July&August4Sale
...it was less an act of hubris, more a lonely hearts club at the helm of a magic bullet Aesop Rock
A message from a false subconscious:
June 27. You and abcd probably kissed by then. And nothing else happened, except for that arskoot girl you were talking about had a double bypass surgery after their breakup, and after learning that she was bearing quadruplets. Then he offers another interpretation – it was just a kiss. That lust is not part of human history: science helped remove it. Then when you are twenty-one years nine months old you have twins with inaqeu, whom you will never see again. You file a leave last-minute. When you are pregnant with the twins, you let your superior fuck you for four Sundays. He stops by your house when everyone is forced to church except you because they know that you’re an antichrist. It was that kind of insatiable want that refractory periods, or even two months’ worth of unpaid bills, cannot repress anymore. So unstoppable, that and you and Asd fuck three times a week for a month. Then you birth the twins – Caesarean. You miss your parents. You decide to return to work, you become more purple each time you check yourself, like storms that swipe civility out of a certain landscape. You keep going up the ranks. You manage to be alive nine years later: one of the twins die in a car crash, you leave your old job to work for an artsy-fartsy company for a measly amount, and your sister Sjdj calms you down for it. Your girlfriend proposes on Skype, and you yes. You and Ftw get married; she stays in the country for six months; Your two sisters, Eyuq, your brother, your mother, and your guardians do not really approve of her, but they treat her relatively well, except for LQfz, whom wants to rape her when you go to work; you get fired; you try another job, but you fail the interview; in your last two months in the country you get a visa, et voila, you’re in New York or wherever, chasing dreams as if they are cabs. Your wife advises that you go to NYU or wherever, and you actually get in. You get a Fulbright for some reason, and you create poetry that rivals GHlsm’s, and your old mates’ in the Philippines, too. Your wife by then is a Professor Emeritus at Syracuse that is why you become confident in pursuing your masters. You return glorious, a media cliché, a hero. You win six of the next eight Palancas in poetry. You publish something from your independent days, but now it has around 200 pages, all of which comes from nights you spent in New York or wherever, drawing, adding fragments upon fragments of clothing. You receive a Man Asian for it. You and UHa decide to go back to your old home. Close to the foyer, there are graves of your brother and your mother. You completely forget that you have a child, thus you think of you never sent presents or boxes of any kind for twelve years. She’s a high school student now, critical of everything. Of course, she wonders why she has a purple complexion because of the ongoing narrative that your remaining relatives pulled from the television. You grab a pistol and shoot her in the wrist.
In my mind I spill blood Like I lost my way through and out The street you left me in. With my feet embedded, I must leave, As much as I must go back to your house, Perhaps to laugh at your random Or ask of your logic (or maybe there isn’t). I don’t want no other crevice, Muddling my senses With options, And as this jeep farthers, I guess I have these people to laugh at, Busy with snoring Dreaming away their unlisted day Or those raining, Whenever you leave, Please leave a note for Those you want, Or a ticket, tell them you Were to meet a movie director What was to be said? You can’t just exit Without you saying it. For them to spill blood Like they lost their way through and out This maze you left us in.
And when you write, or type, whthe world funcking slowsa downsa. Your dinsutnkn sel f is ttelling ayouadf to not to funmnble all this shit. Your’re cousting myouuself all your fourtune dammmmmmn. Is this the after=-stxex look? O r are you just way topopooooooooo driunLK?>
Title Benchwarmer Content This is rather an unwound roll of Genesis. To have backmasked it further meant mashing events together (just look at the screen). The water settling in your tongue, marring your idea of a week, was not as sandy as intended. Give them up and tweet your reserve. “You either dream, or we wake you up.�
An Heroine Title Content
To preempt your last note, you might not like what the priest would tell us And the preceeding stories Or the other people who listened to any,
all of them live where you don’t know them, and might stay at your living room hours before.
Even the lovers who could help carry on what someone in your bloodline have started. Now they will ask what you are known for. The Internet might set candles seen from a chat window. Others will pray; and others will only weep. You might become the dust that statisticians sweep around.
A. D. dela Rosa post-elbified.tumblr.com mostponder.blogspot.com
Samahang LAYB samahanglayb.wordpress.com