b-sides or untitled poems written in the early 90’s


We have to close our book. We

Need to slay the musical recollections

And blow kisses and wait

for the man who bards the next Passion of the Season.

The season to depart

The footings of radical conception

Where your life began,

Of people smiling and deceiving

The sun and its promise when it sets

Like the lover who recently said goodbye –

The friend who knows your freedom,

Shrouding glimpses of Home, the laughter


Whose reality do we see here?

Poetry, its mother hands cries softly in the rain

Little trinkets of water love, languid and created,

I, moldering.



There is that boy holding

A rose and three copies of Hustler magazine,

Deep eyes, low from Marijuana

And that pansy weeping

Two drops of crystal clears,

For the boy he could not kiss.

To the mirror, I spit towards me,


My favorite plague is the locust

Humans are locust eaters because

They like it terse, they want it sappy

And they need tragedies to be coated

By curse.


We are perpetual. Tsynnah, Snowy

And I,

We make paper dolls, we were boys who listen

And knows when to breathe. We enjoy

Looking at the boy in red shorts – we bestow

The coitus creaking, our chopsticks and the rats

Befriending our nights in the swarming tropics

Of the University Belt – we bestow the dentist,

The writer and the nurse, we make sorrow


The dentist waits, a televisionary, dabs the

Collar of this girl from the Seychelles with orange things,

So sure, she would make it to the top ten. He sieves

Through the chimera, the soul of his silence,

Patting the mysteries of his unspoken gift.

The nurse speaks of sebaceous glands, glances

From the dentist and to the writer holding the pencil

And blight towards the black girl from Nigeria,

Nothing the remains of his craving for the maleness

Of the walls, painted in the mahogany of his words.

The writer toils over the graying paper, shading

The little lashes of Miss Australia – this is my favorite,

He thinks plotting something as usual, these are my Girls,

Remembering the bantam years when paper dolls

Refused to play games with little faggot boys like him.

Side by side, all our girls become the chronicle of wishes,

The papered proof of beauty – the remainder

Of an equation we surrender to in this searing

Night in Manila, in 1995, when I am called Petulia

And our pageant night is enhanced by desire. It is Perpetual.


Language of the soul, the poet said of poetry.

Do I know the soul? Does it have a mouth?

I lie here, in my souring mattress, covered in white,

The walls painted white, the colorlessness and the smell of piss.

I rush to the core – I clasp the sides, step on the ground,

Breathe, breathe, breathe – and all I see is the crucifixion,

The grasping Jesus. Me, I presume, playing Jesus.


About this entry