Saturday, December 22, 2012

Friday, December 21, 2012


Molt your plummage away
Urn ashes twined with the breeze
Shrill your cry echoing
Erebor beckons

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Brain Fart: Excuse Me

Puso ko lang mataba, hindi ako!


Sunday, December 16, 2012

Alta Moments

Friday, December 14, 2012


Wednesday, December 12, 2012

The Reckoning

Saturday, December 8, 2012

Mind Games

Thursday, December 6, 2012

The Memory of Friends

Dust gathers upon
the paper that lies

in wait.

      I fester within

the confines of your inkwell
my hopes, frayed
                   quills lost
to dust:

swathe my mailbox
                 scour the rusted farce
                 flake away the painted mask

            rub. my present. raw.

                        farewell my past

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Flipping Channels

Channeling fuck-you-evaporate-please.

Monday, November 26, 2012

Pick-Up Line of the Day: Bulate

Kirk: Masarap sigurong maging bulate sa loob ng tiyan mo.


Sunday, November 25, 2012


MTV blares on, the two of you spellbound, until a string of K-Pop songs breaks the spell. He endures Animax for a few minutes before asking why you watch the show in the first place. You toss the remote at him, asking if he knows Nat Geo's channel. He flips through shows, muttering about the impracticality of cable tv when you couldn't watch all the shows anyway until he finds Discovery channel. He watches with the attention a child might pay a bedtime story up until the show ends. He gets up, and tells you to flip the covers and the bedthemselves to look for things that might get left behind. He reminds you of your shirt upon the dresser before heading out. Unsurprisingly, you get up to leave as the door shuts behind him.

You never know what goes on in his head. One moment you're walking with him, and the next he wanders off. He eventually shows up and tosses your shirt at you, smirking.

"Well, I did tell you to look," his voice carries on without need for volume, "You were drunk beyond help last night, and we'd never let you sleep with that wet shirt on."

He walks around in his boxers with a quiet confidence and speakscandidly. He regards things cooly, and he doesn't seem the type to get surprised easily. You never know what goes on in his head. One moment you're floating on a water pipe, smoking in the tiny pool amidst your colleagues, the next he puckers his lips and asks for a draught. Unsurprisingly, you oblige, your fingers brushing the bow of his lips ever so lightly.

His brand of remoteness is a beacon drawing you in, moth-like, as helpless and as willing as you are. You glide over his contours in your dreams as you taste the salt of his being: you are his captive, utterly and completely bound to him.

You have his name, but not his heart.

Friday, November 23, 2012








I do want you.

Lie down.

Take off all your clothes.

Thursday, November 22, 2012

Brain Fart

I have your name, not your heart.

Saturday, November 17, 2012

Who Knows


Love lives. Maybe.

Thursday, November 15, 2012

Manila, Manila

Manila I'm coming home.

Friday, November 9, 2012


One considers taking wing to start anew and take root, deeply, in new horizons where the naked truth is laid down without prejudice.


Tuesday, November 6, 2012

A Letter to the Blind

You realized you were special, right? I liked you, at least. That's why you drifted away, isn't it? Being yourself, I suppose that is a given, still, you are a jerk.

The days pass and I coast along, indifferent, well, unfeeling, at least. I still feel, if only selectively more attuned to the many shades of gloom. If I were as naive as I was then, I'd claim that not a day passes without you intruding my thoughts. Of late, you are a passing thought, brief, but still potent. You may have lost your edge or I am probably better tempered, but you still leave impressions. I could say more but the honesty of the romanticism is already spread too thin. 

When things turn bad, I think about you so I don't have to think about them. I'm an escapist like you. I just do it differently. 

In strange ways, you've become my excuse, and in many permutations, a sorry one. 

Monday, November 5, 2012


This is a test post.

Friday, November 2, 2012

Happiness Hit Him Like a Train on a Track

Gomez Addams meets Salvador Dali meets Halloween meets Spiral Prince who reasons he smiles because it is free.

Thursday, October 18, 2012

That Day at SM

I knew for certain that here was a brother, and in ways his own, a father.
Kindred souls sundered at birth, severed by blood, bridged by chance.

Friday, October 5, 2012

Today Feels Like

I am done with my graceless heart
So tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart
Cause I like to keep my issues strong
It's always darkest before the dawn

Find nourishment in poetry and song. There is peace to be had behind infinite bokehs, some as brief as drying watercolors.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

I Give The Final Blow

It's too late to fight. It ends tonight.

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

I Was Told I Should Be As A Tree

They let the birds perch and fly, with no intention to call them when they come and no longing for their return when they fly away.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

As Far As And Even Beyond What The Eye Can See

Sand. Sand. Silken salmon shimmering sand. I am drowning in the sand. There is only the sand.

Monday, October 1, 2012

Voiceless, I Long to Whisper

To bare. To be someone's Muse.

Sunday, September 30, 2012

Saturday, September 29, 2012

Monday, September 24, 2012

Spiral Thinks

We mind the emptiness of space more than the space that fills the emptiness.

Saturday, September 22, 2012

regrets              collect             like             old             friends
here     to    relive    your    darkest   moments
I        CAN       SEE       NO      WAY
       CAN       SEE       NO      WAY
AND         ALL         OF         THE       GHOULS        COME       OUT         TO        PLAY
and  every  demon wants his  pound of flesh
but    I    like    to   keep   some   things  to  myself
IT'S          ALWAYS          DARKEST 
BEFORE            THE            DAWN

Saturday, September 15, 2012


Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Late: Ties

To say that it struck like lightning would be folly, a vain attempt to sunder from all liabilities. There were signs:   going incommunicado for hours, for days; disappearing acts that conclude at the blasphemous hour of three in the morning; money lost under the guise of being pickpocketed, of being held up for the first time ever(and he was a giant of a man, at that); rare material wants denied(and yet he just bought two, three phones, among other things); women in provocative poses infesting wallpapers like an epidemic, like a teen driven by hormones(and he was 56, with a wife, and three kids); wallet and phones nowhere hid, even for his spouse(as was said, he just bought new ones for himself); red lace in his suitcase that nobody owned, id pictures of a wench in his suitcase unnamed(and my mother kept this secret for half a year and two, kept her grief to herself). These were pustules in the pretty picture we had in our heads. We did not pry: it was too late when the tumor revealed itself.

To say that we were pre-occupied, that we did not care could be an excuse, a ruse: an easy way out. He never spoke during the confrontation, even when the mistress(and there were three, sisters, in fact) admitted,  then subsequently denied all allegations. The tangled loops and frayed ends of her stories, her lies, her myths sprung from her mouth like sentient, resilient weeds, even as the noose tightened about her neck, even as we doused the kindling, the logs, as we lit our torches. He stood silent. The tears ran freely from mama's eyes and her wails warbled, dissonant, profound: her dreams she kept in a box all these years for the man who swore to be her strength, they broke free from their velvet prison wilted and dried and black; the dignity she's held on to all these years, she let go: she was a husk, a woman scorned, a wife scorned, a mother scorned whose anger and anguish wove from sobs to screams to sobs to screams. I held on to her, and my cousin, too, consoling the inconsolable, asking her not to give in: that she had children. Even as we gave her water to calm her down, he stood silent.

To say that we were unaware is a lie. We had an inkling, and it whispered to us in our sleep, yet we denied it. To assume that everything could go back to the way it was is foolish: how do you make whole the slivers of maligned crystal? Who knows? Maybe it is all too late.

Miranda Lambert
The House That Built Me

citybuoy | ♔ıǝɹɯɐı♔ | ןıuǝ oɟ ɟןıƃɥʇ | Manila Bitch | Orange Wit | Spiral Prince

Image owned by Spiral Prince

Thursday, July 26, 2012

These Days

Dreams dwindle the afternoons: the city softly blurring into the periphery of vision; the stereo churning out songs punctuated by (our) laughter, rhythmic reminders of lyrics lost in the mirth; the shades shielding against the glare. We slow to a crawl, making memories, freezing moments, listening to shutters whir away.

We ripple away from lazy power lines, from bright commercial facades, from looming billboards(THIS AD SPACE IS AVAILABLE). Road signs tell us we move closer to our destination(  Mandaue City ↓  ,) wherever that is. Our conversations turn to photographs:  life metamorphoses to the surreal when viewed through a lens, when boxed in a photograph; our conversations turn to art: we create for the joy of creation; our conversations turn to poetry: abandon all hope, ye who enters. We go in circles, their circumferences degenerating, our conversations spiraling to love: you don't know it yet, but you're renting a one-bedroom flat in my mind.

One drifts off to sleep, briefly worn, the diffused light resting on the planes of his face, delving the recesses of laugh lines, peeping from the shade of his jawline, from behind his cheekbones; the other's hand ensconcing his, welcoming the soul beneath the callouses.

The sky, ablaze with shades of red beyond count, and the horizon, caked with diamond dust, greet waking eyes, their edges crinkled, roused from slumber by an insistent breath towards his ears, stray locks quivering in delight. We sit on the hood, living memories: listening to the waves hiss in surrender(or was it bliss we heard?) as their brief lives end, beyond all control, upon rocks, only to be raised again; capturing moments: the spray and the foam always frozen in flight.

We go on, lost in anecdotes: this one time, at ...; lost in food: raw garlic, pasta, onions, black angus steaks, cheese, wine; lost in our thoughts: each idly caressing the other's hand, animatedly whining about school(our teachers and all the cliques) *click*, offhandedly cracking one-liners *whir*, cracking smiles *click*, curling smirks *whir*, rolling eyes *click*.

The night is afire with stars, the Milky Way filling us with child-like wonder(what if The Supreme Being's farted us to existence? That we are precipitates of some trans existential noxious gas?), imposing the enormity of the Universe, shoving our infinitesimal lives down our throats, brandishing it at our faces as we lie upon our mat beneath the limitless expanse of the cosmos, the sea-breeze ruffling our hair, its rich tang filling us both, taking our senses to new heights. You curl aside to face me, to take my hand, our skins silver in the moonlight: living a memory, freezing a moment, listening to words unsaid.

Emily Browning

Saturday, July 21, 2012

Disney Princesses: At Seventeen

The applause that rose as the curtains fell was thunderous, but it wasn't for them. One by one, the Princesses curtsied as was their wont and left the stage, all regal and smiling.

Her face forlorn, she asked Esmeralda, "But aren't we Princesses, too?"

Wistful, Esmeralda replied, "Well, what can we do? They're racists? I guess we are, Pocahontas," she bit her lip and continued, "but maybe they don't remember..."

And those of us with ravaged faces 
Lacking in the social graces 
Desperately remained at home

At Seventeen
Janis Ian

Thursday, June 28, 2012

Tomorrow's Payday

"Tomorrow's Payday"

 I stole to the kitchen,
armed with a spoon
I ghosted past the empty rooms
my spoils were devoured
in three quick mouthfuls
add one or two gulps

 My craving sated, my thirst slaked
 I stole to my room
with a wet spoon

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Songlines: She


She fell from Aegis
as Pallas fled

She wheeled through the air
Rivers became ridges

She saw her Isle
No Stheno, No Euryale

She fell at last
From a lake, a valley bloomed

Beside the bramble
She wept her last

Her star-eyes flared
Dying, pulsating


Her withered head
The wind swept to dust

A desert now
Where a great land was

Monday, June 11, 2012

The World's Biggest Liar

The world's biggest liar
is lying on my bathroom floor,
his arms, he curled around me,
his lips, he whispered
of dreams; of longing; belonging; as he
the walls, they resound
feral and wordless:
                        a snarl
                                   a rasp
shapeless and shameless,
                        I contort beneath his grasp

the salt of his kisses,
the spice of his breath, he
the chain of bruised cairns,
                        they mask
                        the musk of,
his soul, he entered my

his eyes are suns --
                       they blind me
he bared his fangs --
                       he bit me
                       I bled
                       he lead
                       he mustered
and I, he
                       he mastered
                       he forced
I found myself
                       on all fours

he knelt in ascent, and I,
I prostrated in worship

they collided: wordless, noiseless


we trembled

the world's biggest liar,
he laid down on my bathroom floor

he fumbled, he mumbled
he said:

I love you, but you don't pay me

Friday, June 8, 2012

Blown-up Condoms and Pin-up Blues

Little Boy got a balloon for a present.

All day he stared at the red, round thing while keeping a tight grip on the string, his thumb fiddling it to and fro and to and fro and to and fro when chance allowed it.

"Little Boy?" asked Mother.

"Mom?" he answered, never taking his eyes off of his prized red, round, voluminous thing.

"Why do you keep look at your balloon? You have other toys, too."

"Well..." he briefly looked at Mother before continuing, "I was wondering when he'd fly away," he looked at the  door and murmured, "just like everyone else."

David Guetta ft. Sia

Sunday, June 3, 2012

These Days, I

I miss most the jubilant faces that light up in welcome as you arrive, giving you barely half a minute's warning before you topple over from the weight of all the hugs given you, your fall punctuated by the shrill staccato of laughter, of shared memories, of futures.

The illusion hangs before my eyes(dark unless touched by stray sunbeams) for a second, frozen in infinity, irreconcilable with the flux of the present as it is fleeting, like the moon on a pool, rippled away by a droplet, by chance, by the gale winds sung to existence, borne of thousands upon aeons of sibilant butterflies and their velveteen butterfly wings.

Kelly Clarkson
Already Gone

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Hansel and Gretel

Hansel and Gretel were on their way back home, following the crumbs they laid earlier. Hansel had to pee. By the time he was done, Gretel was nowhere in sight. She finished the trail alone. 

Alone, Hansel mused how shit favors him. He's always had to fend for himself.

Monday, May 21, 2012


Process video found here. So weak. Tssss.

Saturday, May 19, 2012


I used to sit by the dirt road, waiting for ghosts who once swore they'd stay, that they'd come back. Now, I walk under vault of the sky, chasing the horizon, chasing its twilight. 

The mists curl around my feet. 

"Stay," they seemed to say, before fading away into the past, where they belong.

Friday, May 18, 2012


Their coming and going is as perennial as grass.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012


He always seems light-minded and silly beyond reason, but when needed, he's a leader you cannot do without.

Monday, May 14, 2012

So, I've noticed how broken hearts are passionate...while healed hearts are...indifferent. 
Which of them is broken? Which one is truly healed?

Tuesday, May 1, 2012


"What are you doing, Ilena?" I asked the little girl lumping chunks of clay in a mound around her. It reached up to her waist.

She looked up, face streaked with dirt, and flashed a radiant smile, "I'm growing up," she pointed at her friend and continued, "Afon is making sure I am pretty." Paint was sloshed all over the place.


"Where are you going, Ilena?" I asked the little girl encased in painted clay. Only her face was visible.

She glanced at me, tilted her head and beamed saying, "I'm growing up." Her face was fair and her tangled locks framed her face. "Afon kept my treasure in a box, " she paused briefly and continued, "I have it with me. Afon will make sure my face looks pretty." 

Soon enough the cage was sealed. The boy I never saw worked silently as Ilena's beautiful visage blossomed on its surface.

That was the last I saw of her.


Friday, April 27, 2012

Interlude: Pipe Dreams

There was a scruffy boy scorned.
There was a scruffy boy no more.

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Obsession: How's This For a Fear?(or Salinger Attempt Number 1)

Sia - Breathe Me

I created your wraith starting with the ghost of your eyes. Thick, heavy strokes failed to convey their warmth and conflict. Brows too thick to be yours came next, while sloppy shades smeared the contours of your eyes.  The image lay flat: shamed under the stark flourescence overhead.

Your lips sneered at us both. Your nose was a glaring mess. It reminded me of your past you cannot sunder yourself from; your open secret you cannot conceal. It wasn't until I drew your tangled locks that I gave up.

Veins bulged and sinews tensed as I gripped the darkest B pencil I had tightly - tighter than a room-dwelling bum(or a male nympho if there ever was a male nympho) would his shrivelled  phallus. It bled heavily on the sheet beneath it the way a deflowered wart refused to clot.

It is not that I never drew you in the first place, rather, I ended up not drawing you. I allowed myself to admit this.

Those lop-sided eyes I drew earlier, I gave a withering look brimming with malediction. They simply stared back truthfully and without malice, cutting through my affectations, ripping my dreams - my delusions - into sorry shreds of self-pity.

It would have taken very little to break the pencil tracing harsh lines upon the unfortunate paper, but that would have been too cliche. That would have made miserable me doubly cliched, so I settled for breaking the lead during the course of my frantic, frenzied sketching. My wasted scratching. My meaningless tos and fros, and lefts and rights, and ups and downs.

My breaths became laboured as I continued, the frustration besting my capacity for control until I finally, woefully, and pitifully snapped.

The darkest B pencil I had(its lead now broken) clattered lifelessly before my feet.

Still inflamed and now utterly incensed, I started writing in my jagged and erratic script of how I created your wraith the second the closest notebook(its matte-finish covers gray) I grabbed fell open on my lap. My sentences run on each other, and my modifiers dangle, and my tenses disagree, displaying my incompetence - my incoherence - for anyone to see.

Having been recently told how I drew horribly(and this I know to be true), and then given recompense by being told I probably had some unrefined skill in writing, I found it deeply ironic, and somewhat faintly amusing(in the driest sense), that I just unquestionably, unmistakably, and most assuredly beyond any shadow of doubt, emulated the truth so boldly served.


The Emo Blogger's Happy Blogging Challenge: Obsession

Sunday, April 1, 2012


What happens when April Fools and Palm Sunday coincide? 
Does it make Palm Sunday a joke? Or does it make April Fools sacred?

Saturday, March 31, 2012

Interlude: Borealis Australis

soft marimba beats
they ripple my lambent dreams
curled up, I drift on

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

A Criminal Mind: Free Fall

Cebu City at Night

My life did not fly before my sight as I sped, arms raised skyward while the earth drew nearer, but I found peace. Everything made sense. Each fork in the road; each path taken - they were to prepare me for this very moment. The entire point of living my life was this brief moment of clarity - an illumination that made me see why things fell into place the way they did.

Things could not have gone any other way.

Blurred shapes of men crowned the periphery of my fading vision. Curious onlookers, witnesses, of an end, or an actualization, however you wish to see it.

With the gathering darkness, I sensed, rather than heard, for their voices were on the edges of hearing - I sensed their wonder and the sound of their questions were wraiths I raised from my dim memory.

How could he look so serene?

I was told killing yourself was a crime.

I was wrong to believe them.

Crowned by a halo of my own blood, I mustered one last weak smile as those who pursued me earlier rushed out.



The Emo Blogger's Happy Blogging Challenge: A Criminal Mind

citybuoy: Happiness and the Five Senses:hearing

line of flight: A Criminal Mind, A Series

The Broken Ones
Dia Frampton

Sunday, March 11, 2012

Interlude: Brain Fart XIX

A butt, no matter how bubbly, is still just a butt.

It will never be a pretty face.
No, that's not mine.

Wednesday, February 29, 2012

A Lover: Touch and Go

Your eyes shine in the meager light, twin watery orbs, piercing. Probing.


I need to ask you something.

So this time you give out the questions.



Your gaze wanders off before looking back at me briefly before your eyes dart off again.


 So, can you be my fuck buddy?


Weren't we always that sort of friends?



Is that relief in your eyes? Disappointment?

That fast? God, you're so feisty.

Speak for yourself.

So, are you really sure?

Your eyes betray you.

Of course. I like you anyway.

Is that hope I see?

What do you mean?

Well, I know for a fact that you won't do me harm.

I can't give you the answers you've always wanted.


I know you wouldn't slit my throat, take my kidneys and sell them somewhere.

Sometimes we make light of things and say less than we mean.

Fuck you.

I wish I could tell you that you are better than the ghosts of my past. yourself! Hahahahaha.

Sometimes we make light of things and say less than we mean.

You...asked for it!

What strange comfort and familiarity do I find in your devilish grin.

Touch my Body
Mariah Carey


The Emo Blogger's Happy Blogging Challenge: Madness
citybuoy: A Lover: Doodling

line of flight: A Lover, A Series

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Madness: Ash Wednesday

For Ash Wednesday, I want to be the very best, that no one ever was. Hohohoho.

Pokemon Theme Song


The Emo Blogger's Happy Blogging Challenge: Madness
citybuoy: Madness: Irresistible 

line of flight: Madness, A Series

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

A Happy Childhood Memory: Wishing Stars

Dart past the lady washing her clothes and remember to duck when she throws soap suds your way in irritation. Remember to giggle, then look back and smile in apology. 

'Di na po mauulit, ate!

Side-step as more suds fly your way. Jump to the right! Those soapy waters can make quite a splash. Wave your hand, return the lady's grin, and be on your merry way. Leap over the cans, the potholes and the concrete humps. Frighten the cats and watch them hiss and arch their backs in retaliation.

Break to a run, slow to a trot, leap and aim for the low-hanging atis branch, knowing you'll miss. Just a little more. Just a little more. Cast the thought aside and race home again, your tin pencil case jingling loudly with its contents.

Open the squeaky gate with vigor, its creak is music to your ears. Knock on the door urgently, call out to those at home.

Andito na 'ko!

Prepare your best smile in all its toothy glory, stand with the awkward but confident air that young boys have. Anticipate the opening of the door and watch the knob slowly turn.


Hold out the back of your hand and wave it frantically under her nose.

Binigyan ako ng star ni Maam! Tingnan mo o.

Read the words below it out loud: very good.

Na-perfect ko 'yung test! Ito o!

Watch her smile pleasantly, her expression surprised and satisfied, as she looks over your prized trophy.

O, pa'no 'yan? Tuloy ang Jollibee bukas.

Yey! Tsaka hotdog at corned beef ang ulam mamaya, ha?

Watch her make a moue, a faint grin lighting up her face.

Hay. Sige na nga!

Hug her tight then run into the house. You are home.

When You Wish Upon a Star
Pinocchio OST

The Emo Blogger's Happy Blogging Challenge: A Happy Childhood Memory

citybuoy: Prologue: side x side (II)
citybuoy: A Happy Childhood Memory: Segueing Cousins

manilabitch: Prologue: Surviving Ennui