bad stare! me no nice girl.

Trouble Ends With an E and E Is the Beginning of End

2011-11-30T03:51:00.001+08:00

The trouble is that we talk too much.
The trouble is that we don't talk that much.
The trouble is that I don't care about myself.
The trouble is that you only think of yourself.
The trouble is that we don't have money to spend.
The trouble is that we're in a story stopped to end.
The trouble is that you don't believe me anymore.
The trouble is that I don't sleep that well anymore.
The trouble is that you are fond of saying goodbyes.
The trouble is that I am not fond of making promises.
The trouble is that we are living in the wrong decade.
The trouble is that we are sinking into a darker shade.
The trouble is that my mind interferes with my heart.
The trouble is that my heart interferes with my mind.
The trouble is that we are not supposed to be like this.
The trouble is that we are not inclined to shit like this.
The trouble is that we don't know where we're supposed to go.
The trouble is that we don't mind when we're not supposed to go.
The trouble is that the Universe, especially the Earth, is very small.
The trouble is that the we don't give a fucking care anymore, not at all.
The trouble is that I am not in love with you or with him or with anyone else.
The trouble is that you are not in love with me or with her or with anyone else.
The trouble is that none of these is real, none of these is true, and none of these matter.
The trouble is that all of these doesn't matter, all of these is trash, and all of these is a disaster.

Losing

2011-11-16T16:56:00.001+08:00

I am wearing your jacket

With my hands in its pocket.

I miss you already.

"Hi."

2011-11-03T03:22:00.000+08:00

You're with me yet you're thinking about her perfect limbs, her synchronized lids, her vivid lips. You're stroking my hair, holding my hands, and kissing my neck yet you're aiming and even aching to burrow into and know her soul. We're adjacent, only centimeters from each other, yet you're wishing for her presence, her havoc, her divinity.

Do I (really) make you flail?

Why are you here with me?
Why are you wasting your time?
Why do you stay?

You're asleep beside me yet you're dreaming about her absolute spots, her meaningful sighs, her sinful smiles. You're telling me things, singing me songs, and writing me poems yet you're desiring and even dying to encapsulate around and save her soul. We're parallel, only minutes apart from each other, yet you're starving for her opacity, her malice, her attention.

You (really) make me ail.

Why am I here with you?
Why am I wasting my time?
Why do I stay?

No one fucking knows or cares.

Therefore, just --
Act dumb to feel numb;
act numb and feel dumb.

Cryptomasochism

2011-10-26T02:24:00.000+08:00

Because baths are new beginnings;
How is it possible to get stuck with a single song over and over again, instrumentals and lyrics alike, when you've only heard it once in your lifetime: your more than 2 deadened decades of a lifetime? It's sick! And strange. And it weakens your insides.

Because our story is nonpareil;
How is it probable to get hold of (and hold on to) something so genuinely inconsistent, like an accident waiting to happen, when all you've thrived for seems so terribly useless, just like surprises that wouldn't matter. It's insane! And irrational. And it derails your brain.

Because we are cryptic and masochistic;
How is it plausible to come up with the same idea over and over again, upon waking up and before going to sleep, when (physically) you're only inches away yet (psychologically and ironically) you're eons of miles astray? It's cruel! And cold. And it wounds your soul.

Because everything is shit;
*Except you, love.

*last line may vary:

Including you, cunt.

and/or

Especially you, twat.

Same

2011-10-19T02:24:00.000+08:00

The best (and/or worst) ideas come into mind when I'm on autopilot. Like when I walk our street while the sun is scorching my nape and a stray, familiar cat crosses my path. Or when I stare into emptiness and there's a distinct ~~oscillating~~ resonating sound in my ears. Even the sound is on autopilot. These sacred ideas come into mind most especially when I'm alone in the loo, brushing my teeth, puffing a stick, or, most probably, taking a crap. I always wish I had a pen and notebook with me so I could write selective phrases (mostly connected with ampersands) down.

Most of my thoughts go down the toilet, or the drain, along with biological filth. In a snap, those ephemeral musings disintegrate into the void. It's like even after 10 laborious hours of sleep, you still wake up without remembering a single speck of your dream. You wake up wanting to sleep more.

I always wish I had a pen and notebook with me.

~*~

It's significant: how you rescued me from dire rehabilitation and now, I am back to civilization. I thought of this as I stared at the half moon a while ago: I had a mental kind of lunar eclipse. When was the first (or the last) time we looked at it together? When was the last (or the first) time we took each other's breath away? I scoff at myself whenever, unconsciously, I long and search for things that don't matter the most.

Just now, here's what came into my mind: firsts and lasts are, more often than not, interchangeable.

Empty spaces ~~illuminates~~ magnifies drama. You are the empty space and this leaves me with the drama. You see, I am through with the third person point of view. Now, it is just you and I and we; no more he or she or they. We ~~magnify~~ illuminate each other's drama.

We are empty spaces. The empty spaces. And this leaves us with all the drama.

Our love is on automatic pilot.

0.000

2011-10-11T01:39:00.000+08:00

You take my picture and I see through the camera I see through your soul You nudge me You take a deeper sigh And then there is subtlety I kiss you in return You run your fingers through my hair and I feel our souls collide I want to imitate a scene A scene from an unusual love story All love stories are unusual anyway Our glances are entwined into a memory A hint of light A tinge of lust I take your hand I rest my head on your shoulder And we stare into space You don't take my hand You leave me all alone I doubt you I despise you We go back We look back We turn back You close your eyes And I do too Without us knowing We cling into each other's arms We separate into each other's thoughts You are making it clear I am being obvious I wasn't looking for you You were waiting for me And you found me And I always go back to you We stop We start We begin We end I stutter Your stomach flutters And you make me feel what I want to see You make me see what I haven't felt For a long time Towards a lifetime You remind me and I bring you with me You want me Likewise You haunt me I am hoping Reciprocal You are wondering My mind is wandering Our present is all we have And then we rest our heads until the next morning We sleep We are awaken And then we dance At dusk We imagine life that's ours and there is only uncertainty I cry and you sigh I want you and like you and want you and like you And you do too And we don't worry Anymore And we don't hurry All the more We slide

Polar Opposites

2011-10-06T03:50:00.001+08:00

We've dissimilar names but somehow we've similar aims.
You've suddenly fallen asleep and now I'm left with our unfinished dreams.

I'm no brilliant and you're no stupid and we've finally fallen into place.
You are brilliant and I am stupid and we are effortlessly drifting into a daze.

Stupid or not, I love you.
You are my boy.
Go to sleep.

Kisses.

Brilliant or not, I love you.
I am your girl.
Let us go to sleep.

Illegitimate, Not Intimate

2011-09-30T22:48:00.000+08:00

I could probably write a thousand haikus
Because of how I feel for you

You have trapped me
I have cornered you
We are chained

But hey, that wasn't even a 5-7-5

Just an outline of
Obscure analogies and
Probabilities

Oi, there goes one

Nine hundred ninety
Nine more haikus to go by
Come 'ere and kiss me

Memento Mori

2011-09-29T02:17:00.001+08:00

You
Starve me to death

You don't
Take away
My breath

But instead,

You only
Bore me to death

You never
Take away
My breath

So instead,

All I want
To do

Is

Stab you to death

(Because only "breath" rhymes with "death.")

Basically Black

2011-04-13T03:17:00.001+08:00

Her mind is wide awake. She looks at the ticking wall clock, hanging solitarily on the cold, yellow wall: 3:17 in the morning. Similar sounds surround her. The mechanical whirls of the wind, the involuntary murmurs of the television, the restless howls of the evened atmosphere.

She shifts through the book that she's been reading for almost a month now. She sniffed through its tarnished pages while her peripheral vision sifts into the climax of an untitled programme. She ignores the details as she painstakingly recalls the last chapter she read.

Float and then after a little while, sink. There goes her mind: like molecules in a gaseous state. The music around her suddenly changed. She throws herself in the opposite position and then she proclaims, "Sleep can be tiring; sleep is for the weak."

Most scenarios have been amissed. Several instances have been overlooked. But not even a tinge of forgetfulness has taken place. She checks the time again, takes off her foggy glasses, and then she yawns. She doesn't fall asleep.

She writes and stays awake.

Familiar Feelings

2011-01-29T01:51:00.002+08:00

The night is old and she tosses and turns with a book in one hand. She's been reading the metamorphosis of Gregor Samsa for almost 2 months now; she is easily distracted. She suddenly thinks about getting her hair coloured with blue, suddenly ponders about what it's like to make angel wings in the snow, and suddenly wonders about how his arms were perfectly built to match hers -- these, combined, are proofs of how easily distracted she is.

Page 28, feels like a million years ago. She shifts her thoughts into her favourite scenes with him, like spontaneous trips involving train stations. She laughs and he captures this sight in film. It is apparent, he can't get enough of her. Luckily, the universe conspires with their story and she adores him in return.

Page 28 and a half, another tossing and turning and smiling caused by some unknown force. Then, her eyes twitch. Her hair remains jet black and snow is in the other side of the globe but she lays still... and waits still.

She is dreaming awake.

Lackadaisical, et al.

2011-01-25T22:52:00.003+08:00

She cringes at the sight of black ants, rowdy while devouring a lifeless flesh of their next of kin. Instead, she forces herself to look at the mirror and her eyes radiomatically wanders amidst the flaws and flecks of her face. Her forehead is wide; her cheekbones are not that prominent. Not a trace of divinity: she is even plainer than Jane. She continually wonders, at the same time wanders, why, of all adjectives, sophisticated is bound to be her middle name.

Wearing only panties, she scribbles innumerable phrases, phrases which when she says aloud, the loose connection in between her words create a more intricate and sullen weave of imagination and emotion. As usual, her mind is in erratum and eventually, no one could convey what she really means but: "Come her way, come what may!"

She writes about her thoughts but she almost never speaks about them. Her mind is in a constant battle. Like when a catlady decides which deathly color should her curtains be: violet or mauve. Even with the most gruesome things, she is easily fascinated. Every word is a dreamy grim. And every punctuation is a grimy dream.

Sentences with incomplete thought -
Stories with alternate endings -

Next parchment, please.

Gravitational Pull

2011-01-25T22:51:00.002+08:00

Humidity strangles her whilst she struts with a corduroy pleated skirt which she has been solemnly wearing for the last six years. Still suits her, gluteal muscles were still the same. Lipsticks and guns on each side of her rubber sneaks: its black felt decorated with her pussy cat's strings of fur. She missed the outside world. Strangers examine her from legs to eyes and she is fascinated. Her nails of pallor are devoid of colour and her asymmetrical tresses makes her look swell. Happiness is up and ahead. She can smell it like a chemical burn underneath her sweaty palm.

Sophistication rattles.

She eyes him in a distant but he can already feel her eyes piercing through his. Inside, he is dancing. Her loveliness clouds his mind and instead of brushing his lips against her silken cheek, he holds her right hand. Her beaded ring was too enormous for her candle-shaped fingers but he can only feel her radiating pulse connecting right through his veins. It was like an electric clash but the feeling was not brand new. It's like an out-of-body experience every time he sees her: ravishing, all worthy of his glances, and even worthy of everyone's stares.

Sublimation commences.

Fecal Fairy

2011-01-25T22:50:00.002+08:00

She is a worthless piece of shit. The corpse-blue skies, as heavy as her heart, cries along with her tepid thoughts. She has forgotten the outside world, she's dying with her insides.

Emotions over emulsions.
Repulsions against reflections.
Vile and void.

She is worthless.
A piece of shit!

Double Entendre

2010-10-23T21:41:00.003+08:00

With her eyelids clenched, she drenches her nape-short hair into a rose-tinged tub of water.
Her shivering is resonating in circles.
With her mouth closed, she composes lyrics laced with lies in her gloom-stricken brain.
Her breathing is bellowing in despair.

With her nail beds iced, she pinches her skinned knees with one hand
while she puffs out another smoke with the other.
With her diaphragm rested, she heaves in a deep sigh in one second
while she smokes in another puff in the next second.

Her cigarette is burning.
Her heart is racing.

She's sickened.
She's sick.

Tired.

____________

She is loathsome no more.

2010-10-21T21:32:00.002+08:00

Nandito mag-isa, nakahalukipkip
Ang dibdib parang naninikip
'Di malaman kung bakit naiinip
At kung kailan ba naiba ang ihip

Halos wala ng ibang nasasaisip

with the 3rd Person Point of View

2010-09-17T00:42:00.002+08:00

More than 12 hours a day, she struggles in between idleness and inspiration. Her buds of taste

She and He, They're Reciprocal

2010-08-02T23:02:00.002+08:00

She's the shooter.

He's the cleaner.

She gets by murder with the use of her pistol, beautifully shined, just like her burgundy-painted lips. She smokes in front of a brick building, abandoned. She is armed with this chemical stare and looks ever-lovely in her coal black dress, with its endings swiveling through the cold and dusty wind, simultaneously brushing against her soft and tinted cheeks. She intervenes with someone else's epilogue, fast-forwards their sins by alternating scenes, and she succeeds. She shoots the brain.

He waits for her illustrious signal, that kiss of penetrating lust and reverberating thirst. He clings his hand onto his suspenders, the other one flicking the same cigarette as hers. He isn't drunk but just a single glimpse of her splendid eyes, flickering like that of a sinful mermaid, trances him in and out, and in, and out. His punk-rotten boots are ready to haul and maul someone else's grave, shape-shifts their scenes by altering sins, and he delivers. He begrimes the blood.

She's the shooter;

she revives him with lyre.

He's the cleaner;

he dirties her with desire.

Rhyme Is A Crime

2010-07-29T02:59:00.002+08:00

Sometimes, it's just she
and the crickets
that croak right through her walls,
or she and the same old lizard
against her walls
who glides, pants, and then crawls.

Sometimes,
she just grits
her faux teeth
and then
she just spits
onto her own filth.

Sometimes,
it's just her
and the purring scowls
of her feline friend,
but it's just her
and the scowling purrs
of her benign descend.

Sometimes,
she just
stares.

Sometimes,
she hardly even
cares...

Paranoirexia

2010-07-26T19:10:00.002+08:00

is a collection of visuals and words
featuring the cantankerous tales of
a sick, strange nymph named Blythe.

circa July 2010 - present
illustrated by: David Dell'oso
written by: Erin Emocling

For details and updates:
paranoirexia.blogspot.com

Whilst We Wait

2010-07-25T00:02:00.002+08:00

or just WWW -
is a Philippine-based photo-project
whose goal is to visualize the future
through a heterogeneous analogue-mixture
of film photographs and handwritten letters
with vivid virtues of anticipation, perspective
and waiting.

circa April 2010 - present
founded by: Erin Emocling
inspired by: The Art of Waiting

News Feature on Lomography: http://bit.ly/ct2smm
Follow us on Twitter: WhilstWeWait

In a Whirlpool, Paralyzed

2010-07-24T10:44:00.002+08:00

She lies on her mutilated rose-coloured sheets, supine, like a bedridden patient waiting for her time to be consumed. She thinks in an osculating dimension, stares in an oscillating depression. She quivers as forces her mind to slumber.

Then she slumbers deep.

Rapidly, subconsciously, her eyes move in a violent turgor. She dreams lucidly, both lids closed but slightly pulsating. She dives into a putrid swarm of memories, she swims through despair and malice and revenge. She erases all the people but the memories, she kept still.

Still, she slumbers deep.

Her television set whirs in static, noisy specks of gray and white. It was, like, communicating with her subconscious. Both the living and the neuter speaks to her in vowels, summoning her to divulge her eyes out, provoking her to shut her dreams off.

Tonight, she slumbered deep.

Evitable Wretchedness

2010-07-18T21:06:00.002+08:00

Actually, she is tired of everyone's Palahniuk references. His words used to be her Prozac but right now, everyone's making him sound ludicrously ridiculous. This sudden shift of her sickened cells are perpetuating into the smallest particles inside of her: making her more photosensitive and less comprehensible. She babbles nothing but bullshit. She gobbles anything but guts. Who cares? Everyone else does, too.

Ingloriously derailed!

Everybody's flaunting, everybody's so fucking great and there's not a room for originality and sensuality. All is constantly driven by some disillusioned alter ego. All is manipulated by heightened self-esteem. Who is not going to get tired? Who is not going to get sickened?

Human being by human being, each is detaching oneself from the other. Away from this whirling web of a wicked world. Away from you, furious assholes with illusions of grandeur. You know nothing but self-masturbation, and yes, that's a term coined by your ever-poignant idolatry, Palahniuk. We owe you a lot, sire.

Gloriously senseless!

Manila Bulletin

2010-07-06T01:54:00.002+08:00

Manila Bulletin, Picture Perfect: Through a Lens, Clearly

Photo Numbers and Readers' Images by Raffy Paredes, July 06, 2010
View Full Feature (online version)

Adverbial Phrases

2010-06-25T01:20:00.002+08:00

She ingests a furrowed fruit and she guffaws for a sudden spooning. She meanders through the present without a tint of progressive adornment. She sees his patent buoyance like it’s honed to her very liking. Riveting. Swallowing. She gapes deep into currency and their mediocre gaiety.

She flickered a filter-tipped fag then she prayed for sedate lungs. She envisioned their forthcoming delights without a tinge of empathic melancholy. She mauled his plaintive qualms like a persistent cough. Eliciting. Invoking. She tranced out into the morrow and their seamless ever-after.

She will savor that solitary second and she will breathe for an infinite affair. She shall expunge the acute yesteryears without a tone of perfect despair. She will endure his passive warmth like tepid baths. Renewing. Reincarnating. She shall bellow out into space and their meant collision.

Through the three tenses. Via her five senses.
This is how she adores him.

Likewise

2010-06-24T03:10:00.002+08:00

I love you too.

You make my brain hurl. In my mind, memories of you unfurl.
You make my heart flutter. In my dreams, thoughts of you linger.
You make my breath afloat. In my sleep, visions of you unfold.

This should've been non-parallel. This should've been all plain.
Instead, this further unravels. Instead, this forever remains.

You
are
nonpareil.

And likewise, I love you too.

Deathless, Senseless

2010-06-22T21:19:00.002+08:00

Up she goes, hands a-quivering as her words a-throttling, up to the ambiguous, cerulean skies over her head. Photographic memories - shuffling, penetrating into her hollow mind's lunacy fringe. She says, "Hello." Then, ceases out in despair. Yearning.

The verily skies are enamored with a brightened hue of azure. Looking up, she sees hope. Pink petals of transcending against the sunlight, condescending with cheerful fright. Larking up, she feels hope. There's no need to be baffled, there's no time to be crumbled. Aiming for a stick of cigar, she prowls, like a stray feline in deep thirst. Longing.

Penetrating beyond the stratosphere, she glides. Without a crease of hesitation, she further slides. Heart over matter. Matter over blood. Dusk after dust. Dust after dawn. Interchanging.

Perpetuating.

A Nonspatial Continuum

2010-06-21T23:31:00.002+08:00

Hours and minutes in digital are now dead. Dreaming delightfully in bed. Time, without his arms where her head rests in satiation, endures forever. But as her head, finally, slumbers alongside his: time sprints. Each minute, their souls collide against the salty Earth. And every hour turns into a figment of mirth.

Don't stare at her with those piercing orbs. You see, her insides tremble. But in a beautiful beat. Hold her close to your chest, cling onto her torsos, castrate your doubts, carry her heart. But no, don't leer at her with those cursing glare. Connive with her curves. Convey through her hips.

Half a day has now ended. Bullets through their mouths, bended. His arms, but without her resting head, and without satiety. She has slumbered alongside his head, finally. Time endured. Time sprinted. Each and every soul has evacuated into a black hole. Rewind, unwind. Forward, wayward.

SYNCHRONICITY.

Generalizing the Mesmerizing

2010-06-03T00:34:00.002+08:00

Beautiful distractions swaying beside her hips. Subsequently, she sways her arms, from side to side, like a damsel in a humming meadow. Her self-loathing is turning into a colourful stream of dreams. She's elusive and her words sting, illusive. She's penetrable and her vision, still and imperturbable.

She dwells in pessimism and in turn, pessimism is what keeps her cool. Prone to erring. Likely to damnation. She writes and writhes in a black hole of infinite episodes, of saturnine plots, of contrasting endings. She bears in her mind a mental photograph of her vivid reverie. Faux mustaches, paper tiaras, and pistol toys - these are a few of her savourite shrills.

Beautiful destructions whipping throughout her insides. Lines of luminous love perpetuating from her hypothalamic parts. Back and forth and even to and fro, it shall always be she and him. Continuum. Ad infinitum. In other words, constantly.

Everything is in random, words of adoration. And aberration. Everything is in motion, pictures of hallucination. With palpitation. Everything has a distraction. Everything might be a destruction.

She writes and then writhes. She sees and then sinks.

Estrous, then Strike-Throughs

2010-05-05T23:23:00.002+08:00

It's cinco de Mayo and her their whooping love story is wringing like a bland little ~~drama~~ porno. He pierces his lusting eyes into hers and in turn, she stabs her starving lips against his. Deja vu, flashbacks of luxuria. Jamais vu, transitions of hysteria. Interwoven specks of ~~love and lust~~ loverly lust, binging over and under their thighs and thrusts. The pussy-cat in her is ~~curling up and~~ prickling down. Heartbeats are racing. Hormones are moaning.

Nada but prurient thoughts.
Nil but salient spots.

A guilt trip.
Deep and swift.

It was cinco de Mayo when they first ~~met~~ fucked.
His ~~heart~~ schlong was her piñata.

Acrymosity

2010-04-27T22:53:00.002+08:00

She used to dwell in a confined room bearing only jalousies as her spectrum of light. Now, her ears are screaming against four old walls of putrid paint, still confined with her same stagnant tarnation of thoughts. She tries quite hard, she exerts more than she could spew. She seeks time, wanders, and falters.

Her world stops spinning, rather starts shrinking. Negativity clouds her brain, neurotic pain. She is resuscitated, becomes infuriated. Her future is stalling, certainly dwindling. Why the long face, why the slow pace?

Plot unknown.

"Her scars are his tonight."

Status Magazine

2010-04-24T01:56:00.003+08:00

Status Magazine, Online Photo Diary, Tardis Dyskinesia, July 24, 2010
View Full Feature

Alt

2010-04-20T21:17:00.002+08:00

She's changing the sheets tonight.
She's keeping the thrills out of sight.
She's speechless.
She's worthless.

She is differentiated.

Similarly

2010-03-23T19:28:00.002+08:00

His breathing next to hers, tantamount to her completeness.
She sighs in disbelief: forever after is theirs to devour.
She's lost for words,
lost in their steaming black hole of love and lust.

She seeks for similes;
he reeks for rimes.

Her touching close to his, paramount to his wholeness.
He grunts in relief: morrow, evermore is theirs to scour.
He's lost for words,
lost in their steaming black hole of love and lust.

She seeks.
He reeks.

He doesn't trip.
She doesn't flip.

While he was sleeping, she was dreaming.

Another Romancing Scene

2010-03-18T23:45:00.002+08:00

In retrospect:
They're finishing each other's sentences.
They're filling the gaps in each other's hands.
They're both thinking of migrating into outer space.
They're both hearing their heartbeats race.

In retrograde:
They're faking their orgasms like how pornstars do it.
But those beautiful ones are not these scornful ones.
Dissimilarities.
Fuckyou-larities.

"Isn't it ironic that titillating has the word tit in it?"

Merely Merriments

2010-03-13T02:46:00.002+08:00

"Oh, you humour me today."

He has always known how to tickle her bones and fancies. His limericks of love until her sight sees grey. His proclamations of lust even when her beauty turns pale. When he makes her laugh, canned laughters of helium and mirth - just burst, burst, and burst. 'Til her mandibles and stomach hurt.

Being enamoured through his quirks and foibles was like luridly touching felt finish for her: emollient and nearly addicting. Or like suddenly receiving a snail mail on a cumulus cloudy day: old-fashioned yet overly gratifying. He has never failed to amuse her. He shall always be her jester-in-disguise.

A dandy seventieth month of love from me to you,
my loverly Der Rosenkavalier.

Metaphors et Ampersands 001

2010-03-10T19:36:00.002+08:00

Coffee (iced)
and
Cigarettes (flavoured)

Vice Versa, Almost

2010-03-10T18:27:00.002+08:00

Murdered toes with calloused brows
Calloused toes with murdered brows

Threatening dildos
amidst
Hypertonic coitus

A conniving flapper
against
A pleasure seeker

Putrid pills after spoiled syrup
Spoiled days after putrid nights

Coughing, vomiting, with bleeding
Coughing, vomiting, after bleeding
Coughing, vomiting,

and bleeding...

Repeat 'til fade.

Color by Technicolor

2010-03-08T00:08:00.002+08:00

They are dressed like parody today: her glittered nails in turquoise and white, his ashen shirt in red and plaid. Her lashes bats for his, his mouth waters for hers. Not every bit of their lines is rhyming but their ideas are synchronized, like coffee and cigarettes. They march on gay parade.

Their senses are delighted! Pictures in stereoscope motion come swindling their fancies. The Cheshire feline's ear-to-ear smirk, the pimple-sized cranium of the lady-royale in red, the psychopathy of the hatted madman: everything conglomerated into a feast of the their ficklest fantasies.

Everything is in 3-dimension today: hologram dreams, kaleidoscopic dreams. It seems as if they're in a retro LSD daydream: but without the psychedelic pills swimming in their stomach.

Only their highly polarized adoration for each other, both dancing in their delirium.

Tabula Rasa

2010-03-04T01:38:00.002+08:00

The grunt of idle machinery, the neighbors’ alternate voices and local radio gibberish, and bloody scums cantering like telestatics – cacophony!

Paper and pen used to be her avid companions. Rhyme and parallelism, her guiding stars. She used to write in the old-fashioned manner, with her lips pursed and her forehead partly convoluted. Her palms perspiring, she writhed along her cursive handwriting, full of strikethroughs and alterations. Her thoughts, gapped.

Someone once said that her wordings were fit for making songs. Someone made her believe she could. Sometime after she was made to believe, someone became sometime ago.

The thesaurus transmogrified her into a cankerous-cantankerous nymph. She now, after some years of idle hands, speaks of what is lacking – like overlooking the city’s rhinestones lights, like watching the last full reel on a silver screen, like the same old bold-faced lines under the brand new ochre afternoon skies. Her heart, void.

And her insides, coiled.

Ruborish de Luxe

2010-03-02T16:29:00.002+08:00

Red-violet sunbeams illuminate the earthly terrarium of cuckoo nests. Twigs of solitary and of heath ravage the dainty asphalt wilds. Telegraph poles and wires perch along the city's skyline - all of these: blinding the already blind.

Here is an imagery to enlighten one's phobia of our deteriorating marble,
our rotting heaven and earth.

Come Mensal Lism

2010-02-28T23:08:00.002+08:00

She slithers abreast of him, blissfully inserts her warm-felt thighs in between his, and bats her eyes. Without her eyeglasses, her vision is a wreck. But with her so close to his chest, she sees into his saccharine soul. She mauls him only in her mind, at first.

He stares at her for a coupled minute and then strokes her neck-length hair. She doesn't lean to kiss and neither does he, at first. She sees his eyes via her peripheral sight. Albeit the Gaussian blurriness and the bare breathing of she and him, they tardily gaped.

Into each other's periphery, they gaped into one's souls.

Erratum: Desideratum

2010-02-27T15:42:00.002+08:00

What an ungrateful week-ender: stomach-knotting and heart-rotting. Her bronze skin metamorphosing into a scarred porcelain of pallid tint. Her blood streaming into an anaemic black hole. Most importantly, her brain denaturing into inter-neurotic glitches.

Sophistication was her description. Illusion is her delusion. Wankers, wankers: she likes the innumerable times this was cussed on those teenage telly screens. She also likes the visible fingerprints on her dust-covered jalousies. She eats crackers of dolour and wafers of toil. And then she vomits inside-out, regurgitates her insides out.

She needs the sun.
She needs to succumb.
She needs her planetarium.
She needs a sanitarium.

What's that smell?

La Belle Ferronnière

2010-02-26T23:43:00.002+08:00

His birthname coincides with his artistic flair of portraying faces by ink. He makes use of the blank indices of old, moldy elementary books. But he didn't use fancy chalk pastels or flashy charcoal pencils; only the cheapest ballpoints of red and blue, rather. He replicates pictures of leopards and owls, sometimes of Elvis and even Medusa. He does them magically; he does them to pass time.

And yes, time eventually passed. Intricate lines of wrinkles, even with indelible ink, are washed away as years, decades even, flutter by. The man, who was named after da Vinci, left his original family for committing an original sin. And now his soul, still on search, is aching to time-travel to his first love's most intimate arms. And, yes, retrograding through time is plausible. But, no, not in real life.

The man's hands became old with oddly green veins palpable through his seaming skin. He recalls his sons and daughters and their sons and daughters and how he conceals his love for them. He is dying, not physiologically but, mentally to embrace them one after another. His whole heart, including his mind and soul, is twinging to go back to her one true wife.

To finish his unfinished business, that is to draw his nymph's face -
with her eyes ever so captivating like that once she said "I do."

Medium Format Scripts

2010-02-26T01:14:00.002+08:00

Her twin lens reflex camera dangles around her nape. Two rolls of expired films bulge on her left-hand breast pocket, each with 36 exposures waiting to be bashed under the scorching sun. Her palms are perspiring and her ruby-painted nail beds glisten even from afar. She is wearing her polka-dotted cat-shaped spectacles today. But her vision, even in a marvellous midday, remains incoherent.

She shoots some stray felines from her hip and the purring vertebrates freak her by their howling glare. She scours for familiar strangers along the city's ill-bred alleyways. Illegal vendors, sidewalk sweepers, homeless toddlers, and even jaywalkers. Shutter-wise, she immortalizes stolen scenes from those strangers' lives. Not that they didn't notice, but they didn't care. She advances the sprockets as she prances along the boulevard of tainted peace.

She takes a photograph of a tree with only twigs as its leaves and she says, "He'll like this." She turns up to the vivid azure skies and adores the shapely curves of the cumulus clouds. She traces an image of a Japanese geisha, its face as stainless as the mackerel sky. She turns down to her feet and flashes the strobe against her flowered boots. "I guess every girl goes through a photography phase," she recites Charlotte's line, then she suspires a blissful sigh.

Her dreams, like light-leaks on redscaled films, are brimming like a colourful spectre of hymns.

Her Horal Derailment

2010-02-24T19:33:00.002+08:00

Her guts are trussed and she smells just like the afternoon's humidity. She only had 5 hours of sleep and as usual, glum circles infest her amygdaline eyes. She eats cereals for luncheon and she smokes when nature calls. In the white-tiled loo, she sings. She admires the echolalia of her own voice: a trampoline of erratic (or other times, manic) melodies.

Her soles are pink and she tastes just like the nighttime's melancholy. Instead of numbering sheep, she resorts to estrous gazing. She doesn't drowse off, not unless she buries her eyes' glasses underneath her sheets. Sometimes, she would precede the rapid movements of her eyes and she dreams while half-awake. She lays still. And she dreams, half-asleep.

Fastforward 'til 5 hours later, it's daylight again. It's time.
Serenade her. Persuade her.

Affaire (du coeur)

2010-02-21T23:41:00.002+08:00

Twenty-four hours or so ago, unfriendly banters collided between she and him. She, the skeptic. Him, the arrogant. But as soon as theirs palms clasped together and their jaws locked perpendicularly, loverly gestures now coincide between she and him. She becomes the bathetic. He becomes the sporadic.

The two of them are like yin and yang. But in terms of human plumage, they're both impugned. She's not the white; he's not the black. Whilst she exudes endorphins, he filters alkaloid: chocolates and cigarettes, similarly. Analogies, like the ones aforementioned, may dwell for twenty-four more hours or so.

Just like their affair, worldly but venial and true.

If Now Is Unlikely

2010-02-21T01:58:00.002+08:00

Then someday, he shall find his damsel. She won't ever be in distress because he wouldn't allow her to be. He will twirl her hairs of blackened silk as he sings to her some arias before they sleep. He will lip-read with her lines from her favourite films. Together, he and her will glide across the skies in a balloon of hot air.

All the things he doesn't and all the ways he isn't, someday he will do and will be. All of these shall happen in the future tense. The future shall be tense for him and her damsel. She will be incomparable amongst his previous loves and lusts. And she will slaughter him. She will smother him.

Then probably, someday.

Despise, Demise

2010-02-19T02:23:00.002+08:00

Thoughts and things of such extremes trigger herself to invent such marvellous drafts of lexicon and imagery, combined. Two of the most extreme themes are, firstly, ardour and the latter which comes to mind is, more or less, rage. She loves a solitary human being in the world, other than the Supreme One, of course. Nevertheless, she innately and unavoidably abhors the filthiness of the rest of human kind. Including her own venial sins, including her own worldly lust.

Half of her brain is suffocated with hatred. She wants to revert life to its most serene prologue, like being afloat in a mother's womb. A clean slate is what she aims for. But all has taken place and time travel is only existent in books and in minds. There's no space for taking back the unmentioned sins. Everything is here and now. She can only take the barrels off the side of her head. And then retreat, without choking - and without any speck of tears.

Constantly panicking, the axons in her cranium. Why must she be bothered by a single fleck of this other human being who, like all other dirty souls that presently walks the Earth, also thrives amongst the deadened livings? That she, who has a hollow mind and even a hollower soul, must remain in her self-produced forgery. That she, who is all-hollow, shall dwell in her lies and her scum and her husband's corpse - the both of them still unaware of their rotten misery.

Three paragraphs have been frittered away into our protagonist's loony bin. And it does her soul well. For some of the most extreme thoughts and things can only be forgiven upon immortalizing her memories into her own loop of words. And sometimes, most of those extremes are even forgotten.

Anew. Unafraid. This is your end.

Chronic, Wakeful

2010-02-18T03:45:00.002+08:00

It's a quarter towards four in the morn and still her brain is exuding with her self-diagnosed psycho-neurotic ideas. She reaches for the box of menthol cigs, puts out a stick, and salivates like a loon. Where is the fucking lighter? Oh yes, he claimed it as his and the firestarter is, nevertheless, in his pockets. And it's all fine. She keeps back the fag and chugs down her very own starchy enzymes.

Peanut butter cups of chocolate can pose as a fix: to rescue her from a deteriorating circadian clock. Her tresses lengthen and they abseil nightly onto her air-filled slumber bed. Her nails are lengthened like her mother's. And are sullenly deprived of their usual crimson polish. Underneath are canailles of tedium and of some lechery.

Clock-ticking, inaudible. Gut-wrenching, implausible. It's now five past four in the morn. And all she can hear is whirring. She suddenly longs for her feline's purring. And her lover's nuzzling. Never mind the sheep and other bollocks, her mental forgeries shall lull her to slumber 'til the morning after.

Eight hours from now. Or even twelve hereafter.

Into The Pyre-Lit Skyes

2010-02-16T19:25:00.005+08:00

It has always been one of her ultimate phantasies to witness with him, hand in hand or cheek to cheek even, multicoloured streaks and flickers of man-made pyre as its minute refractions lie scattered in the evened skies. The scenario, in particular, transpired last night. Their love-paced faces were solely illuminated by scarlet glints, emerald flicks, and canary flashes of musical thunders. Both of their subconscious reckoned their six years - and ever after. Photographs were outdated and only their mnemonics of this solitary night will linger thereafter. Completeness.

It was, indeed, a gloaming of colourful heterogeneousity - in their minds, their bodies, their souls. He has memorized her body language, her indelible queerness for cutaneous senses. In turn, she has locked her thoughts with his beguiling sense of mordancy and, yes, his imperative cloak of charm. They gazed up to the empyrean yonder and vivid armaments still lined its jet black vastness. "How wonderful," her eyes expressed. "Not as wondrous as you are," his lips proclaimed. Seconds ticked but the sequence laid still, their fists remained locked into each other's carpals. Completeness, seconded.

Under similar skies, amidst the entire universe, with their everlasting gaze.

Proximity Matters

2010-02-16T19:25:00.004+08:00

His limbs are just inches from her thighs at this verily moment. One of his arms, stretched out, voluntarily stroking her integument. Her peripheral vision, though shrouded with scum, is lit by his serene exhalations, his trepid pulsations. He handed her a leaf of yellow parchment, blood-red inks from top to bottom. "You always complete my day," he scribbled in capital letters. This sentence keeps ringing in her ears, but in this certain case, it keeps reverberating in her brain. She sighs with contentment. Everything is in vice versa. Everything between she and him.

Her bedlight is turned off and all she can see are small flickering lights illuminated from some electrical gizmos. She can hear the non-stop oscillation of her room's artificial air current. She senses him via her five senses. "I am being redundant. I am insane for you." Sleepy tears trickle down her cheeks, as it is time for her to twine into against his ribs. There will be a dandy atmosphere on the morrow. It is their sixty-ninth month, there's no chance for sorrow.

For a good sight, have a good night.

Suddenly Sober

2010-02-16T19:24:00.005+08:00

After one petite argument over the cyberwaves:

Him: With your pen and notebook, you blow me away.
She: I love you.
Him: I adore you.

Oh, youse tachycardiacs.

One July Night

2010-02-16T19:24:00.004+08:00

To wake in your arms and to die in them too
Caught in this everlasting gaze I share with you
To inhale your smirk and to exhale your stare
Flushed to the temporary clash that locks us
To grasp your palms and to twirl your lashes
Pinched aside with your logical bruises
To watch you sleep and then wipe your eyes
Still fixed to your screaming verses that I listen to
And I, unknown.

Until now, this piece remains unfinished, untitled.

Suddenly Sullen

2010-02-16T19:23:00.002+08:00

Whenever the atmospheric pressure is this serene, all of her neurons collide and she begins touch-typing like a lunatic. Her erraticism surpasses the epitome of lunacy, in fact. She uses extravagant adjectives and lucrative adverbs to equalize her musings but those extravagant adjectives and lucrative adverbs cannot be tantamount to her self-declared schizophrenia. Her words are fumbling like molecules in a gaseous state, trapped inside a trapezoid of illusions.

Her shank, her aching calves, still twinges from losing weight for the past twenty four hours. Dust, and hopefully not mites, are festering the five corners of her tainted room. Her stack of piracy are slowly leaning against her white wall, like a leaning tower of non-living things. Her clothesline is still color-unified, nonetheless. But her analog cameras are so stale, so deprived of slide films, and almost moth-eaten. She goes back to slumber.

She's thriving in a confined space. She's dreaming of a familiar face.

Doble Vocabulix

2010-02-16T19:22:00.002+08:00

It has been a while since she had last felt the seams of his fingertips. She knows him so dearly that she can prance along the loops of his biometric smirches. "It has been a while," she purred to her longing self. But in realto, it has only been seven days and six nights. She listened to his cardiac pulses like they were thumping out her birth name, second by second. She wanted to bestir him from his slumber but she remained to linger in his reverie, instead.

She remembered. In one of his dreams, he recalled, "I want to photograph you wearing a dress, frolicking against the tall grasses, in a maize-coloured plain. Your candle-like fingers brushing through the weeds, your nails glamored with brick red." She remembered and she smiled without reluctance. And then she embraced him with all her might.

He immediately dozed off while she and him were watching some black and white animation, based on real events. A tearjerky, she has always been. Thus, she found herself weeping during the film's last chapter. "You are my only friend," a line which triggered her lachrymose ducts to perform their intended purpose. There's no obvious urgency for her to toss and turn tonight. Hand in hand, she dozed off, too.

It has been twelve hours and the sun's rays were basking through her jalousies. Adults don't sleep this well, they had this commonness in their minds. Their stomachs are empty and their bladders were engorged but still they managed to spare a few minutes to osculate and be adored. From then on and all their morning afters forever, they shall be sticking with each other.

We're, like, the psychics of each other's minds. Yes, you are my soul's mate.

Haute Cuisine

2010-02-16T19:21:00.002+08:00

Its succulence is frozen; created from edible helminths, it was. Her stomach lining is thickened with the repetitive embellishment of monosodium glutamate, added preservatives, food colorings, and yes, monosodium glutamate. Sweetened delights now taste unleavened. The salinity of canned laughter is deviating towards sarcasm. She is in dire need of brand new tinges of cookery, other than the usual rechauffe. She is in a desperate craving for an amazing chocolatier. The staple carbohydrates-filled pleasance is ever-present. She only needs a more delectable viand tonight. Her stomach is grunting. Her insides are growling. She's raiding the semi-frozen haute dogs tonight.

Blood red, bottled tomatoes shall bask into her guts this night.

(go back)

Erstwhile, Almost, Never

2010-02-16T19:20:00.005+08:00

I still can smell you on my sleeves.
I still can taste you on my lips.

I’m still the fucked up twat that I am. I wrote “Marla Singer” as my name on the receipt, again. Emphasizing the still word, yes. Why does our full stop metamorphose into an unending ellipsis? It isn’t supposed to be this harsh, this absurd. But we are trapped in our own delinquencies.

You is a funny pronoun.

I still can smell you on my sleeves.
I still can taste you on my lips.

Sometime ago, I almost thought you would let it all go.

Articulatio Coxae

2010-02-16T19:20:00.004+08:00

"You're my favourite bone," she uttered with spontaneity. His nasal bridge captivates her fancies whenever he grazes his to her cheeks. He then stroked her wafer triceps, leaned it close to his supple chest. Two hundred and six calcified anatomical parts. Two barb-wired hearts. Twice their satiety-induced betweenbrains.

As she rested her right earlobe onto his, yes, supple chest, she could literally hear that his full-pulsating heartbeats were singing an aria for her soul. As she rubbed her peculiar eyes, she became even more figurative. She nonchalantly proclaimed, "We make such a good tandem, like muscles and cartilages - the two of us, we're like Siamese twins sans the common genes, we are soulmates." Her imaginations became animated. She was in elation.

He touched her shapely pelvic bones and his insides fluttered. He could plainly visualize that her see-through hypothalamus was bellowing a metaphor for his soul. He brushed her short tresses, he clenched her legs to his, subdued. He incessantly pondered, "You weave such euphoric lines, like Welsh and his novels - you and I, we're bound to entwine, we are lovers." His fascinations became heightened. He was in liquefaction.

Since time immemorial, their neurotic romance.

Explotar Magazine

2010-02-13T01:51:00.002+08:00

Explotar Magazine, The Virgin Issue, Jan-Feb 2010

The Old In-Out, Real Savage

2010-01-16T19:19:00.002+08:00

8 hours of sleep.
4 hours of awakening.
Almost.

Nothing beats this kind of carnage.
The romance.
And the grimace.

Ironically,
simultaneously,
entirely.

Multiple Schizosis

2010-01-16T19:18:00.002+08:00

It's quite intricate to find even a single metaphor for this dumb boy's severe psychotic behavior. Or at least how this boy used to impersonate his own persona. His mere name is, or was, indescribably pretentious. His lame actions were damnable just as his lame proclamations were. It was so effortless of him to capture any gullible gobbledygook's attention but one time, unknown inter-universal forces conferred to fracture his earthly teases. It was an opportunity for him to metamorphose his schizoic deeds.

He tried. He faked. He lied. He tried. He persuaded. He lied. And, he, yes he did, failed.

It's the only routine he knew. Seeking attention. Preying for victims. Spying on someone else's Achilles' spot. Never mind the outwardly physique, it is the true psyche that matters most. And for that, he plainly lost. He will never get rid of his own murky shadows.

And so they say that hatred is only a manifestation of guilt, or maybe, disillusion. In this scenario, there's no room for the mentioned abstractions. This perfect situation was bound to be false; it was fabricated to be complicated. And etceterae. Narration in the past tense, hopefully, shall expunge unintended charades and masquerades that were only unmeant into a vast hole of forgetfulness. No more dream infestations. No more reality confrontations.

Say so long to your putrid schlong.

Half-Eve, Half-Morn

2010-01-16T19:17:00.005+08:00

Sugar-frosted cereals and unsweetened milk, these are mere physiological needs that seem to fasten her self-caused vexation, momentarily. That dreaded, awkward silence is inevitably happening. Silence. Still, she can hear the agony of her weary computer, the shrill oscillation of her resilient electric fan, the murmur of her neighbor's radio, the decibels of her own mastication, and the beating of her own cardiac muscles. Silence. Awkward and deafening.

None of her senses is dysfunctional. Yet her neurons are impeded; she is finding for a familiar comfort.

A glassful of water, she chugs down. In less than five minutes, she will feel the urge to micturate, this is natural. I hope kidneys are capable of filtering good vibes from the bad just as it filters water from filthy, bodily wastes, she pointlessly ponders. She could just sleep the negativity off and then tomorrow shall be a dandier day. But she prefers staying awake - and subconsciously sleepwalking with her five functional senses.

Okay, stomach is on-the-go once again. She looks at the film-filled corner of her slumber-room. She hesitates, goes back to touch-typing, goes back to the reality she wrecked just hours ago. She knows exactly what she needed to do. She definitely knows how to cave in. But I am ultra-lame and I am scared that I might just make things more indescribably complicated, she mulls all over again to herself.

This tantrum, this syndrome - is tardily tying her guts into knots.

Of Omentums and Aortaes

2010-01-16T19:17:00.004+08:00

Her ever-impeccable lingual buds are tortured with the repetitive taste of monosodium glutamate in its various, hideous forms. The instant noodles. The canned fish. The foil-wrapped junks. It's actually frustrating, how those amazing and intricate essential nutrients are being denied from her physical systems. Ironically, pound by pound, she's still being nourished.

And of nourishments, her cardiac activity seems to be functional. Pulses are regular. Beats per minute are normal. No signs of dysryhthmia. No symptoms of cardiomegaly.

Until this very second.

She unhesitatingly deletes 949 messages in her inbox. In the background, metals clutter from a film that has been playing since 3 in the afternoon. Her inner erotomania is here; it plunges her into a deep emotional coma. Silence is never fucking golden. It only inhibits rationality. It denatures gaiety. It derails her insanity.

769 messages has been deleted.

She feels her own skin slither with wrath. She abhors herself; the paranoia - or even remotely worse - is killing their mutual insides. Part-time lovers should never perceive these sorts of translucent insensitivity, she scolds herself. She never wants to go back to her ultra-lame old self. If only she could spin back the hour before this relentless argument. Then, all will be well.

She cringes. And then deletes 918 messages in her sent folder. Still, the irrationalities uttered cannot be undone. Not now, bitch. He says that silence is golden. She would never understand. All she requires is a heartfelt lullaby from his number one gun. She's sorry; he's sorry. Everybody will fucking be sorry. But he wouldn't listen. And she wouldn't falter.

Only a week of unseen faces, almost a decade of unheard vows.

Anti-Climax

2010-01-16T19:16:00.002+08:00

Their hands were locked, after moments became loose. Parting ways has always been their most dreaded scene. Their hearts beat like a broken jukebox. Crazily. Haughtily. He pulled her and kissed her. It was quick. But it was full. They did not notice, but their eyes closed as his lips brushed hers. It was quick. And it was full.

They headed on to their own directions. Still, she tasted his saccharine mouth. She was a happy dandelion. And she let her lips dry on its own. They were not hand in hand anymore. But she felt his curative aura taunting her. In a nice, palpable manner.

Everything slow-motioned. Except her heart that beat like Zimmer’s masterful tempo. She could die right then and there.

He is everything she wants.
He is her rubial fetish.

Matte and Waterproof

2010-01-16T19:15:00.002+08:00

She's concealing the dismal circles around her almond eyes, proof that she's abusing caffeine. She's casting a coal shadow on her eyelids and it's obviously making her insides hurl. She's mixing the fine, soot particles against her pale and wan bronze, a sign that she's innately multi-coloured. Same goes for her short-lived lashes; she's painting them with a volumisant, recourbant tube of mascara.

She's meddling with her own lips and she's daubing them with a coral rust pencil. She's pausing. She's looking for more flaws to conceal. She's sharpening her cosmetic armaments and then she's reaching the finale. Nothing is becoming grand, she scours. She's ending the masquerade by faking some reds on her zygomatic arch. She might be having a ball today.

She's fabricating. She's forging. She's losing her favourite game.

Net Weight: 450 mL

2010-01-16T19:14:00.002+08:00

It has been quite a while since I last inhaled an early morning's flaccid oxygen. But being upholstered in your non-frigid arms hasn't been denatured in my short-lived memory lane. Mornings like today endure my self-contained restlessness. Because of your kisses that suit mine, I am whole again. "We can pause like this forever," we thought to ourselves - not knowing that even in thoughts, we share a single soul.

The yesteryears have withered like whirling wasps in the wind. Our romantic blitz has been reciprocating for sixty-eight months (and counting) already and still, we quench for more. Like the mornings that provide new beginnings, together we are the ever-complicated molecules of a biological ventilation.

Afterwards, there'll be a svelte amount of my autobiographical narration. I have decided to integrate my non-flowery monologues, too. Yes, as if you'd fucking care.

To resume in a while.

Sixty-Eighth

2010-01-16T19:13:00.005+08:00

He has been occupied with his new-found occupation and his single-serving co-enzymes. Yet he still only sparks for his courageous lady tiger. When was the last time she and him finished a film from prologue to epilogue, neither can recall. But their everlasting stare has seemingly caught up against their evil arguments. Quite a good thing, apparently.

She misses his blinding, flashing strobes. She misses giving him lust via the corner his 200mm lense. In spite of their inevitable hiatus, their romance is still a blitz. A few hours from now they will hold hands again, osculate again. Petty fights will have no room for sharing for it'll be their sixty-eighth moon together.

Meanwhile, tonight, a familiar tune will ring in her head. "We must never be apart."
And, yes, apart, they will never be.

Intensity of Five

2010-01-16T19:13:00.004+08:00

The earth shook for less than five seconds a few blinks ago. I was alone in my confined slumber room and I felt as if all of my fear gush throughout my tainted walls. My collection of pirated videos were in motion, too. I was blank. I was in dire fear and all I was able to mouth was, "Mommy." I was like a toddler whining to get hold of my favourite plastic doll. In reality, I feared being alone at that moment - I wished I was with someone, even it was a childhood frenemy o' mine.

The next thing I knew, I was ringing my astrocherub, hoping his voice'll calm my nerves. I conversed with him in less than a minute but, yes, I felt safe and saved. I also dialed my Mommy's and she pacified me and the conversations were worthy. Being scared shitless was worthy because of the people who knew how to alleviate my weakness.

Presently, I despise being alone. I wish I could sleep beside him tonight so I can slumber with my lights off.

Come here, my astrocherub.

Self-Mingled Theories

2010-01-16T19:12:00.002+08:00

It's awkward-funny how this usual laundromat man keeps on misspelling my name with an additional E at its end - and I don't even mind him being incorrect. He has even asked me for the asdfth time if he was spelling it right and I always reply aye - even if he writes my supposedly four-letter moniker in five bold ones instead. He redundantly bellows me the same circle of questions but I don't dislike how ignoramus our short-lived friendship is. He must be in his 50s and the way he gulps alcohol on an every-midday basis would plainly elaborate his thinning brain cells and echolaliac questionnaire.

At 17:00 H, a bunch of foul-mouthed critters are playing in our rather barren asphalt jungle. It is a slick-proper opportunity for me to ransack their riddles but my lenses are too idle to capture any of their muscular activities. Watching strangers sets myself into being lost in transition (not translation) - I am all too eager to photograph them and their peculiar stares but I am almost always too insufficient to act upon my ardour.

I am letting myself to gather my delinquent insides: within the entirety of January, I must be able to have at least four hypothetical stills in a compilation. This is not a test; this is a forgery.

Foul-Scented Deeds

2010-01-16T19:11:00.002+08:00

Drenched eyeliners
Traces of insomnia
Altered fantasies
Forces of asphyxia

Words are trembling.
Actions are failing.

Coalesced Molecules

2010-01-16T19:10:00.002+08:00

No other food particles is swimming in my stomach right now but the filthily scrumptious bits of local canned sardines. Its stench lasts like a full-length medieval film. How its scarlet sauce jibe with its canned creatures' frail spinal column and their goosebumps-inducing shiny scales - is just plainly mesmerizing to one's lingual buds. I have eaten preservatives of the same kind for two times in less than a week but that isn't a sinful scenario. I am fleshly nurtured. I need this to compensate my minimum smoking vice.

Almost everything is almost artificial nowadays. The only thing that remains non-derailed is a girl's lachrymal projection: her default reaction to a love story being foretold by a she-Japanese protagonist whose other half is already past her present tense. I am too feeble when it comes to shedding actual chick-flick tears, this I solemnly admit. It's square. Even tourists who smoke have tear ducts, too.

I am not artificial, that's quite the least to say before this full stop.

Le Trouble Comme

2010-01-16T19:09:00.002+08:00

Like all things are erratic, it seems that the first person point of view is having its luscious comeback in her neurotransmitters. No need to reiterate thoughts. Just a flick of transporting the thirds into firsts will incoherently do her good.

Flashback editing begins ahora mismo.

Silver-Coated Midst

2010-01-16T19:08:00.002+08:00

She likes the menthol sting of her week's first-lit cigarette. Her own lips taste like spear with a spurt of frigid concoction that gallops through her gullet. It usually takes her three redundant times before she can absolutely fire her hand-held baccos. This time, she perfects it. Afternoons have never been this delightful, she murmured.

She inhales, but she doesn't swallow. She breathes without any pleural exacerbation. She is in half-solitude and her other half is in disdain. The future tense ravages her mind as she exhales firsthand vapour. She sprinkles cold water through her tarsals, cold water through her veins. Her brain cells seem to evacuate her insides as she plunges into the menthol sting of her week's first-lit cigarette.

Alas, she can slumber for a while as she waits for him to come home.

Until then, you, my humanoid nicotine,
shall imbibe my very soul in a lovely,
tar-filled trance.

Snellen's Slaves

2010-01-07T19:06:00.002+08:00

He sounds so queer whenever he says she's beautiful. Deep inside, she is all simpers. Her eyes reveal such spectre. He excavates, not only her soul, he also sets deep into her wee-lashed orbs. He sees into her lenses. And that is the sole reason why his queer tone cannot be covert. Their designated universes befittingly hover throughout their sense of vision. They see through their nerve endings.

Those eyes of hers, though altered in refraction, search only him, see only him.
To her, he also is comely.

And forever inside-out, you will always be my fancy.

Rime in Brine

2010-01-03T18:52:00.000+08:00

An arthropod circles the lid of a cherry cola can. I like accidental alliterations, she pondered. And I like thinking of how our palms perfectly spoon each other, she subconsciously reckoned.

You send me the most saccharine shivers.
You navigate me into my narrowest narcolepsies.

High on Sunshine and Gasoline

2008-07-02T00:51:00.003+08:00

Here are the results from my second roll using my Micro Holga. This time, most exposures came out the way they should be. I shot the first half of the roll around our wee village in Makati. And then, I brought the little camera with me during our duty at an army hospital in Fort, Taguig and none of my classmates noticed it; I was like a spy!

Gigantic pin wheels of thy neighbor's.

Our pug, Hana.

Hana again, in landscape.

Kuai-chan.

Another neighbor's noisy dog.

And not the other way around...

Dull.

A man in a bicycle, plus a large flare!

A strip of cloud.

Another large flare.

Probably taken whilst I was riding a jeepney.

An edifice.

Same edifice, in landscape.

At the army hospital's grounds.

My nursemates in their nursing uniforms, ha!

The tank!

See the tank?

Here's a closer shot but my index finger ruined it.

Going back inside. Shady, not good.

Ah, so blue.

And a stray kitty ravaging for food.

It came closer to me; I freaked out a bit.

The sky again...

Last one, before the army guys could catch me!

This was, nevertheless, a better roll than the previous one I had. But since 110 films are scarce, it was time for me to get another camera which used 35mm. To be continued...

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Insane in the Membrane

2008-07-01T00:47:00.003+08:00

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Luck Shots, Bad Shots

2008-06-01T00:40:00.004+08:00

My Micro Holga was my very first film camera. I chose to buy it because it was the cheapest I could find across the interwebs. That time, multiply.com was the shit and since I was totally clueless about analogue photography, I thought that it was the most practical way to delve into it. I bought my tiny, teal green camera for 700 pesos. I also bought 2 rolls of 110 films, not knowing what ISO really means. These were my first shots with it and as expected, most of the results were crappy. I have only just begun...

It was probably a weekend when I shot this entire roll. I went to Neil's house, somewhere in Antipolo, and I tried my best to finish 24 exposures whilst we were romancing, too. For this set, I used a roll of Fujifilm Superia color negative.

Fortunately, my first and foremost shot was the sky: the safest thing to shoot especially if you're using a 100 ISO film during a bright, sunny day.

3D-ish, right? I had no idea.

Dead leaves and pink flowerettes. And my right foot!

Neil smoked as I searched for my camera's "victims."

Hello sky. Or better yet: Hello, another successful sky shot!

Lesson learned no. 1:
Only use 100 ISO films during daytime or under bright sunlight. Refrain from using it in shady places. Or else, you will yield something like these:

Neil took this: their water hose. Ha!

This kid's name is Alejandro. He lives across Neil's house.

Please tell me that you can see even just the contours of our faces. Ha-ha.

These flowers looked beautiful in real life.

This was taken on their balcony.

When we passed by a foot bridge, probably.

This was probably taken whilst we were waiting for the train to arrive.

The train and Neil's nose bridge in side view.

And then it was almost nighttime. It was the last of my 24-exposure roll, too.

Lesson learned no. 2:
Using the Micro Holga in portrait does not yield very good results, too. Plus, outcomes will only trigger stiffening of one's neck.

They live in #20...

Some highway...

This was taken near LRT Santolan.

After finishing the roll, I had to have it processed right away so I can see where I went wrong. Apparently, I needed a lot of practice to yield more satisfying results. And yes, this marked the beginning of my love affair with analogue photography.

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