eye and hook

i am subtle, dear:
an eye above the monitor,
a glance from behind.
you will never know
that i’ve looked and searched;
and the interest just gets better.

i see you, too, subtler though you are:
a silent gaze above
the liter water container,
a neck-fetching comment,
as if somewhere beyond
you will hook up with my eye.

for mk
01|22}10

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I am in limbo

I am in limbo, in that place between waking and sleeping where one is purified / purged. In my poverty, I will never be able to buy myself out of this. Not even the people who know me, people who have no idea I am experiencing this right now, will ever be able to pray for me long enough for me to declare freedom. And they said one only gets to purgatory when one dies. I am not dead, yet here I am in the middle space of living and dying.

Allow me to describe how it feels:

Days and nights do not seem to be any different from each other, aside from the obvious presence of light. The absence of light does not entirely signify night, nor is its persistence a proof of day. No, there is no night and day. No rest or wakefulness. There is only this sense of being. Just being without meaning or sense.

I am occupying this space either too small or too spacious. I am matter narrowed down to a pedestrian in an otherwise vast street. I am a passenger taking up too much space inside a jeepney, where other people cannot get in. But even with mass, I seem insignificant. A solid that can very well have been gaseous.

If I were a notebook, I’d be empty. Blank pages where even lines refuse to subsist. Where words and colored ink once abound, there is only now emptiness. The absence of words spells out the dearth in story. I am a story, unplotted, unended. My climax is yet to be reached. If I can find it.

And so, where is purgation here? Where is salvation? Where is freedom from nightless, dayless hours? Where are grace, glory, and honor? In this absence, I can only conclude one thing: this is not purgatory. For if purgatory is the middle space of being, then one might as well be in hell.

Oh yes, this is hades, where Your absence is well-defined.

01|18|11 – Tecson de Guia

I am female, male, lesbian, gay

I am female with boobies underneath pink blouse

I am male with hairs all over me, far more down below

I am lesbian, in love with an image of femininity found only in a vaginad female

I am gay, unsure of self, so sure of lust for figures of manliness

I am female, male, lesbian, gay

I am queer because I can be all

I am confused because i cannot be who I am made to be

01|18|11 – Tecson de Guia

there is sadness in Your absence

there is sadness in Your absence
a longing nowhere to be associated
what has become of us, Love?
You, whose Majesty is my Salvation,
and i, whose life is Your death,
where do i really begin
to look for us?
but that i do not seek You
is in itself my tragedy
that i do not hear You
is not an encouragement
oh, my Heart, my Life,
allow me to declare
that i suddenly remembered You
and my heart did not even break

we dare ask what has become of you

We dare ask what has become of you. We watch out for your every move, and check your updates and your friends. I dare to criticize you for making your pretend world, when unknowingly, I’ve led you there. We baptized you with selflessness, and called you by another name. Your birthright by name we have rejected. We refused to make use of your name and said that it doesn’t reflect at all who you are. Ah, but is the reflection we’ve made for you any better than any other reflection?


for r/c