One Night Only
Bumukas ang aking mga mata
sa kalatog ng mga kaldero.
Nilingon ko ang huli kong katabi kagabi.
Naroon pa siya. Napangiti ako.
Naaamoy ko pa sa kaniyang hininga
ang binalasa naming erbi.
Gusut-gusot ang kumot---
siguro iniukit niya roon ang kanyang lungkot
habang ako'y natutulog.
Maingat ko iyong itinakip
sa hubad niyang balikat.
Gusto ko siyang itali sa aking yakap,
gusto ko siyang ikandado sa aking mga halik;
ideklarang akin siya.
Ngunit ang puso ko ay isa lang sa mga bato
at ang puso niya ay tubig na umaagos
sa sanga-sangang mga ilog ng mundo.
Kininis niya ako pero hindi siya mananatili
para gawin akong diyamante
kahit ipagpilitan ko ang aking sarili
para baguhin ng mga kamay niya.
Nagliyab ang kurtina
sa puluhan ng aking kama
pero hindi niya iyon nakita.
Kaya't lihim ko siyang binulungan
ng "Isinusuko ko sa iyo ang tiwala ko."
baka sakaling dito na siya mananghalian.
Baka sakaling maisip rin niya bago siya umalis
na iwan ako ng kasiguruhan,
kahit pabiro lang, na ako'y kanyang babalikan.
--
This is my favorite poem :(
Rejection
I am language and I reject your word.
You can keep it. It sucks. Sounds godawful,
like screech of bottlecap against concrete,
heel-dragged by rubber shoe of nasty kid.
Your word can knock elsewhere in this city,
any other door but mine. Sure, there’s room
at this or that drive-in motel, but tell the virgin
motherfucker to go find a stable, and see if kings
come to crown it, bow and offer gifts before it,
along with the cows, the sheep and the mules.
Can’t talk me into it. Stop trying.
You can smile and open your legs
all you want, pump-prime me to consider
your neologism, but I shan’t have it.
I am language, I have my rules
and policies, not all of them strict
nor thick like a city dick. But I tell you,
I won’t go to bed with your terrible offer
nor spend a holiday in the country with it.
Wait a minute. Why, if I don’t accept it,
it’s not a word. It remains gobbledygook,
not even slang or patois, but baby talk.
So let it grow and mature, learn to coo
while acquiring savoir faire and derring-do.
Like ecstasy, or rapture, or rhapsody.
Now those are good words, they glide in
like angels proclaiming a soulful birth.
Not like your equivalent of a dingbat
seeking space in cosmopolitan places.
Let it mind its manners first, until
it assumes delicate, gurgling shape,
like love, or milk, or breast.
Give it a rest, your weird sing-song
guttural exhalation. Take it back
where you found it. I am language
and won’t have it. I am umbrage
and won’t settle for less than finesse.
It’s a barbarian at my gate, and there
it’ll be held in check, until it begins
to sound fit enough for polite company.
This is my city and I am language
of the streets that has been accepted
in the streets and elegant parlors both.
Your expression stays in ether of sewer.
Clam up, button your lip, let not that curse
of inanity start a rot in my metropolis
that stands on the cadavers of obscenities.
Fuck off. And take your fucked-up wish
of a sigh back to the hills of politesse,
diplomatese, PC police. Away! Alis! Alis!
