The Old In-Out, Real Savage

8 hours of sleep.
4 hours of awakening.
Almost.

Nothing beats this kind of carnage.
The romance.
And the grimace.

Ironically,
simultaneously,
entirely.

Multiple Schizosis

It's quite intricate to find even a single metaphor for this dumb boy's severe psychotic behavior. Or at least how this boy used to impersonate his own persona. His mere name is, or was, indescribably pretentious. His lame actions were damnable just as his lame proclamations were. It was so effortless of him to capture any gullible gobbledygook's attention but one time, unknown inter-universal forces conferred to fracture his earthly teases. It was an opportunity for him to metamorphose his schizoic deeds.

He tried. He faked. He lied. He tried. He persuaded. He lied. And, he, yes he did, failed.

It's the only routine he knew. Seeking attention. Preying for victims. Spying on someone else's Achilles' spot. Never mind the outwardly physique, it is the true psyche that matters most. And for that, he plainly lost. He will never get rid of his own murky shadows.

And so they say that hatred is only a manifestation of guilt, or maybe, disillusion. In this scenario, there's no room for the mentioned abstractions. This perfect situation was bound to be false; it was fabricated to be complicated. And etceterae. Narration in the past tense, hopefully, shall expunge unintended charades and masquerades that were only unmeant into a vast hole of forgetfulness. No more dream infestations. No more reality confrontations.

Say so long to your putrid schlong.

Half-Eve, Half-Morn

Sugar-frosted cereals and unsweetened milk, these are mere physiological needs that seem to fasten her self-caused vexation, momentarily. That dreaded, awkward silence is inevitably happening. Silence. Still, she can hear the agony of her weary computer, the shrill oscillation of her resilient electric fan, the murmur of her neighbor's radio, the decibels of her own mastication, and the beating of her own cardiac muscles. Silence. Awkward and deafening.

None of her senses is dysfunctional. Yet her neurons are impeded; she is finding for a familiar comfort.

A glassful of water, she chugs down. In less than five minutes, she will feel the urge to micturate, this is natural. I hope kidneys are capable of filtering good vibes from the bad just as it filters water from filthy, bodily wastes, she pointlessly ponders. She could just sleep the negativity off and then tomorrow shall be a dandier day. But she prefers staying awake - and subconsciously sleepwalking with her five functional senses.

Okay, stomach is on-the-go once again. She looks at the film-filled corner of her slumber-room. She hesitates, goes back to touch-typing, goes back to the reality she wrecked just hours ago. She knows exactly what she needed to do. She definitely knows how to cave in. But I am ultra-lame and I am scared that I might just make things more indescribably complicated, she mulls all over again to herself.

This tantrum, this syndrome - is tardily tying her guts into knots.

Of Omentums and Aortaes

Her ever-impeccable lingual buds are tortured with the repetitive taste of monosodium glutamate in its various, hideous forms. The instant noodles. The canned fish. The foil-wrapped junks. It's actually frustrating, how those amazing and intricate essential nutrients are being denied from her physical systems. Ironically, pound by pound, she's still being nourished.

And of nourishments, her cardiac activity seems to be functional. Pulses are regular. Beats per minute are normal. No signs of dysryhthmia. No symptoms of cardiomegaly.

Until this very second.

She unhesitatingly deletes 949 messages in her inbox. In the background, metals clutter from a film that has been playing since 3 in the afternoon. Her inner erotomania is here; it plunges her into a deep emotional coma. Silence is never fucking golden. It only inhibits rationality. It denatures gaiety. It derails her insanity.

769 messages has been deleted.

She feels her own skin slither with wrath. She abhors herself; the paranoia - or even remotely worse - is killing their mutual insides. Part-time lovers should never perceive these sorts of translucent insensitivity, she scolds herself. She never wants to go back to her ultra-lame old self. If only she could spin back the hour before this relentless argument. Then, all will be well.

She cringes. And then deletes 918 messages in her sent folder. Still, the irrationalities uttered cannot be undone. Not now, bitch. He says that silence is golden. She would never understand. All she requires is a heartfelt lullaby from his number one gun. She's sorry; he's sorry. Everybody will fucking be sorry. But he wouldn't listen. And she wouldn't falter.

Only a week of unseen faces, almost a decade of unheard vows.

Anti-Climax

Their hands were locked, after moments became loose. Parting ways has always been their most dreaded scene. Their hearts beat like a broken jukebox. Crazily. Haughtily. He pulled her and kissed her. It was quick. But it was full. They did not notice, but their eyes closed as his lips brushed hers. It was quick. And it was full.

They headed on to their own directions. Still, she tasted his saccharine mouth. She was a happy dandelion. And she let her lips dry on its own. They were not hand in hand anymore. But she felt his curative aura taunting her. In a nice, palpable manner.

Everything slow-motioned. Except her heart that beat like Zimmer’s masterful tempo. She could die right then and there.

He is everything she wants.
He is her rubial fetish.

Matte and Waterproof

She's concealing the dismal circles around her almond eyes, proof that she's abusing caffeine. She's casting a coal shadow on her eyelids and it's obviously making her insides hurl. She's mixing the fine, soot particles against her pale and wan bronze, a sign that she's innately multi-coloured. Same goes for her short-lived lashes; she's painting them with a volumisant, recourbant tube of mascara.

She's meddling with her own lips and she's daubing them with a coral rust pencil. She's pausing. She's looking for more flaws to conceal. She's sharpening her cosmetic armaments and then she's reaching the finale. Nothing is becoming grand, she scours. She's ending the masquerade by faking some reds on her zygomatic arch. She might be having a ball today.

She's fabricating. She's forging. She's losing her favourite game.

Net Weight: 450 mL

It has been quite a while since I last inhaled an early morning's flaccid oxygen. But being upholstered in your non-frigid arms hasn't been denatured in my short-lived memory lane. Mornings like today endure my self-contained restlessness. Because of your kisses that suit mine, I am whole again. "We can pause like this forever," we thought to ourselves - not knowing that even in thoughts, we share a single soul.

The yesteryears have withered like whirling wasps in the wind. Our romantic blitz has been reciprocating for sixty-eight months (and counting) already and still, we quench for more. Like the mornings that provide new beginnings, together we are the ever-complicated molecules of a biological ventilation.

Afterwards, there'll be a svelte amount of my autobiographical narration. I have decided to integrate my non-flowery monologues, too. Yes, as if you'd fucking care.

To resume in a while.

Sixty-Eighth

He has been occupied with his new-found occupation and his single-serving co-enzymes. Yet he still only sparks for his courageous lady tiger. When was the last time she and him finished a film from prologue to epilogue, neither can recall. But their everlasting stare has seemingly caught up against their evil arguments. Quite a good thing, apparently.

She misses his blinding, flashing strobes. She misses giving him lust via the corner his 200mm lense. In spite of their inevitable hiatus, their romance is still a blitz. A few hours from now they will hold hands again, osculate again. Petty fights will have no room for sharing for it'll be their sixty-eighth moon together.

Meanwhile, tonight, a familiar tune will ring in her head. "We must never be apart."
And, yes, apart, they will never be.

Intensity of Five

The earth shook for less than five seconds a few blinks ago. I was alone in my confined slumber room and I felt as if all of my fear gush throughout my tainted walls. My collection of pirated videos were in motion, too. I was blank. I was in dire fear and all I was able to mouth was, "Mommy." I was like a toddler whining to get hold of my favourite plastic doll. In reality, I feared being alone at that moment - I wished I was with someone, even it was a childhood frenemy o' mine.

The next thing I knew, I was ringing my astrocherub, hoping his voice'll calm my nerves. I conversed with him in less than a minute but, yes, I felt safe and saved. I also dialed my Mommy's and she pacified me and the conversations were worthy. Being scared shitless was worthy because of the people who knew how to alleviate my weakness.

Presently, I despise being alone. I wish I could sleep beside him tonight so I can slumber with my lights off.

Come here, my astrocherub.

Self-Mingled Theories

It's awkward-funny how this usual laundromat man keeps on misspelling my name with an additional E at its end - and I don't even mind him being incorrect. He has even asked me for the asdfth time if he was spelling it right and I always reply aye - even if he writes my supposedly four-letter moniker in five bold ones instead. He redundantly bellows me the same circle of questions but I don't dislike how ignoramus our short-lived friendship is. He must be in his 50s and the way he gulps alcohol on an every-midday basis would plainly elaborate his thinning brain cells and echolaliac questionnaire.

At 17:00 H, a bunch of foul-mouthed critters are playing in our rather barren asphalt jungle. It is a slick-proper opportunity for me to ransack their riddles but my lenses are too idle to capture any of their muscular activities. Watching strangers sets myself into being lost in transition (not translation) - I am all too eager to photograph them and their peculiar stares but I am almost always too insufficient to act upon my ardour.

I am letting myself to gather my delinquent insides: within the entirety of January, I must be able to have at least four hypothetical stills in a compilation. This is not a test; this is a forgery.

Foul-Scented Deeds

Drenched eyeliners
Traces of insomnia
Altered fantasies
Forces of asphyxia

Words are trembling.
Actions are failing.

Coalesced Molecules

No other food particles is swimming in my stomach right now but the filthily scrumptious bits of local canned sardines. Its stench lasts like a full-length medieval film. How its scarlet sauce jibe with its canned creatures' frail spinal column and their goosebumps-inducing shiny scales - is just plainly mesmerizing to one's lingual buds. I have eaten preservatives of the same kind for two times in less than a week but that isn't a sinful scenario. I am fleshly nurtured. I need this to compensate my minimum smoking vice.

Almost everything is almost artificial nowadays. The only thing that remains non-derailed is a girl's lachrymal projection: her default reaction to a love story being foretold by a she-Japanese protagonist whose other half is already past her present tense. I am too feeble when it comes to shedding actual chick-flick tears, this I solemnly admit. It's square. Even tourists who smoke have tear ducts, too.

I am not artificial, that's quite the least to say before this full stop.

Le Trouble Comme

Like all things are erratic, it seems that the first person point of view is having its luscious comeback in her neurotransmitters. No need to reiterate thoughts. Just a flick of transporting the thirds into firsts will incoherently do her good.

Flashback editing begins ahora mismo.

Silver-Coated Midst

She likes the menthol sting of her week's first-lit cigarette. Her own lips taste like spear with a spurt of frigid concoction that gallops through her gullet. It usually takes her three redundant times before she can absolutely fire her hand-held baccos. This time, she perfects it. Afternoons have never been this delightful, she murmured.

She inhales, but she doesn't swallow. She breathes without any pleural exacerbation. She is in half-solitude and her other half is in disdain. The future tense ravages her mind as she exhales firsthand vapour. She sprinkles cold water through her tarsals, cold water through her veins. Her brain cells seem to evacuate her insides as she plunges into the menthol sting of her week's first-lit cigarette.

Alas, she can slumber for a while as she waits for him to come home.

Until then, you, my humanoid nicotine,
shall imbibe my very soul in a lovely,
tar-filled trance.

Monochromanila

Monochromanila was my first take on Project 52, a Tumblr-famous thing back in 2010 wherein one takes, picks, and posts a special photo once a week for an entire year. I was living in an apartment in Manila City at that time so I thought of documenting the life of random strangers on the streets.

As an amateur attempt on street photography, I used a Nikon D40, my first and only digital SLR. I post-processed the images using Adobe Photoshop to obtain a gritty, black and white effect. Thus, the series' name. The cat-eyeglasses logo was custom-made for me by my good friend, Justine.

01. A fish seller at Vicente Cruz wet market

02. A Yakult vendor at Vicente Cruz market

03. A soy bean curd vendor along Fajardo Street

04. A homeless woman along España Blvd.

05. Slipper vendors along Lacson Ave.

06. A homeless man along España Blvd.

07. A kid playing by himself at Quiapo's underpass

08. A man who sells "dirty" ice cream

09. Rag sellers along Magsaysay Blvd. (taken in a taxi)

10. A homeless man along Pureza

11. A homeless woman in Rizal Park

12. A homeless man along España Blvd.

13. A homeless man along Recto Blvd.

Sadly, I was only religious with the series for the 13 weeks. I am planning to restart this project (using the same name) and then use 35mm films instead. Manila City will always be in my heart.

See also: Xenophilia

Snellen's Slaves

He sounds so queer whenever he says she's beautiful. Deep inside, she is all simpers. Her eyes reveal such spectre. He excavates, not only her soul, he also sets deep into her wee-lashed orbs. He sees into her lenses. And that is the sole reason why his queer tone cannot be covert. Their designated universes befittingly hover throughout their sense of vision. They see through their nerve endings.

Those eyes of hers, though altered in refraction, search only him, see only him.
To her, he also is comely.

And forever inside-out, you will always be my fancy.

Rime in Brine

An arthropod circles the lid of a cherry cola can. I like accidental alliterations, she pondered. And I like thinking of how our palms perfectly spoon each other, she subconsciously reckoned.

You send me the most saccharine shivers.
You navigate me into my narrowest narcolepsies.

(untitled)

* originally featured on Xplotar *

Xplotar's maiden issue

featured photo in color