The Doppler Effect

For J –

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.

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