It’s about three years already since I’ve started posting things on this blog, to which I’m not really sure if it’s successful or not. I didn’t aim to have regular viewers, as all of my writings are for personal purpose, and for one reason it kind of helped me find the love of my life with this blog and its contents.
But me personally grows and my thoughts have really transformed throughout the years. I visited this site again and felt like it was written by a different person. I am not ashamed of what I’ve written, even I now disagree to most of its writings. As a final writing I’ve revised one of my first prose attempts in this blog. This is mostly grammatical fixes and a narrative style update, making it more somewhat along my aesthetics.
However, I won’t stop writing. Instead, that I felt alien to my past works here, I decided to abandon it for its own good. I became unable to identify with it, and should I continue posting, I doubt it would still have the same spirit as what the past me has before. In fact, I no longer have that artistic spirit.
That’s why, my new blog, packtsardines, will be no longer associated to poetry and other fictional writing. It will be more about nonfiction, such as notes about psychology, my course, and other things like theory, shitposting, etc. This is also made solely to improve my writing (hopefully academic writing) to help me prepare for what is to be done in the future, if there would be one.
I’m pretty sure that my followers are mostly bots who follow for exposure, but who cares. If there’s a person who would read this, thank you for the time. I appreciate all your efforts of reading through my nonsensical ideas, and I hope you also have the time to check out my new blog.
Goodbye, and thank you.
I see myself by the river, crossing
The current runs north, rushing
against my feet, swelling
from standing in the center
of the madding crowd, wearing
yellow and red, crying
against each other
“I don’t know my own position,” Lacaba saying
while I, standing
the fleshes are being
torn away: “Do they?”
asked one voice, laughing
then poofs to thin air
while I find myself
still in the center, echoing
“I don’t know my own position”
I once stopped to think of the envies of life
Destitute and helpless I have seen the worsts of all:
Poverty, moral depravity, darkness beyond measure
Though I would regard much about it no more
Had once desired those idle idylls which bore no value
And times have been, darkness ensued
Nihilistic delusions, cynicism at its core
Once thought apathy and indifference
Would make one a better number
All ended to nothing, mortal regression
But redemption comes due
I think again of the envies of life
Still a destitute, but not helpless
I am deaf and blind no more
Perhaps the meaning of life
Lacks certitude, away from solitude
But found on the human condition,
and ultimately, social revolution!
I am for nothing but the world
and the world is but the people!
They aren’t, I tell you.
Neither they are aliens; they are objects
similar to a dildo
some are idols
a reason for living
and for dying— for most
bad and good asses
but some are fake
all are fake
all became fake
What difference does Gal Gadot have to a cake?
Except the former is unpalatable, both are consumed.
They are commodities, fetishized by consumers— like you
They earn for a living, it is then genuine labor
the difference is— they work from you
and you— work for them.
no one works for you,
unless you’re not human.
Like I told you, they aren’t.
The case of desensitized people in the urban milieu (be it the middle or the poor) in this time of atrocities has become rampant, soon to be rife (or it is already rife). We assimilate this fascist culture of repressing political dissidents which threaten the “peace” which shrouds the exploitation of labor through surplus of the working class and marginalization of minority groups, yours truly by bourgeois politics and bureaucrat-capitalism, fashioned into populist state fascism backed by western imperialism, the last (hopefully) stage of capitalism into our ideological preconscious which waters down further violent reactions from the diminishing shock-value of phenomena.
There is no doubt on the fact that we [the urban denizens] don’t know what are our neighbor’s businesses or even their respective names. We only know of their presence but still act and think as if we are within a vacuum; we wait for the menace to be sucked into our immediate sense-triggers which could endanger our immediate lives. Carpe diem.
We don’t care [anymore].
Woke up as I had slept late yesterday
Tired from asinine schooling
Not yet enrolled but attending classes
But today, happens to be my rest day.
Freud, Lacan, and Castaway
I don’t know— I must do something for her birthday
The will permits— but is unable
Deterred by the feeble mind
Subdued by procrastination
I want to do something.
Conflict is what we loathe and longed for
On leisure, cause, and purpose
Mao affirmed it inherent
on the nature of man:
On the verge of vying
there is one certainly dying
On screens we search for it
On boring days we avoid it
we find conflicts on our boring stories
as we avoid them on our boring lives.
You say they are drags;
they are useless as trash
you don’t care—
because it doesn’t affect you.
Your perception is supreme—
yes, they have nothing but their voices,
their feet to coalesce,
and their hands to loosen
the chains which hinder them—
but it was not but a chain;
it comes with a handcuff.
You, where do you use your hands?
for working hard on your new job.
May I know what that job is?
O, in the factory, yes—
making more chains and handcuffs.
She conceals herself with a mask,
and you, in your bona fide decorum
you condemn her with words
dripped in sweat and blood—
you try to strip her only property
unaware of what is yours
and what is theirs—
—but all is a slut for the right person.
“Is obscurity – the very trick that makes them beyond reach, almost mystical – merely a game laid-out to trap you? Is this fair?”
It is not the altitude which made it unreachable
or its depth which made it never unearthable
It is the hubris which ascends poets in pretense
and preempts their craft from being reached
It is a hollow receptacle filled with illusions
guided by their awe to mysteries
and their insatiable curiosities
“Yup, poets are calculating merchants trading on sentiments. Once you read a sad poem just think: A ghost is pulling your legs. It’s not real.”
real. not real. unreal. never real.
poets but exist within contexts and symbols.
without – never real.
they are those who seek life in lifeless letters
and warmth in cold phrases
in the most idealistic way.
Inspired by Edel Garcellano’s Anti-Poem