Skip to main content

SEX: Kasarian o Kasiraan


Basahin ang mga salita sa kung paano nababasa ng utak mo; alin nga ba sa dalawa mong pakahulugan ang mas naghahari sa kuro-kuro mo. 


Sabihin mo sa akin kung paano ang bawa't buka ng bibig ko ang nagpaligaya sa 'yo't sa gutom mong kalamnan;
Sa kung paano mong walang-búkas na nilantakan ang bawa't bato sa kweba ko at sinipsip ang dila nitó
Ang kalakasan mo sa kahinaan ko; sa pagpatong mo sa katawan ko, nanghihina.
Ang mga hibla ng buhok ko ang sinusundan mo sa pagpikit ng mga mata'y pakiramdam mo'y, "sige pa"; pero ang totoo sa likod ng mga ungol na hanging inilalabas sa bibig ko ang mga salitang, "tama na, nasasaktan na ako."

PINILIT mo pa.
Dinumihan mo ang marumi nang puri; winasak mo ang butas ng dangal ko.
Hindi ka pa nakuntento't ipinasok mo pa sa bawa't sulok ang galit na galit mong mga kamay.
Buo't buháy nitong nasaksihan ang kalupitan mong taglay.
Walang humpay, walang-tigil ang pag-uumapaw mo sa aking bawa't "aray!"

Hanggang saan ka dadalhin ng kasarapan mo sa pagtutulak ng ganitong pag-iisip?
Kapag oras na ng paglabas ng inaalagaan mong pagkatao?
Kapag idinala ka na nito sa ibang dimensyon ng mundo?

Ngayon mo sabihin sa akin, 
May pagkakataon bang mabaligtad naman ang posisyon natin?
Ako naman ang nasa itaas, ikaw naman ang papatungan ko.
Matatanggap mo bang ako naman ang pumasok sa 'yo?
Patuluyin sa masikip mong pag-iisip;
Sa marumi mong butas, at tanggapin naman ang ilalabas naming puti.
Ang puti ng kadalisayang tinataglay naming ngiti kapag ito'y naming nalasahan.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

IHY

 The hatred is piled up, enough to orchestrate a crime  and to hide it in nightmarish metaphors. I have imagined you getting piercing through the fragility of the roof of your mouth, until you beg for forgiveness with your really untamed spirit. Perhaps, flaying would be much better, but crying will be reverberated through every corner of your long shattered room, as your annoyingly pleading voice will still be heard. An unforgivable, hell-bent serpentine, you always are, caressing the man’s ego extracting his exhaustion, and me against a fiend in your presence. Such a soft way to demonstrate hell to you— as it was not even a flinch, or a poke. You deserve heaven appearing reverse, so the gods you have known will forbid your salvation.
Post a Comment
Read more

24?

"Twenty-four seems scary," I tell myself. Sometimes, I tell jokes, or mostly, it was conveniently told, like how a laugh returns and  introduces itself as villainous friend, but an enemy is the positivity that takes. It is so much scarier when it visits me: a quicksand brought by faux geniuses, a peeking sock-made puppet,  I am a whole drama— a ventriloquist of his own dreams. Delighted by my father's cake: "Happy birthday, son!"  I still know how to stay still  when everybody sings me one.  My Mom gave me bills: Money is an angel.  Indeed, for it lets me fly out of the reality— out of reality that everything  is still made of infinite loops,  as in manmade experiments, and how they can be destroyed by one gentle blow.
Post a Comment
Read more

Conveyor Belt

For like a conveyor belt I lay before you my present: prosthetically decapitated head; well decorated with crystals; synthetic beads; a barbed wire pierced through the iris.   Hungry men before me: I examine, I hear the borborygmus, tingling sensation when my plastic bones crack and break the ceilings. A mirror on the wall   where mother used to lean her idealism against. Now rest the rusts, webs of a Black Widow, which is not native to this house: as her now demeanor,   as her now demeanor, repeating, reeling and reeling as I sit trying to weave, for my soft dreams have now become plagued long before I dared to sleep my heavy. As a belt: I lay my body as they try to fit the loose holes to fit my thinness. My insides as they churn   from a deafening machine audibly discernible so my father could hear, yet faint as his late regrets.
Post a Comment
Read more