT’s, LRT’s, anywhere, everywhere, dark, light, private, public, screaming in silence, howling in desperation and pleasure entwined;

To ASL’s, SEBs, SOTs, SOPs, Top or Bottom, cybs, Formspring, meet-ups, texting, calling, connecting, dialing, the instruments of torture I unfalteringly cling on;

To Sarah’s that closes at 2am, Sarah’s that closes at 3am, Sarah’s that closes at 4am and people who leave and live at Sarah’s at 6am;

To unkept beds, unkempt hairs and stains we make and stains we weep on moon after moon until unending moon burn the sheets we soil;

To slavery, unrelenting struggle of readings, of workshops, of creative works, of murdered trees stashed unceremoniously inside a rusty graveyard where termites and unspeakable evils far worse live;

To acting for life, acting against life, acting within life with directors who purge and yell and yodel and throw pencilcases and slap you and make you kneel and stab you in the eye and piss on your soul;

To automated telling monsters whose zeroes strangle the innocent breath of young freshmen boys with the baby powder they hide in the recesses of their closets to cover the shine of blanketed beliefs;

To dormitories and whorehouses and all who live in them basking in the bittersweet smells of the swimmer-whore, the engineer-slut and the scientist-bitch shedding their frustrations in the shower;

To bus rides to Bicol, train rides to Bicol, airplane rides to Bicol, whose fare is unfair, my Harong imagined in a two-by-two one thousand peso prison with three other inmates;

To dim-witted live-in partners who scratch their balls, scratch your balls, scratch your wallet and scramble away, their remnants empty perfume bottles and used socks;

To shallow beautiful girls who rule the world with their barbie scepter and the zombies tumbling over their feet to kiss her golden-plated foot;

To Lao’s cursing in the rain, Soriano cursing in Filipino, cursing Candare and cat-killers, cursing Rafa’s catfood eaters, cursing Mideo’s religious phallus rammed up the bishops’ asses;

To Saturdays with Nate and his AAA, the grail my gustatory Galahad searched for for four years, gargling semen and vomit under a blanket of dark memories;

To the Faculty Center where the greatest minds and darkest hearts masturbate each other with latitudes and longitudes and platitudes and Palancas and swimming necromancies that would make the Babylons blush;

To the full moon, the new moon, the waning moon, the waxing moon, all moons in Saturn and Uranus and Jupiter, all moons in the universe bowing in shameful contempt to the wonder of the crescent moon;

To three pussies (one a dick) scourging the sleepless avenue of Maginhawa in pursuit of the elusive hard secrets of a key locking a door and clothes strewn on the floor like child-like mannequins playing dress-up;

To three soft knocks on the men’s restroom door of Banquetta to see the face of the future smiling, smiling and waving, in an inglorious attempt to rebridge time in a cubicle triggered by the object’s consenting kneel;

To poetic, what is poetic, what is not poetic, what fucks poetic up fucking it up with a fucked-up piece the cattle-herding doctors who wipe their asses in their poetry clinics would brand poetic.

(THE SECOND RAPPEL FROM THE KAMPO UNO TOWER)

Knees bent, hand sore

Sunglasses perched

Atop my top

Desperate to fall

He wanted me to

Fly

Faster

Higher

Like the sweat

Dripping

From my forehead

To plop meters down

On someone’s

Head.

To repeat what’s been

Done is easy:

He grins.

His hand on my chest

Knees locking against

Mine

I struggle

Wanting

Wanting

To be free

But unable to budge

Stretching my legs

Into tower’s air

His hand brushing my shorts

His big

Rope

Around me

Trying

Almost succeeding

Its vastness could not

Wrap its

Entirety

Around my bosom

To fly or to fall

To fall or to free

Myself it is -

All the red shirts, my student-teachers, his co-workers inside the tower of no answers, all in crimson blood surrounding me, surrounding fear, all in mockery of my cry for help

For freedom?

In the skies

They roam

They who have first fallen

They whom he made fall

Or for the glimpse

Of the top of the ladder

To root

Oneself to ground

In shame

Nearer and nearer

He makes me fall

Him with his red shirt

Him with all the other red shirts

A hand to push

Another to grip

Cords upon cords

Of laceration

Upon my wrists, upon my thighs, upon my legs, my arms, my girth, my hips, my ears

All red shirts encouraging me, encouraging trust

Not for myself, oh, no

But on him

He who has done it all

Just one more time and they say

I never have to do it again, again

To pass the class

Suck it up

I survived the first fall

With a broken smile

Why shan’t I go again?

Why?

Why?

I must be crazy!

I close my eyes

And