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”



Revolutio Perpetua

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!

Celebrities are not Humans

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.

Are you?


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.


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.

On Anti-Poem

“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

The Ethical Suicide

This Mortal Coil by Donna McGee

Perhaps to kill the self is baleful
Indeed— it casts the infliction
unto others: a displacement of pain

so first we must forget each other:
I shall depart from your precognition
and dwell within the unconscious

so farewell till the next hypnosis.