‘caution: contents hot!’
says the mcdonald’s paper cup. i sip my coffee nervously anyway. he pours thick syrup over a couple layers of his pancake. orange juice to his left, melting hot fudge to his right. ( i remember how i loved sundaes on sundays.)
my aviator and west menthol sit idly on the table, he still wears his dark shades while carefully forking his meal. his face twitches, a little curl forms at the base of his steep nose bridge.
i sip again.
i find my self curling at the fifth corner of my mind - a pentagon mind - all other four staring at me blankly, without intending to lend any piece of reprieve.
a fetus , floating in murky amniotic juice, i grapple to find the chord.
fists clenching. lips tightly pursing.
i realize, what time is it?
it is time of fear. a time of reckoning and not understanding.
i find the cord in my curling corner, i am strangled - the chord.
i find my self curling…
i will have wet dreams
tonight - i will force my self
to dream. i will dream of him.
him and me together in bed
contorting and fucking
and the sex will be painful.
i will fuck him as much as
he’ll fuck me - up until
blood floods the sheets.
up until blood and cum
wash the pain
tainting the linen.
this is the only way
i know how to wash
the pain.
tonight, alone, i will
dream the most bitter
of dreams i can ever dream.
tonight, i will come in revenge
the way i know it.
he sang, umbrella, i danced in my stool, swirling a striking little pink cocktail parasol.
did i hear him sing you can be my cinderella, yes?
it must be alcohol, or he sang to me -no, change it, through me- i went home humming, tiptoeing over street puddles.
but i’m a man, another man, shouldn’t be lusting over -or say, adoring- another man.
come into me, i sings, stuttering halftone, crossing through green light.
screech!
ten to midnight.
a pumpkin car?
gumugulong na
parang trumpong
pudpod na’ng
pako, gulong
pa rin nang gulong
na parang
trumpong
hilo na pero
gulong pa rin ng
gulong na parang
purol na trumpong
gumigewang
na parang trumpo.
tulirong trumpo
ang isipan kong
parang trumpo.
in my dream, i walked along a stream, dark and murky.
in my dream, i was so parched, sweat ran like evading mercury beads, from my forehead, down to my neck until finally deciding to rest and evaporate from my week old cotton shirt.
in my dream, i was wearing a white shirt with a greenback printed on it, abraham lincoln holding his jaw, stern and clueless.
in my dream, i was unshod, i crossed the stream, and i drowned.
my father, he sings. he sings so well, "…ohh, i’m an english man in new york…" he belts. i was wearing a long pink and aqua dress, i was six years old, just right after trick and treating.
the show stopped, i spilled water on some of their wired gadgets, the audience called it technical glitch.
trick or treating was a lot of fun, not like when my pa threw me the stare.
the cold stare.
"…be yourself," he continues, "no matter what they say."
he wears comic strips under his trousers, i realized this one time we pissed unmaliciously together in the adjacent urinals you often see in some fancy coffee shops.
i didn’t mind when he threw a quick look at my cock, discussing matter of factly how god created cocks so differently to exhibit the uniqueness of each of his creatures - much like those fingerprints.
mine was stout with a marines type helmet head. i didn’t mind glancing at his , so much should i care.
next page, hulk blows a punch.
when did libido ever go well with spanish sausage and omelette? i must be so repressed, im having breakfast in some hole in the wall nook. it must be too early for a customer like me, that i seemed too distracting to their morning ritual. im the only soul in this half asleep cave. not so awake that a crew mops the floor to dab the place’s eyes somewhere under the tables. he is nineteen, or twenty by my calculation, half naked and bulging.
i can only gulp.
it was in 2058 when carlo last glanced at the blurring neon light in ben’s eyes. he can almost hear the intermitent circuit sparks running to and from his retina, then pupil - back and forth like crazy mice.
cold metallic chugs, circuit sparks. then indecently frightening silence.
2096. ben is dust and so is carlo.
gust blew intently at one spot somehwere in the sahara.
if one listens closely, one will hear a duet of circuit sparks.
one should try.
