Lords of Asphalt 

Posted on: Thursday, January 3rd, 2019

Part I. Memento mori in the morning

There are no new feelings. King of all trades, Joker
Of every suites, Hail Maries and anecdotes, and
Flesh jacks, and entry-level fruits. The no good
Emissaries– them and their memories and drizzle
Of slackly hours, frostily and dwarfing, rendering
Battling fatigue and scours… But there are no new
Feelings. Just fresh druthers speaking in less, and
Less delivers. Some pamper the fire too much– A
Beauty bowl loose to consume the beauty of others,
Painting hell over hell, barter over garter, and a
Meter of pacifism wished in coils, like crows to corn.
But warm is the heart that beats with a humdrum,
Surface and stenches of breaths repressing
The lungs of a rum.

(I.II – Enter The Handsome Hawker)

There it is. There it is.

There is the deadbeat banter in me and my most mileaged
Wife-beater. The pop the red bottle made ten minutes ago, and
The pop of the one before it were loud. (I would very much
Like the hear it again but Maribeth minds too much.) I recall,
As I were leaning on the room of the wise with its wise feet,
The dehydrated deads, as looking thin as the locals playing pick.
One of the studs– gulp, warmth, gulp– moves like a poet,
Like a puppet. His arms in the sky that is not the sky today.
(His’ was the towards the clouds about to cry.)

…There are only a dust-count of men who must have had a mind to drive all the way up to here,
And have their cabs leave them here. They must have walked here. They must have crawled here.

Part II. Relika

The arts will outlive you. The arts will outlive you all, so allow
All things and allot allowing nothing. Bleed the sky with Nothing,
Too, but bottles-and-barricades lying like an angel, angling
Like a master, participator, rectifier, the bukkake monster’s
Darlings– When there really are no new feelings,
There are also no new killings. (The dead piles up
And ain’t that just something?) Wouldn’t you wish
The masters came with a handbook? Any book or
Byproducts for the bipolar bystanders, the little
Gossiping thugs and their pork pie hats… I must be
In luck. (This is luck. This is luck. This is luck.) Tucked,
These puny ponies have never fed on the Big City,
And I am the biggest dream on point, at reach, so I whip
The hails of the never-has-gone-under ship–
The heat that pours from lips in heaps to hips.
I will cash in my luck, though I am a strong little
Lake that will always grieve outgrowing the trees
My own way. So few the minerals be, so my messages
Will never be so brief.

I have outgrown them. Outgrown them all with time.
The boredom splinters the bored, so they log in, onto
Their empty socials, and beg for somebody, out there,
Out from all the miles and all the inches, to ask for
A personal thing. They could sacrifice some petty
Facts about themselves hoping a god’s scion will see it
And give a damn. (Nuke and nullify the existence of
Our homes.)

Part III. Parlance with the Corn

“I don’t think I can train my soul to feel a little less.”

This year has been a box. The box often tightens.
The best lyricist of the railroad shivers as
The rain decorates the maroon muffler,
And sings of their compulsion to realign things:
Paintings, picture frames, pencils, utensils–
Anything not in line with the light and the life;
But what can one do if not to realign in hell?
You cannot realign the cobs. The cobs must have…
Well, they must have their own minds!

Even all the uneven spinnings at the laundromat upset them.
If only the Absolute Beetle would appear to annihilate everything.
When everything is rust and all our homes are dust,
Will we know peace or will we learn to quarrel?
(The simpler times are the times worth the quarrel.
Even a quarter of a quarrel would be nice.)

“What are your motivations?” I cried to the crows,
And they were just balancing their with their black
Eyes and muddied feet as if feeding off the wires.
The wires looked equally hungry. The wires never
Waved. No, no. Not at me. (Don’t you even all dare
To give these dancers a chance.)

(I will never miss the medications. At least, not
Until the nights when the god of the dogs visits.)

Flashbacks 1: Suicide Beds: Repast

Casually, I would like to be your kind of urgency.
Helpful yet helpless– safe suede, and barely shoddy.
I am Proponent, positioned with their chairs’ names,
Hoping for a little less as university-level minutiae.
I want the demand of legitimacy; resituated but
Never nerfed, Love; an endless, boundless apéritif
Where even everyday nightmares are allowed.
I know that the demands and the talks are tough.
So are the group meals in dying and dining.
Rhubarb pie and recitals strong as sadism,
Swaddling, strapping, sorried, and deviating.
“She has yet to live an uneasy life.” I mumbled
Perhaps a self-aware poem called Prevaricatio.
“Give me some ideas. Detailed, bottled ideas.
I could barely understand what you want me to
Mean, could hardly hear it from the way your
Chair doesn’t move.” Do you not feel the rushing in?
Well, fuck their allegories. (Allegories for the five
Months and fifty moods later–)

Part IV. The Sandtrap

–A new job, stacking chairs, raking the yellowed leaves, collecting bottles and emptied frappe containers
Into black bags; drink, sleep, repeat; snoring all the hours awake on weekdays; extra-fuckin’-festive by Saturday
With sambusa and sporting events and false fresh starts and chatting with the bakers and makers of croquettes.
Jansen has seen men live, seen men love, and seen men die. Unrelated events at the land fill of hate and Tiger Paw
Are what keeps the stories going, keeps the mild-mannered city entertaining, while the perfume bottle lessens
In content and attraction. “I can no longer smell the city,” he mumbled. “The city smells like dirt on Sundays.”

“I’m just getting situated. Cubicle people for the weekends, even.
I’m getting put together. I’m pilling up boxes, stacks of them, even.
Making paper from five to six, a sixsome down the steerage by eleven.
Hotel Paper on my partway ear, tennising, tuckered, busted like a queen.
Impact! Impact! The thorough point whore is here for your mezze plate.
Mezzanine for the Pleistocene– soothed and soft-edged,
Speaking in Romansh like terryclothed cold bodies in cold water.

I’m no longer just some skinned arm-candy.
I’m all about the acclimations now, y’know?”
He said, he said, adversely– like an infection
Underwrapped. “I’m all about the protocols.”
I wince, unconvinced. He’s turned out to be
A moral compass now. Ramping up the next
Wet-work, reluctant to live in prequels, but
Still so often polices. But I liked his smile now.
His smile’s a tramp stamp. I cannot look away.

Part V. Ideation Plants

The sky is much as pastel as the roads with no souls,
And the refreshments here are no refreshments at all.
No hunger queueing around them, and overpriced
Overwrapped mixes on boxes with rosaries as their belts.
We light the never-busy air against the Catholics.

Jansen from the steam town is older than I am but I’m more
Realistic. With tension over granular tension, he talks up,
Taking his time to dream about being a Westerner. It’s been
Seven years. He’s never moved. His hobby was to recount
All his failing upwards, and all his dreams– They are never
The dreams which are attainable. As he lays in hyacinths,
He minds them not. The hyacinths are but delusions. The
Other greens never lie. (Only the corn is allowed to grow
Here.) Jansen so often opens his palms in the middle of
The road still on the works.

Part VI. lime wedges and aspirins

maintain the rube and rine, and grind
towards polarity and popularity– the reds
obstructs being polite, and, edgewise,
it’s riskier hasslings with red ambiguity–
laureates and phenoms and their pheromones;
hypertrophy and legal thrillers for the commandant;
marquees, performers, destinates, cinches, stamps
and tampers and tamps; all vile and viler;
“stop the train dead on its tracks!” she cried;

smoked mullet and black coffee as the only sustenance that mattered
to Mrs. Engels, who is one charming chameleon and one hell of a catnip,
and she traveled light, mostly when the night is never calm,
and she brought with herself always several file tabs like memories,
and the cabinets in her journeyer smelled like spirits she never communed with;
and the spirits are squatting with their knives that cut through and go through
everything that is not in České Budějovice– she reads the palm of the man
who is not a man on his most days;

initiate the narratives, but there is no narrative the rooster could give to the mobs,
the mobs of corn and Raspberry Lemonade– the regimen for our beaming, barmy outbursters
combined with the least regal of the crows that hate the corn and eat the torn,
and scarecrows dying by the hedgerows;

Part VII. Grace In Silence

“What are you, the Queen of Niceness?…
Notice, Maribeth, how you’ve been sharing
Less and less of yourself to the now-seeming
Lesser lovers.” Maribeth didn’t get to ask much.
She watched the woman dictate to another
Their future. She asked her own to be unveiled.
She asked it in the way the air smelled to her.
She pleaded to it as with the wrangles of the weave
Of her black hair. She was as still as the sun
Setting orange, coloring the white top tangerine.
I remember her sing to many softly by the bay
How she’d written so many madness-induced
Letters: hate letters, fan letters, yet love letters
Mostly. “It’s now impossible for me to track
Them all down– inch to inch, page to page.
With every tear as my ink, my ego and my
Love for the dove in me have changed.” She
Paused to drink the chamomile. O’, Virgin!
“I still feel the same way, tho. I still am that
Same deserter. Changed a bit. Changing
In ways to never recount. But still in the
Throes of my obsession as a heroine. I am
Still carrying the torch for my now-Venus,
And the Venus of the girl that cried in bed.
…I re-wish my strength. I re-wish my strength.”

Part VIII. Outside the Van of Fire and No Fire

I see the men hanging out in the streets with probably nothing better to do,
And I so to wonder if the education system have failed them
As much as I’ve held on to the belief that it had owed me something, too.

I see the obscurantists and the elitists and their perfunctory saddles.
Hey, how could they paddle so slowly and in solemn to the shore?
So sure of their irrelevance. So gloomy and high-like in their such and such
And at home in a cotton-cuddling bore.

O’, Populism, you who breed so many souls and soldiers,
Are you here to silence and sentence and sterilize the creative souls soon?
Or have we turned your name synonymous to anti-intellectualism?
That, maybe, is something we can be all guilted to go through.

Still, I know already where and when my boat’ll sink into.
But met, vet, set, and collect all the souls the cob has engulfed, too.

Part IV. The Crow Has Yellow Eyes

       “Let your fountain be blessed, and rejoice in the wife of your youth, a lovely deer, a graceful doe. Let her breasts fill you at all times with delight; be intoxicated always in her love.”

If I could do it all over again, I would put all focus on skin, build, teeth.
I have damned all my routines the first time I picked my face as a teenager.

I would have never written the twentieth letter.
I would not have accepted the success.

There is no other plan but to Love.
There is no other plan but Sleep.


“I can’t trust what I read now.”
“Let her read your palm, then.”
“Everything’s propaganda.”
“Let her read the cards, then.”

“I trust only my own letters.”
“Nobody trusts you.”
“I am laced with regret.”
“We must rebuild.”


       “The world’s a sucker for artwork by the dead. The feats of human imagination, especially ambition not recognized in time, are history’s most alluring. You cannot fake the sense of idle suffering, babe. Knaves of tomorrow, LEARN! YOU JUST CANNOT FAKE HONEST.”

(IV.IV – “Blue is the collar of the shirt of the man I love.”)

“To be able to people who reads now is such luxury.”
“Take the job.”
“It’s not what I want to do.”
“We must rebuild now.”
“We must rebuild to continue.”



I jump over palavers for uncomplicated sermons:
Mostly the wordlessness of the wise sage Jianyu.
Tell them, dear, then, the trash of cooperation
With privets onto burn and flooding of a House.

The deadly house is an interviewer.
Raged ‘viewees impose into symposium
El Dorado articulated, for all that can gloat.
Easter refutes into Easter rigm’roles,
And belching as for unison– a hold for applause.

The ghastly gulls do can commend kept dictions when they yarn;
Super solid cheer and chill with stints in the jail mall,
Pint of mermen’s piss and tears.

There, there, come the day of the warm liberties
Where only the smart and the smug can circumvent into describable air.
The stench of the shortcomings are isolated in here.
Two choirs sing the anthems benched. They, then, become the choirs of the kings.

The choir of the crows… I can almost hear them.

(Dob the unlikely candidates in higher circuitry like a kit.
But of course the light regards highly the contributions
Of fine-tooth combs and acrimonious bombs for mouths,)

(“But just because you’re young, doesn’t mean you’re entitled to it all.
Just because you’re young doesn’t mean you’re the shit.”)


The crow has military eyes. He must be it. He must be it. He must be it.
“I prayed for you, you know? I prayed for repentance.”

Part X. Tropical Liquor

sustenance! sustenance! siete senza vergogna!
the niceties are delirious right now,
so disregard the disruptions and just kill the attaché–
boy like a bollard– so young yet so full of grievances–

incant to the sky the hungry bottoms in gimp suits, lining up the motel floor,
and their dreams drafted for another day, chauffeured by cointreau

Interlude 1:

She sighed the sigh of her parents.
Home to the genius for about five months, another half tops;
By the half of the face, the genius stops kicking, and then further dissolves
The already dwindling knot. I have seen her not cry about it.
I have seen her take a cup of coffee as if the moon ever mocked her–
The cardinal moon that barely bids and bristles and spouts,
The synchronized faces of the millions are even more hollow now.
The bus stops, the truck stops, the restrooms, the grocery outlets, coffee shops–
They offer their elegy-like energy drinks as words, as tithes on the idle of a cut. I tell you,
A cut should have been there. There should have been a day reserved for screaming,
And yelling, and boasting happily– a day reserved to be the brightest day under
The brightest lamps.

But we sigh only the sigh of our parents.
There is only the room soft for the slugabed, a room reserved for the drams.

Flashbacks 2: Suicide Beds Uno

I find the bovines lanking forward as interesting as the
Flies attracted to my ex’s waste. The cameramen got
Fired. He’s a slut in good deserve of food, of hazard
Pay, of hammer as shelter. And I know I can do better.
There must be something better just East of my Pacific:
A tonic, a buffer, a friendly fire that causes surrender.
Blind envy harbor and harbingers of sins.
Trick me into something, throw me into believing
How and that the arts will outlive both of us, honey,
And artists will grieve us both, soon as they cauterized
Their merit-free wounds and verified our bones. (Nuke
and nullify the persistence of our thrones.)

Part XI. Derisives: Collapse

Collapse, Collapse, Collapse– I bite on my literary distaste.
Nobody talk to the cloudy boy. He knows all the answers.
The answers are unseen. The question of the body, equally unclear.

Part XII. Desquamation of the Dogs

       “Jesus! I can’t believe I’m saying this but I miss the era when I was an ass-hat to everybody instead of this phishing-for-some-positivity always-over-extending-my-welcome always-cowering-for-and-from-the-disavowers kind of guy. Give me some ale and some dollop– who cares? Every arcsecond of this alcove is suboptimal, anyways; eroding my clobbered leg into a flexion, anyways. Jesus, Jesus! Pass me the bejeweled blue pardoner’s robe with the gold stripes and citrine pin, tanzanite buttons. Maybe I can write my sins on a tree bark and burn them on the tourmaline-colored fire– the Holy Fire of my made-up city. May this city tacitly object to not being nice to everybody… Like Paraiba. Para iba na silang lahat. Iba na silang lahat, at least to me.”

       …Something buzzes… Who’s there? Who’s observing me? Disregard my atrophy, and the way I feel about rolling about– the trippiest collage. The birds and the beasts and the insect almighty.

       The dog barks, pulling me yet away again. I thought the dogs were dead… I forgot if I buried them yesterday.

Flashbacks 3: Battle With The Body

                          ( Cigarette break !! Smogging !! Two Catholic girls standing
                          Outside a Catholic school !! Red plaid skirts !!
                          The pick up is late as always !!
                          A marble angel points her sword at them; pointing sans wit !! )

MARIBETH:    “They’re not nice to me because my body is not the body they want.”
CASSIE:           “Tell me, what do they want?”

Answer #1:
        “A body that performs. A body that does not object. A body that is only an object. A body that could be paraded around. A body that doesn’t bleed. A body that doesn’t eat, until you tell it to eat. A body that does not age, but if it does, it ages backwards. A body with big tits attached, and holes that appear surprised when penetrated. And two can penetrate it. Three, when the body’s feeling generous. Does this body have a mind, if not a mind that observes and takes care of its master? Does it regulate? Does it learn when to shut up? Tell me, you, is this not the body you fancy? If you really wanted a company for life, you’d want the mind, and the soul, and the heart, too. Not just the body of anybody with the perfect, silent, ruthless-but-easy-to-rule body that insults everybody else who couldn’t fit into the good bikini.”

Answer #2:
        “A body that does a lot of work. The whole work. This body is a work force in itself. This body does not care if it’s not making something, or building towards something. And O’, this body doesn’t dream! It has no new ideas. It doesn’t want to improve your anything. If it has thoughts, those thoughts can be your thoughts, no problem. You thought them in the first place, since you hired him… This body is perfect. Beat up this body. Beat it! Beat it!… Sick leave? NU UH.-Vacation? NU-UH.”

Answer #3:
        “A side-arm.”

Answer #4:
        “An accessory.”

Answer #5:
        “A plaything. A race kink.”

Answer #6:
        “A body that can model. A body that gimmicks.”

This is the second body. What use is your body?

MARIBETH:    *inhalation*
CASSIE:           “My mother is dying, y’know? She could have used a sturdier body.”

Flashbacks 4: Battle At Prom Night

The needs, the needs– they are so claustrophobic.
Messaging to send the daily digital kisses.
Click to confirm. Double down to diss.
In account of his irritability, the trees all bow.
The squeamish trees of the squeamish forest
Are translucent. Calque and spirituality are all
Around. But the shades are perfidious, turnt,
And felled into the hands of the probationary meat.
The meat is both prohibition and denomination,
The trees feel naked,

Nicked and disengaged. When did poetry and love have to have to be so meta,
Get so meta? Gnaws and retracts as a ladder, or many ladders, to the skies,
With piña colada. I bite my thumb and place it where a tooth once sat. I settled,
Clinically impulsive like lemon poppy. Jumping and jumpy,
I begged to the mug tranquil as the Life of the Syrian’s flower.
The flower smiles and weeps. It’s tears giving Life all on its around.
The tears of the trees are never stodgy, even Life is giving in.

Part XIII. Blood Pornographic

I want to learn the art that is so honest with the many peacemakers and wearers of pacemakers I’ve met.
I’m at a pharmacy of fools, thinking every prescription works the way I’d wish them to work.
But the prescription and description and elastication of art will outlaw me, just as much as it would outlive us all.
(If anxiety is the dizziness of freedom, I must be dizzy all the time, Soren.)

She with the hands, of emeralds and ruby knock-offs, said,
“I am lucky for my name, but three of my sons had been
Shot in the Holy Land.”

There, in another six to seven countries, hang an
Opus that belittles where I stand. And knowing
That they stand there revered, threatens where I am.
(Every fiber of me explodes with every strike of a master.)

It’s been three weeks of passing the same bank that smells,
And the clucks have bled petitions and posts bleeding to bleed it out.
Still, nobody’s doing no nothing. The dryads have been singing nothing.

(The smell like a heart murmur is still better than the bed
Once shared with a grunt that had been for years my limb,
Is still the better perfume than the bank erupting from his wrist.)

“Focus, Jansen! Tell me that which is in your temporary dreams!
Are they about to birth you into a cold, new, liberal city?
Will you finally concede to the touch of the snowmen?”

Part XIV. The Unbreakable Piñata

Is it time I finally learn their names like I learned the names of the stars?

My repertoire for soulmates is just that. A repertoire.
With every new shadow, I test a new color of myself.
What made our shows good is the way they evolved.
Pitfalls of the wind and the winding; outtakes with
The scryers of our autumn; ornery; and there are a
Million dragons of steel and cement in here. “Where
Are they?” “They,” I believed, “are dead.” The crows
Here speak in codes. I assume their codes are as in
The tarot’s. And their tongues are inexpensive as well
As adamant, fingering and malingering, and thriving
In the audacieux. The focus has worn off, and my
Atmosphere is warm, and I unlatch as they hatch
Another child of the black bomb of the baths.

Part XV. The Failure of Multiple Trust Fall Exercises

Ahimsa, ahimsa, ahimsa.


The want doesn’t waiver. I am still under the influence of Eris and Aphrodite.
In the case of the self, I am inconsistent. The remorse blooms like a flower that wilts just as fast.
At long last, I have known what the self desires. It is not what the hapless ever had bit on.
Every talent is wasted here… (I’m sorry, Roman. I knew you wanted so much to give this town a visit.
I hope you enjoy the company of hydrangeas. I watered them myself.)


       Let’s leave the beautiful poet alone. He will live a full life. This, I know. He will write and will have to learn how to suffer on his own. This, I am sure of. In suffering, he will hone his craft. He will learn that Sleep and Love are the only things that really called the divine.


Again, and louder this time: AHIMSA, AHIMSA, AHIMSA.

Part XVI. Just Like The Gypsy Woman Said

Ahimsa until insanity.
You will never be as insane as any real artist is insane.
The things you can perforate, they have held holes already.
They were things taken by the crows, or the dogs, or the bees.
They were taken from the ordinary.

Round and round, I go, looking for the objects that could inspire many.
I end back where I started, but now there’s only the job on the road.
Reworking the road, remodeling what is fit and what could fit in it.
The only numbers that matter are the numbers we can cut
From traffic, from expenses, from the people complaining to the politicians tired of hearing the people complaining,
From the few foreigners visiting, trying to scope out and see about what others have raved about to their readers.

I could rework the road. It could go anywhere.
But somebody told me, when I was a child,
That not everything I worry about really matters.
The road must only go one way. What I dream about
Is none of the road’s concern.

Part XVII. Squeals of Academia and Comedy

Compartmentalize! Compartmentalize and go commando, gung-ho ho;
Throw, in hyne-weakened state, into sphericals and sprawls, Snowplower.

Just draw it out a little– all the little flurries of issues, of frame jobs and loftier curveballs and hardships,
And cart me away to the sin of thine confluence– IF YOU’RE LUCKY, YOU GET THE GOOD FOLDS OF ME!
And some of my folds are hungry; some thought to be as ammo, are the skeletons of an almost-country. Sand me.

That, they was: the ANNIHILATOR;
Sewn into their bed, the mammoth of dreams, embed
Into brawls and bares of brains, raunch fests and festers and fallacies.

The tidal irony is that you’d still catch me writing and writhing about Love,
Even when I talk so clinic’lly cynic’lly against it in Life.
O’, Life. All the punches of the Academia ain’t stopping
This prudent perpetrator. All the digests of hate just ain’t bringing me down and daft;
Am drunk and daft. (Ain’t nothing enough. Ain’t nothing enough.)

Part XVIII. Middle Finger Burns

The murderers of today are efficient, well-read. And every blare
Of the morning, they put on their robes, become something else–
Beacons, vampires, hypnotizers– And they slink back into the
Back of their enablers, the unrounded masters who know not
That the monster they mothered will know no mothers at all.
Deacons and umpires and their low blood in high tide.
So casual is our fantasy but casual is as just their crusades.

But men need not be violent creatures.
We talk silently about Regionalism,
Holding the noncommittal hand of the other–
What was unclear is now clear. The love that’s
Supposed to be a drive through is now a tunnel
That forks into fifty. In our grimdark legalese,
Them luminaries of bonhomie armament and
Geniality, the moonstones are made available
For picking. I can finally pick being better now,
And not just the better alone, no better in
Absorbiums, sorbere un sex dungeons.
Steady is the foot, and steady are our unmetric ledes.
Men, O’ men, need not then be violent creatures.
The men here are adept to love, love, more than
Anything, more than procedures.

You never know when the words you throw away
So casually become somebody’s lifeboat. So I say
To the crow that has been sitting on the wire,
“Blindly, relentlessly pursue your creative efforts.”
Doth the crow have other efforts, tho? Doth they
Know of something else? They know the moon.
The moon is but crescent, the reputation of the charm-ly.

I could doubt him like every season doubts the next.
Who would take better care of the leaves than me? I
Let all the divine down. The stump is all that stands
Unscathed. I turn to the driver liar. The moon is but
Crescent, the failing of my memory.

I worried about paper ’til I couldn’t pay the hospital bills.
I stopped, dead in my tracks. The station is of absinthe–
My mind now planetary. The heat scathes me, bares my
Mind just a little to be lesser. The flock dressed in atrophy,
An Interceptor to Glory, and it is big, O’, the Glory…

And I swear my best hours are the hours hugging pills,
When everything written no longer makes sense.
What am I doing? What are these all for, even?
The station is of absinthe, O’, the lowly solitary.

I could never truly find another that was this this…
This gift, along with this witty banter, this odious lease,
These laughable and affable tampers,
The lemmings left scouring in our derelicts…

All of our privies and our private revenges splurge into some of the opportunist’s whisky sour,
Telegraphing bleaknesses and savory trysts– a countdown to the must-downs…
I have much to go on here: a basket stacked with luminol, persimmons,
Some book about haptics, some craft services farcicalities, a babbling brook and a garbage can fire…
Funny how I can all these, I can fit into small spaces, much as the girth of Venus enunciating our something-somethings…
Bracketed eviscerators for our parcel predestinations and potluck runts, our going nowheres and accomplishing nothings…
And I’m sorry that I couldn’t make you better, Love. I’m sorry I couldn’t device a plan through my inaction…
You were always so much better in my head… So much better, you can do… So much better, you can… I just know you can…

(Keep me as your particularly tiny voice and tip me in nothing but only coins.)

Flashbacks 5: Suicide Beds Dos

“I want to be doing good at the time you’d think I’m not.”
Life is more life with synesthesia. Can you see the colors
Of your hells now? O’, moon kitten, would you come
And kill me? Your jeans are the same color as my tears.
I do not trust these variables. They are completely oblique.
Moguls and manors; debilitations, exalts the fluke cerebrals
And salted significations;

I figured since the day of the white roses that all my merries
Will be merries with you. And I don’t blame bombs, nor
Famine, nor months without a cent, months without arrest,
Months without mouths like chicklings, nor quacks, nor God.

I have existed way before you, Lover. I will remeet again
With that man, and remerge, if O’ so organically. Convert
All these chatting with kip revolutionaries of my timeline,
Patching pipes, ’cause I’m pretty like a Pope. I am a poet.
I must do what poets do. I’m a drinker. I will move away
From the blizzards of the booze. I will overlook the maiden
From Salford. I will cower at my own bathroom humor.
I will unlatch from Jesus and Rupi and Shakespeare and
Tolstoy, too. I will watch the skittles of my off-white crew
-Neck unsever from the tiger skinned patterns of journeyer
That tells me my fortune, too. It thinks I have more than
Around twenty years. Fifteen, with cigarettes. Ten, with
Disease. My skin is the ocean when the hail meets with it.
There had been no other hail since the train you carried.

And there, the smoke let rise. And there, the orchards decay.
Dowsed with the faint-as-pearls ribbitings, endometrial camellian willpower.
I have dismembered the bloodied body of a lover, existing now only as a letter, a reminder’s remainder,
And brown is the pot as bald as the linings of Mars, a bocaccio without an inch of power.

Interlude 3: Aries Rising

With every thump, the asphalt cracks, and the bubbles rise.
Thick, almost-sentient, looking-like-sentient, tears of Yahweh.
Pink, green, pink, green, blue, gold sweat and tears of Yahweh
Climb, and plop!, and pop! Every drop of the paints of Yahweh
Counters the heat from the sky that is also Yahweh’s eye.
(All of Yahweh’s childs are dancing from their teeth. The shake
Of the woman’s orb causes it. Is your father angered by peakers?
Does the cheat intimidate the will of the bush that had burned?)

                                    Naulan na. Naulan na. Bulan, kulam, Bakunawa.
        Naulan na. Tayo’t matut’yo at mamamatay nanaman. Ano r’w ba?

Part XIX: Gracelessness

“My favorite,
Read to me my favorite.”

       “It is a useless life that is not consecrated to a great ideal. It is like a stone wasted on the field without becoming a part of any edifice.”

“The hydrangeas are beautiful, but not as beautiful as the sun.
It is what it is. What remains of the song is what was recorded.
Even the mouth rots. Even the mouth rinses.

“But libraries, too, burn. And data, even, gets corrupted.
If I tell you that I am in hell, rejected by heaven, will you rush towards me, regardless?”


“It takes some getting used to.”– hell.
It takes some getting used to–
Snorting the rails of whatever comes practical,
Come high-water, come war, come the bomb, come hell,
Come hedging on festoons so bullishly and without charm,
Like a hefty majoritatian coercing with abuse and sludges of inaction,

“We may all go the way of Patrice.”

“Whatever tickles your boats.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Boats can’t feel. Boats aren’t ticklish.”
“Unless they’re sentient.”
“Sentient boats, then. Got it. Got it.”

Sneakier and a sign that reads, “Please, do not encourage his behavior.”
He mullers at the thoughts of straddles– him and his declarative alignments,
Hidden under crullers and a box of chicken fingers,
Amples of decency scrubbed from a timeline growing weary, repetitive and reticent.

It beats the abundance of unsweetened days.
Lightheaded, I fence my defenses, and try to conquer the sun.
I have sworn to it over allays and whirrings.
The sun, too, was derisive, seeks only for the grass to expand.

“I will find them. I will stop them. And I will deliver them to you,
Like blueberries drying in the dim.”

Zoning in, then out, from the missing manor that boasted once
The biggest closets and suits of every color,
And a backyard that made my schemes look so irrelevant.

I suspect the walls and the wheels talk to each other.
Amen to cran-apple attritions from Aruba ratified, conceivable,
Thither and thither–
For compromise is the way of the elder gods.

(You’d think they’d mold us perfect, but they kind of just shrugged at the sight of our mortal bodies.
I know of a mortal body. I loved one once.)

Front row seats to the chaotic, the staging echoes my distress.
Guilt charges and challenges. Guilt silences like last moon’s passed-up crusade.

Do not feed the melting down but with crab fried rice and some fish.
Thoughts of teepees and Queen Thermopolis post-three in the morning
For the attenuation of the foolish egalitarian, hordes, their pinches,
Their enfeebling appeals to nature and sapping reluctance
Overlapping gifts and pranks and lies like sweet cakes for my jurists.
The rulings are prone to the aloofness of the inner Blandal Savage,
Explosive skims and replace-ants for the antsy with the unflappable
Wrenching ruse and booze and tidbits of sinews.
And, holy shit, did they really paint the ghost of what was my room.
And the hours pass, and the storm-born’s still standing,
And all are feeling a little less repository,
And a hella lot more religious.
Around the colourful halal carts and the many mascots
Surrounding the edges of Bonifacio High Street,
My memories of it, and walking in then out of the hazy,
I talked to nobody, for “Big words never really amounted to anything.
They were never the hallmark of the person his person has or had ever been drawn to.”

It may take your whole life; it may take the flattening of many capricious mountains;
It may drag you to banters with pointlessness and no luck situations and depowerings;
It may ask you to crawl through, embellished with prohibition and praxis,

The dividing allures of the indirects and the dirtily damned;
Get me five shots of horny biscuity brandy to dissect my meltdown here in the slugs
Like in Milwaukee where I once had a happy day.

But that day has passed, and now,
Thinking about well-reasoned rewilding and dicery and defrauding my deadlines set in some other place,
I would love to ask this poet to fix with me behind the nearest depot.


We’re singing some Solana through cupped hands, practicing our discursives saddled in a blue van bought from Chefchaouen.

I will never be with a man who fails to understand the value of communicating.
Succinct mails fall to flatter. In nervousness and reticence, I will so wholely scour,
Readily and swimmingly, as well, past boostrapping and devour.

Land-lordess, fuel for lapses in urgency, rethreadings of commercial, seed money for the sea monkeys.
Then, the land-lordess advents her gambit. She then waddles the tank unbrined.

(Nuke and nullify
The invasive slippery tome, just as long as somebody out there gives
What is close to a tertiary damn.)


The hands of the empress is frail. The Knave has been shot.
The stag, just as much… All we know about the women
Are their pasts. They have peaked. They have both passed.

                                           Unsa atuang maab’tan dinhe? (Ala.)
                                          Kinsa’y mutubang sa paglilihi? (ALA!)

Kayang-kayang kalimutan na.
Kanya-kanyang kalokohan.


Give him some hope, some homework, then yank it out from him while he’s busy with ‘is finishing touched.
That’ll give life a shake-up. That’ll make him re-taste where you prepared with him gamja-jeon.
Carry on. Carry on. Take the money you earned from reselling our once rose-colored home,
And never come back.

“But come only to find me.”


“For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.”

The pearl tear of her pearl son alarmed. “She should have died with her Ma-meh. Ma-meh Demonia,
The plague, ‘e stem o’ Shylock. I should have leaved her in the fields ovv golden teeth.
From the’e, I might have a chance to live and read my cards, re-read the tea leaves.
From the’e, she may have breathed on her own Semitic sins.”

“I had a son, too,” injected Maribeth. “He was a builder of things. He was a talker.
It was the talking that ended ‘im. It was the talking where he began to build.”


He! He! Lover He and Holy He–
Made some lines and instantly became more successful than I
At the banned ritual. I have been practicing for thirty years. I–
Have been blaming him for it. (There’s not much I can do about much things, is there?
When one-too-many divine works are fleshed out and stretched, and sketched,
One’s dream can then rest. One cycle completed. One other left.)

…But there was a sadness in your eyes that closed the most beautiful part of the week.

And the frame is leaking. And your fame is oblique.
I blame the rites of passage. I blame inheriting the shame of our ways.
I blame how easy it is to relax, to relive, and to release.

They wanted you not before you made a name for yourself
In your comical way of an exit. Now, you are known. Is this what you wanted?
Tell me through the cards, later, if this is what you think you deserve.

(XIX.VIII – Valhala and the Separated Spirits)

Below, the disco hoe stumbles, lanking forward in a motion only known to the deserters of the oceans and streams.
They make their incision, keen on minimizing the energy unspent. There are just so many decisions left to be made,
And one of them is never saying sorry to the bandits.

I don’t feel the need to apologize for my habits–
The habits you forced into my skin.
I’m still looking up everything you liked.
I’m still trying to hack this system.

“This black gem, do you see it? Will you want to replace our tear with it? Will you carry it, cleanse it, decorate your body with it? When the body rejects every decision made in the last two years, will you sing a song of regret? Will you shine a lamp on everything, even to the excess ten minutes?”
“I know you will will yourself to detach from my streams again.”
“I know now. I know what to bring.”

He’s back in Reseda now, I think…
He owes my bedroom door nothing, as I owe him nothing.

I just bought my first plane ticket in years.
I will give him everything even when I owe him nothing.

Flashbacks 6: Before The Body of the Crow

“You talk too much and too fast to be living in this era of the succinct.”
“Acher, I really can learn all of you just through your adjectives.”
“But it’s not at all crazy to grieve farther that the many a mileage of a missed relationship.”
“We chose this instead of a normal life. The life that we lead as romantics, crazy and clichéd.”
“How about I talk you into a second date?”
“Can I talk you now for a fifth?”
“You’re making me late for work again.”
“Ten more minutes, please.”
“Sure. Ten more minutes.”
“It’s finally happened. It’s legal again now.”
“But not here.”
“Then we visit.”
“Then we cross.”
“We should celebrate.”
“We should hurry.”
“Do you think this apartment is big enough? Three bedrooms, one bathroom?”
(“Strange, requesting for a pearl.”)
(“I hope the pearl is big enough.”)
“Interceptor! Interceptor! Come here, boy!”
“It’s getting late.”
“Ten more months, please.”
“Sure. Ten more months.”
“I know of a good photographer.”
“Your brother’s still in a band, yes?”
“Will we cross?”
“We have to return.”
“So, not your brother’s band, then?”
“They still do not accept.”
“How about your best friend?”
“Jansen will do it.”
“It’s okay. We’ll be together.”
“But when we come back, if not acknowledged, would it even matter?”
“Everything with you, to me, matters.”
“If you want, we could experiment.”
“Seven years… Not bad.”
“The experiment is over.”
“Ten more minutes please.”
“I miss the barking at night.”
“Me, too… Ten more minutes, please.”


“You can really hear the ground rattle.”
“Do you really have to go?”
“You saw the news… What they did to my town…”
“Napatay rin ang kapatid ko! My Cassie… Kasama na ni ma…”
“Do you really have to adhere to rank.”
“Everything to keep you safe.”


“Please talk to me.”


“Please talk to me.”


                                     BANG BANG!
“What did they do to you there?”
                                     BANG BANG!
“What sins did you commit?”


“Please say something.”
“Stop it.”
“Please eat something.”
“Stop it.”
“It’s the only thing that gets me to talk.”
“Ten more needles, please.”


I know he knows that the right words do not just dawn on him as naturally as they do to me,
So he makes sure that every sigh and three-worded reply are absolutely killing,
Conveys ruthlessness within milliseconds. But I am, in my vanity,
In no ways to be refitted. Needed too much attention,
Something only someone with nothing could give.

Believe me, kid, if these words could only afford to have consoled you,
I would have stopped at nothing. (NOTHING, you hear me?


“I am now published.”
“I finished my painting.”
“The critics loved it.”
“My obra won’t sell.”
“What did Doctor Dela Rosa say?”
“Just a little jaundiced.”
“I’m sure it will all go well.”
“Should have wished for me to stay.”


“You said that you would stop at nothing.”
“You never read me.”
“You never listened.”
“I saw… Ten more minutes?”
“Ten more minutes to love me.”
“Ten more minutes to live.

What I wrote inspired his passing. Am I just as guilty as the cobs?

Part XX. Venom To Venom

Give me your honest meditations, Medusa. Give me psalms that turn trespassers into stone.
You, re-woven ‘to scales, hated with all your uncountable eyes. I still tried to kiss you, though.

“And, later, I will divulge to you a network of lamentations,
A bride for the forsaking of my conspiracy,
For there has never been anybody outside your rooms of shame,
Only a collapsed sadhu– the one we should have all not believed in.”

Armistice, I know you talk the talk of bees.
I would have loved to hear that many a voice under fire and under violin,
Under tuning and under twirly, so many wild hogs going after a maize,

Félix Vallotton and 27 dirty slates, dirty staves and I am safe, I am safe,
Do declare the world shaped, shaved, and spaced,
The percussions are now banging loud!

“For it only wanted its color in view.” The yellow color waned. The yellow color wasted.
Silesian, I am both brute and salvager. Here the crows do me no harm.
The crows are on my beside. Black and velvety and phasing is my bedrock.

Interlude 3: Chants

              We will not be losing the light. We will not be losing the light.
                                                                      The light that so often follows.

              We will not be losing the light. We will not be losing the light.
                                                       That, which, in ourselves, is our cargo.

Of that to ascend lest niche may ‘ere blue,
Spoke with tenders, you sling, but shot the moon.
“It has no appeal to me, the evil twangs of November.
Too late or too early, and as fashionable as a sinner.
Who, be, the audience here, and to whom do they
Deliver? We failed our lists in excess, so, too, punch,
Anteloping and redeveloping for another. (Another!)
Sweet-ass sentiment.”

We will not be losing the light. We will not be losing the light.

Part XXI: The Echo-Trap

“My favorite,
Read to me my favorite.”

       “…To the questioning glance of love, as it flashes out and then conceals itself, speech has no reply; the smile, the kiss, the sigh answer… Soon the two lovers… found themselves on the azotea where they could commune in liberty among the little arbors. What did they tell each other… Tell it, you who have fragrance in your breath and color on your lips. And thou, O zephyr, who learnest rare harmonies in the stillness of the dark night…! Tell it,… brilliant manifestation upon earth of the Eternal, sole immaterial essence in a material world…”

“The hydrangeas are beautiful, but not as beautiful as the sun…
Please find my body in Reseda. Please come. Please come.”

Part XXII. Part XXII. The Fifth Joyful Mystery†

Harangan sa harapan ang Harangue! Harangue!

       “Our freedom is this: to submit to truth.”

I, then, submit my truth to you, but

       “The truth is a trap: you can not get it without it getting you; you cannot get the truth by capturing it, only by its capturing you.”

Jansen played a tribute to the gone and would not stop,
But he has a great tune to it, a sort of mastery… I’m going to let it sift with

Sweet kicks borrowed from those who borrow Sleep and those who borrow Love.
(I do not need to be slept against so slowly.)

But even I had no idea just how powerful my desire to be aesthetically intimidating is.
For my work, with every five minutes, I pray the Hail Maries of The Beautiful to be beautiful.
Every part of me believes that I am sinking. Let me then, Mary, please. Let me, then, sink.

The sky has not yet changed in color. My skin, much angrier now.
The shade of our oracle’s house– again on the left. And, to think, perhaps,
I willed the ticking broken.

(I will try again. I must try again.
I could convince the watchers, but the crows have already left.
The wires are still. The trucks now abandoned.)

But my scorn has shifted. Bouts of madness and overtures flinching by the snap of two fingers,
And the air of the abandoned shed smells like salt.
And I have had no idea how dangerous uncertainty can will itself to be.
Let me then, Mary, please. Let me be so dangerously certain.


ॐ भूर्भुवः स्वः ।
भर्गो॑ दे॒वस्य॑धीमहि ।
धियो॒ यो नः॑ प्रचो॒दया॑त् ॥

    « Bible of the Bee Money, Execution, Order »   

View all of Playground of the True Bee-Keeper

"Sharing is caring." If you like what I write, please pass on the links of my selected works to your friends. Tweet me @ethananarchy, like my page on Facebook, and buy my book. Thanks, dear reader! 💚💜🐊🐳
This microblog claims no ownership to any images, music or videos unless stated otherwise.
© 2021 Ethan Anarchy . Some rights reserved
New releases  |  Announcements  |  Daily Musings
Short stories  |  Novelettes  |  Amazon  |  Store
Arquivos  |  Prohektos  |  Sobre  |  Contato