green green grass

a tribute to the dodos
March 20, 2007, 6:15 am
Filed under: it's just me. you dont have to care.

we are no more than a pair of slippers. you’re my right,i’m your left. i’m your right,you’re my left; and vice versa. we look alike, in the mirror i’m you. i look exactly like you.

we are no more than a bubble gum. i just love to chew you until you’re neither sweet nor minty, until you become saliva. we are no more than the taste of saliva.

we are no more than shit. we have to be eaten alive or dead twice, thrice, they dont care. and they get everything out of nothing, as nothing as shit. so we become shit: the “shitee” and the “shitter”.

we are no more than immature poets. we immitate “mature” poets. and when will we mature? until we learn how to cheat?

we are no more than mothers. we are sucked and we suck. and life sucks. the least we can do is suck back.

we are no more than nikki, or kae… we feel we are them sometimes.

we are no more than stretch marks, hair split-ends and breaking callous. we are the flaws.

AND the dodos are more than just what and who we are.


the shoe bargain
March 17, 2007, 7:19 am
Filed under: cw posts

Her feet do not touch the ground when she sits so she can swing her legs childishly. The sun flashes angry rays on the tree over the long white bench where she waits for you. But before she knows it, you are already coming towards her. She hates it when you just show up like that, anticipated yet still surprising, making her stomach ache strangely.

You wear your new shoes. The day before, you described them to her excitedly. The color of the leather was exactly as she imagined it—like fresh macopas that her grandpa brings to the house on Sundays. And the smell of macopa is the scent of your sunny smile. She can tell you, “You are very attractive”, or “Hey, you are blooming! Are you in love?”, or she can just say, “You look good today”, and pretend a laugh. But she won’t say that in front of you. You know she won’t. These are the things she does not say at all and she is sorry she does not even know why.

You walk with each other a lot. She can walk with you as far as three kilometers without having to sweat about it—or farther; she does not care at all. She can walk with you anywhere: on a dusty cemented road, on an asphalted street steaming heat in midday, on paths that used to be rivers leading to the ocean time before time, on a red carpet showered with wild flower petals—or on a quicksand, flush down yourselves and struggle there—underneath all the ways you could have walked on through the surfaces of the earth. You make her feel that you are never tired of walking even though you can always ride on something at an expense of small change. You teach her how not to grow tired every time you walk her home on a paved road as you kick little stones that come your way and exchange kicks of a bigger stone, aiming to keep it as far as you can: a team effort.

“Belinda, Belinda, Belinda”, you love saying her name in a song over and over again.
Belinda tells you so many things and you listen to her like all the world is white noise. Remember when she tells you about how she found out her brother is gay? She dreads the moment she said it. She should not have said it. It is one of those things she hopes you, and her, can forget. And forgetting is too much to ask.

Remembering—has always been as much as forgetting. You kicked the slammed door, bury the old truths you and Belinda made so young, and the older ones you keep alone.

She stops walking with you.

There are so many things she does not understand; most of them she does not bother understanding. “You know this, right?”, you always say to Belinda. People only love what they understand and they only understand what they are taught.

Belinda happens to see you one bright morning. You sit at the far end of the horizon she strode with you one thousand times before; with your arms forwarded from behind her, clutching her shoulders. Once in a while you stop, pull her gently—and shut all the worlds. You still wear your shoes. It tells so much of the walks you had with her and the walks you had without her. The shoes are old; their color faded. Her stomach aches strangest. Belinda can no longer think of fresh macopas. The smell of macopa is not there anymore. You stand up and walk away. You do not look at Belinda. She does not look at you either. She moves her head down.

All Belinda can think of is her new pair of shoes she bought in a bargain.

trash, can’t care enough to care
March 4, 2007, 2:11 pm
Filed under: it's just me. you dont have to care.

i was thinking of something else a while ago. yet i saw something and i suddenly decided not to think about it anymore, whatever it is.

i do not want to sound like him.

something about ‘not my f**king business’
March 4, 2007, 1:43 pm
Filed under: it's just me. you dont have to care.

i’d rather leave this blank,