motherland

sunlight flickered past leaves, projecting
a kaleidescopic green upon my eyelids.
the road bent through the mountains,
swallowing cars into its peaks and
lulling its children to sleep.
the landslides grew distant as the
pavement thumped to the rhythm of a heart.
a distant echo of the archipelago was
etched into valleys as rice terraces,
and the gods loomed where the clouds
scraped the grass.
to this day the ground whispers of
brown feet adorned with beads and shackles,
of tongues that have tasted tinola and blood.

malpractice

like nettles pressed from beneath skin,
the hardening scab itches profusely.
cracks of soft pink flesh peer between
tectonic plates of scarring.
a slow metamorphosis, the gentle
pulsing of wings through a cocoon.

but the hands i let massage numbing
ointment into my scars have dug through veins.
i watch with empty eyes his careful
disassembly of my chest cavity
as if the pain was a routine blood drawing
and allowed nothing more than a wince.
my organs were then sterilized and
sutured and cauterized haphazardly in
a vain attempt at reparation.

weak and deformed, the flesh trembles
at the gentlest breeze.

aubade 

the dawn peers over the horizon,
beginning its burning of mist
in a glow tinted orange.

orange like the salt lamp upon
the bedpost, a candlelight vigil
drenched by deep blue sheets and
sea foam irises.

the lovers’ flesh fused overnight,
harboring dewy eyelids and fresh
pulses of the heart. a finger
traces across the gully of a chest.
inseparable as the sun kisses
the horizon’s other shoulder.

soliloquy on the Centennial Garden

a palpable summer, superimposed
on an ashy cumulonimbus looming above
the horizon, scraping away at a glassy
menagerie of towers.
the sun eats at the white bloom. hot
rays licked, glazing skin to a
lukewarm red. we bask in its
consumption on a blanket of grass.

the earth untangles, sprawling towards
the sky. petrichor beckons for a balmy shower.

serendipity

This poem used the words found on the Predictive program on my iPhone’s keyboard. Line breaks are of my own discretion.


the way we do this
we should try it out
because it makes me so sad
and we both are so different  

you are different from me
but i can tell you that you are
a beautiful person who can
be the best person to me 

i don’t like me but
that’s not a bad thing to me
because you know that
you are a good person to be 
the only one for me

 

melancholic

in a swarm of heat, the flesh soon
rendered tight and suffocating. the
tears pooled on sheets, cheeks
turning wet and wrinkled, as if
barely swimming. the body ravaged,
trembling away at emptied words like
an inflated currency. love is a
commodity, sold over and over until
a tragedy of the commons reaches
inevitable. the only sensuality remains
in the dystrophy of our soul.