Lawdenmarc Decamora

When I greet the day
peacefully, you stab
the day with a knife—
a knife that stays,
looks like you,
a pith in the core
of tireless beginnings.
Remembering…
I bleed for you
red alphabets of time.
I bleed, like an ancient
tear in the eye
of the strangest wall,
the impregnable fog
in our midst.

I got the spirit of the world ninja tuna
I will stay poor my life to experience life
I have dreamed of you so much my sound

My jitney flies and I want to touch bloodbuzz
Blueberry body into the persuading coolness

I don’t have money to enter forgetting
I don’t have money because I don’t like it

The photograph hung against the blue world
Blue pain buzzing bee-bowskidee-doo-beep
Would you like to take a walk and sleep

The morning with simple kindness and bells
Tintinnabulating like my heart church crisis

Come away getting rich what we are not
Before you know it the dream is gone

Logical squares finally squawking
And thinking freer then freezing free
Like a perfect circle caking corners
Crooked imagination and begonia skies

You may be thinking I am limitless
And I have nothing to offer
Yes I have nothing and I’m proud of it

But there’s music in it full of love lions

Looks like it happened again you got them
All capital magisterial magic numbers

Still got the sensible wear-me-out blues
Of moneyheads undervaluing poetry
Of the breeze knifing through shades
Of the thousand blue get real

I will stay poor my life to experience life
Who’s going to disappear write forever

Who’s going to change I say, Go do!

For one:
I saw a book, ash-colored; on the side
of its skin lived the initials DB
riven by blankness
and a fatal crave darker than dark.
It read Dobby Gibson. My eyes
hungered, wishing for another
court in the sky, or another throat
to house another world in another time.

Second:
I should be in jail. I have been crippling
syntax to its spindly few. Spelling
I pummeled to misspell Dumaguete
as Desperado. Words whiplashed
on fire ice: Kripinoy, a Joaquinesquerie
jeepneying with Saint Lazarus—
the emperor of English over grass
lilt parsing poison into ice cream
poetry and screaming grammar noir.
The narrative of tradition, beer-fellowed
by cultural madness to digress
and mull over a foam
of savory crab fat alongside
our pickled come-what-mays. For this,
Art arbitrarily is sans an ‘A’. And thus ‘RT’
we all are. So I should be back to bed
confessing the secret of syllables
under the covers. Good morning!

Finally:
At the glum gates I see clock wives
in need of music, my geography
lessons I still can recall
while longing for vestiges of light
the long summer
the sweet mishaps
frozen fireflies in the mind—
the left and leaving, inaugurating
the nameless things
here, there, in the waiting room.

P.S.
Many times we have pried into the secret lives of words, how syllables could swim like Shinji in our head, bethinking of our mutual weirdness, rufous-headed, in present perfect.

Today familiar scents perforate
like hazy voices from distant places,
turn away from the dank cave
of scarred feelings. Today
scents flank expectations
that embrace promises
cloud-shaped in the eddy—
smelling of truth perfumed
in the delicate touch of words—
your fragrance filling my heart
hands that eternalize myths
that make the hours hum
the certitude in bloom
or Wednesday the making
and unmaking of another history
of love loving the afternoon
when lovers confess
to themselves they are
like water—name-petalled,
flowing, surpassing
the gauge of days.

Today here I am, smiting
the common pith of sorrow,
finger-spelling
the crazy numerics
of your return in the country
of my mind.

Old scriptures dog-eared in the register of infrared
news dailies, the chipped SIM cards of this street’s history
become the wings of the citizens’ fast-abiding method
to whatever is psychologically fit bulimic of cash and class:
I remain blinkered yet inspired of the bubble gum sticking out
a taste of this and that. Hip as tradition strays on slippered,
coal-skinned memory, a visionary glued
on the accrued philosophy of Marty’s Hamburger, a bystander
becalmed by postmodern hair fashion like Son Goku
by way of super faith. Being a bum for 2 hours
beside the ATM booth, I start to cave in over the secrecy
of life entered instantly into a card hole, this mouth-contoured
abysmal slit, what’s in there? People queued up,
patience steeplechased, as if for quick pleasure, as if
recharging a tired body or a ravaged soul, as if
inside you will meet the Devil painting his nails
Mexican pink with the struggle of a toothless trident,
or maybe encounter Mr. ATM himself doing you
a favor to steal a line from a song that says,
“What if God was one of us?” Chewing bubble gum
under the sun, smitten by the rasp and rattle of holy
heat, is sweet, and this so true madam. For I’m
a bum, yes sir, I’m a bum.

Turn INNOCENCE into fiction of houses apart, Sunday mass appeal, cigarette stubs, imagination, bus terminals, missus jabber job, wanted: drunk elephants, butterfly wings, Dougie faith, the crucifixion of clowns, Chekhov’s gun, wet nurse mummies—the pyramids, manuscripts, Nutella dream-spread, the suck-cess/pool, story deadlines, love and power lines, pizza porn phrases, Uganda stanzas, madstupid editor.s, disappearances, genie in a nostril, mirror mirror wonderwall, push magic, run river, hippo touch, sergeant sardine in ICU, coffeens, daffodils, sands, your coralline smile, politik swine search, jalousied jealousy, metallic cops, friends with Benetton, Bloc Party rocks, redsun trees covered in words, words, words, words, words, words, words———Words

to make yourself strange, beautiful.