Manners of a Storm

A slur of rain falls coyly by my window.
With a velocity of a snail,
two droplets meet to form a vesicle,
full of miracles.

And down they slither
as if towards the groin
to end in quiet splish,
a memorable sound.

Yet the weather gains speed,
the droplets in abundance
their collisions too permissive.
Their sounds too indistinct,

Too many,
a beauty, unlauded.

Sa Pagtili ng Gulong

Balak pa niya akong halikan,
ngunit siya’y naupo sa likod
ng manibela, at ako sa likod
ng kanyang kinauupuan.

Hindi naman maaring
bigla siyang tatabi sa akin,
at itigil ang pagtakbo.

Sa gitna nga naman 
kami ng daan,
at maraming pang iba’y 
maaring masaktan 
sa aming panandaliang
pagmamahalan.

Slacks: matte, sleek, straight-cut

Crisp white shirt.
Slacks: matte, sleek,
straight-cut.
It falls impeccably at the right
inch of your similarly
immaculate dress shoes.
Then, one wonders,
if your socks complement
the shade of gray of your bag,
my polycythemic heart
to that of your underwear.

Do not get me wrong. 
One cannot predict its color
by merely distinguishing
the bulking cloth against 
your slacks: matte, sleek,
straight-cut. 
The intuition merely tells me 
so. The intuition, unnatural
to my sex.

Hands

I’d ask for your hand if you had one. 
One that would actually play with 
the short hairs on my arms, 
possibly the curly ones 
thinly scattered on my groin.
But there are no hands
that are entirely mine.
None at all. 

For all we know, 
the hands are for something else,
their touch for someone’s hands
far different from the frost
of my own.

Full but Empty

While the moon is up,
like a giant penny,
I thought I missed you
knowing it’s a 50/50
you’re looking at her
the same way I am.

We love moons.

Only them,
not each other.

Nightmare Nymph

Swimming in my mug
was a ruddy girl in nude
wrapped in muddy, swamp-ish brown,
that assuming she was white
she dipped herself in delight,
in Brazilian coffee to drown.

Such entertainments arose—
nightmare nymphs in coffees—
as I write my prose.

Undress

Wedge between the lobes.
Tear your garments, unclad your robes.
Undress. See beneath the flesh,
the hands that toy your breasts.
Pen upon your navel,
draw me some,
draw me more,
draw me words,
words cut like swords.
Feel the thought, death by train.
Undress. Orgasms in my brain.

Sex with strangers

My pet Chihuahua barks
when he senses someone
waiting for me at the
front gate, reckoning
not to ring the doorbell,
he sends me a message
instead, Get me in!
quite impatient horndog,
he would’ve desired me
to kneel before him
and send him to Eden
right then and there
on the asphalt.

Memories at Ongpin

The first time I went to Chinatown and actually strolled around was that time you asked me out for lunch. We got down at Ongpin and lead me to this almost dilapidated but nevertheless crowded restaurant I’d assume was famous for your Chinese dish of choice, Peking duck.

Now, I never had Peking duck my whole life. To be honest, thinking about eating duck makes me puke, but then again I wonder why Balut’s an all-time personal favorite. I think I’ve mentioned that to you once or twice in one of our coffee dates previously, and sooner or later you’ve managed to spot that loophole and accused me of hypocrisy, shallow this hypocrisy of mine might be. You say, “What’s the difference between duck eggs and duck meat, Christ.”

“Obviously, my favorite happens to be the egg, and yours happens to be the meat.”

“But they’re both ducks! There’s just the slightest difference of presentation,” you defended, a bit too excitedly for that matter that by the time you finished your sentence, we noticed all the Chinese people eating around us, in a clamor of Chinese chitchat, had stopped for a moment to see who was shouting in Tagalog.

I found myself laughing out loud, while you turn red like boiled ham. I didn’t mind; I wasn’t self-conscious as you are.

“Just order our Peking duck,” he told me in a whisper, still embarrassed.

“Ours? It’s all yours. I’m still having my broccoli.”

I called out our waiter, of matured age, and as he walks toward our direction, he looks at my hand holding yours, since that moment we’ve gone inside their door. I paid no heed to the way he stares at our entwined fingers. I didn’t mind anyway; I wasn’t self-conscious as you are.

Partition

If I was only after your skin,
I would have cut them to pieces.
Make paper planes out of
your mottled skin, wax off
what’s left of thin hair
embedded beneath pores,
leave love notes, that when they
gently land on my other lovers’
tables, they’ll read them quietly
to find me surprisingly
a mellifluous poet.
And maybe, just maybe
they’ll fold them back,
your skin, and turn them
in more complex origami.
Say, a rooster
or Loch Ness,
or better,
Cthulhu.

They send them
back to me by snail mail,
caught unaware paper planes
made of your skin
can turn to monsters
with secrets to tell…

…love letters left in the limbos of lusts
amok.