Tag Archives: heaven

August’s Journey

Dear August Journey,

Things have become rather difficult on your behalf now. The quarter moon has gently risen from above freshly-planted cornflower fields, and the way it illuminated the stalk of wheat stuck in between your taut scowl somehow reminded me of a vagrant angel I once saw in passing; perhaps in my most violent fever dreams, perhaps in the periphery of a forgotten childhood memory. Though, pray was I wrong about my prior assumptions?

I see that the jingling change in your pockets has been growing lighter with every dead-end town you pass by; your phantom presence barely rustles past rickety wooden establishments and suspicious-eyed locals like lost tumbleweeds and chasing dust by your worn-out rawhide boots, as you search for something that adamantly refuses to be found. The other shoe has dropped, all your horses have long-ago died of exhaustion when the heat rang high and clean water was scarce, and what you wouldn’t have given God’s mercy for just a little more time. But, isn’t that what you were running away from in the first place?

Your lover’s hands have slowly become loveless and the cobweb cracks are beginning to rapidly spread beyond your glazed eyes onto your craggy cheeks; and when you point your rusty revolver at an awaiting glass bottle, you always seem to target tattered fences and yonder valleys instead of hitting the mark dead-on, like you once always used to. And you grieve—oh, how much I have seen you grieve—but that’s just life. The prowling wolves have not ran for your bones yet; but with the way you refuse to interfere with your intrepid fears, they may as well already have stripped off your aged soul from the very edges of your sunbeaten hat and devoured the rest of you whole with a final triumphant flourish. And you let it be—and you sit on the initials of your name like a half-boiled eulogy—and you simply wait for the end—but won’t you try to shake off the ghosts stowing away and going in circles on your bloodstained coattails?

The ashes of the past shall surely fall, and fall in relentless mayday storms it shall; though it will not dwell any longer than a sluggish summer’s day if you bravely shut your eyes and hold your breath for just a minute…inhale not a speck and you may just come out the other end and weep in relief. The devil may arrive horns akimbo to take us both in our sleep, but please keep faith in me when I tell you that the journey is still far from over. It is embedded in your fate, in your veins, within your very namesake itself. I know your mama taught you from the very beginning to carry yourself ablaze and go out nobly, as rightfully as that may sound—yes indeed, she is your lifegiver, but she is not your sole devotion to life. Now come ye, renegade riders, hold out your pains and set them forth beneath the river of obscure sorrows, where every prayer and worry and promise shall all be washed downstream, away from goldmines and cardboard towns and shaky bodies without nerves—come ye, and hold out to me—hold out for me—

For you are you, August Journey. You are snapping tongues and bloody wit and resisting restlessness, you are the last stubborn leaf on a wilted elm branch still resolutely hanging on amid the very cusp of winter’s solemn death, you are the weary travellers you crossed and the sweetest damsels’ hearts your broke, you are the raucous enemies you peppered with cordite and the allies you shook callused hands with over a quiet pint, you are the mistakes you made peace with and the aimless footsteps you trekked all over your stolen frontier map—you are you and more than you, more than you could ever be. So, what do you say? Ready for one more hell on high water, or will your yellowed sheets hang short on the bedframe tonight?

The canaries chirping their royal codas, and the towering citadels built of crushed diamonds, and the coiling canyons without coal dust and cold nights, they all beckon you on. And I am me, and so must I be. Dear August Journey, I surely wish things would not be difficult for you any longer. The full moon shall rise once again from above unharvested fields and illuminate the crooked dagger’s glint in between your cunning grin; the vagrant angel they spoke of in hushed tones and classic legends is finally coming home. Ride on, August Journey.

Heaven awaits you, and so do I.

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Directions to Heaven

the memory of my father

clutches at my coiled stomach

he heeds—‘if you’re going

to die, don’t you bleed all over

the emergency room floor’


the fight draining out from

my critical fluids, and right into

that little plastic bag with

the yellow smiley faces, as if it

is glad to watch me suffer

the memory of my mother

sweeps down my shallow chest

she heeds—‘if you’re going

to die, don’t you leave your body

on the steps of the morgue’


cold light seeps in from the

corners of my eyes, like ethereal

tea; and at teatime, the doctor

looks at his clipboard and pulls my

line—so now i’ll be on my way.

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hanap-ilaw (finding light)

kahit ano mang

idlip ng karimlan

huwag na huwag

mo itong bibitawan

sagipin mo na lang

ang mga nakaligtaan

at susundin ang irog

ng ating kalangitan.

despite the slumber

of the darkness

never should you

ever lose your hold

instead, may you save

what has been neglected

and love shall be brought

back by our heavens.

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Quantum Immorality

find caution, cascading in

myriad throes of guns and

faded starlight, held back

only by the darkness, stark—

bleeding. animosity presents

in the manner of a wornout

theatre pantomime, painted

faces, lacklustre marionettes

scarlet eye and lithium inhale

redolences and sedated mire

platitudes forsaken by saints

cathedrals of human blasphemy

and in absentia, soulful requiem

chanted towards their heavens

crescendo. swelling lamentation

a bitter reluctance held forth by

admonition of sins baptised for

vile manipulation, underwater

torture, clergies in brothels and

a tempest in allegro—a visceral

cacophony revolted and created

polarised transgressions feeding

on facsimiles, cautious, nebulous

sleep now and forever hold your peace.

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Filed under Poetry

heaven has hazards, too.

I am my own parasite
I don’t need a host to live
We feed off of each other
We can share our endorphins
Doll steak, test meat…



the protests

rise like bile

and anarchy

from the back

of a shut throat

shut by rope

shut by force

shut the hell up

angels like you

don’t have wings

but holy tongues

no, it’s not the same

acidic prayers

could only burn

if you believe

and we don’t

believe me, i tried

but i can’t listen

to your whining

curdled preaching

spines unreeling

catching the bait

with faith and

worms, it doesn’t

matter; they all

taste the same

when all you eat

is your own words

spoiled aphorism

colourless lies

promising cheap

doses of paradise

fools betraying fools

the duality of man

bleeding out on

concrete praises

to coat the streets

with a fresh kind

of damnation

to slip on and fall

broken ankles

lead the line back

to recycled agony

playing pretend

that we’re all

something more

than god’s little nothing

blacked-out cursing

never quite trying

mesmerising, again

this enervation.


Look on the bright side is suicide
Lost eyesight, I’m on your side
Angel left wing, right wing, broken wing
Lack of iron and/or sleeping…

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angel fever

angel fever

you’re making

me sick

cigarette stains

playing dirty

cold tricks


angel fever

you’re running

me dry

cough syrup

and kisses

a sweet lullaby


angel fever

don’t send me

home yet

my wings are

still broken

and that i regret


angel fever

won’t you pray

for my soul?

your halo’s not

mine, but won’t you

please let me go?

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phantom boy

don’t you go,

phantom boy

i’m still not done

painting your portrait

to hang in my walls

long after the house rots,

long after i’ve passed away.

they said to let you go

for you’ve already found

your bluest heaven

where you can sleep with

fleecy floral angels,

but i don’t think i could

let you go that easily.

i want to capture you,

your ethereal silhouettes,

your faded outlines,

your scars and scepticisms,

your details and blurs,

and your coalescing heart.

because i still have mine,

phantom boy

and it beats angrily—

refusing to let me rest

until every colour, linework,

and careful brushstroke

is immaculate and

tastes tangibly of you.

i know you wish to leave soon,

phantom boy…

but won’t you please stay

and spare me just

one last masterpiece?

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You were my mockingbird darling;

Caught in between my smileless teeth

As the universe revolved without wonder


My cigarette lungs are no good for you

But the cobalt in your stare was all I needed

To get away from a summer-set heaven


I must have lost ambrosia on my tongue; as

Your ichor paints over the autumn gloom on my face

And every infinite thought of ours ceases to exist.

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happy cake day, sunflower.

I got a lot of things on my mind right now
A million ways to think about you
I can’t say I expected anything different
‘Cause the way you complicate me’s simple
She didn’t stutter, my chest flutters
Cardiac attack in the cradle of the summer…


you’re more than just the love song i play

when i feel like falling down the stairs—

you’re the landing that catches my broken bones.


and honestly, i don’t want to go on and on about how

you’re sunshine in the fog, or peachy sky cliches etcetera

i ran out of them a long time ago on your smile alone


i never get tired of those stupid monochrome dreams

at night where no one’s talking but i hear voices everywhere…

guess you’re the only voice i wanna hear in my head


because that’s all i am, another overused arcade game

and you pushed all of the big red buttons and you made me

self-destruct like pixelated fireworks to win the round


but that’s okay. i don’t mind. heaven is but a concept

i’m rather not willing to get lost in, but halos and hazards

are all there are to it. but you’re worth it…aren’t you?


but i guess the sour taste doesn’t ever leave me now

and i badly wish i could just forget about you, and myself,

and the days i chewed off the grey-painted calendar


for i don’t need to leave pastel notes or egg timers

or freshly-brewed coffee on the kitchen to let you know;

the universe says that’s not how reality works now


so instead i’ll tell none of my best friends about your laugh

and wish your name on every fairy light and lucky dandelion

that reflects the iridescence of your watercolour ocean eyes


and i’ll tangle up my breaths and my words and my awful art

and i’ll break the hourglass just to stop time for a while—and i’ll sing

to keep my yellow lovely safe from the world i can’t ever have.


I’m superstitious, the kid’s vicious
Bubblegum smile, taste the cherry on her lips!
You know I want you in the worst way
I need you like cake on my birthday
The way you operate is so sweet
I need you like cake on my birthday…

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Mad Mary Lennox

I still remember the world
From the eyes of a child
Slowly those feelings
Were clouded by what I know now—
I still remember the sun
Always warm on my back
Somehow it seems colder now…


You were the tears I could never release.

I am imprisoned for centuries in an impenetrable ribcage, feeling the lemongrass harshly piercing my calloused feet but never allowing my deprived senses to take in their ethereal fragrance, holding blossoms by their fragile throats and quietly wishing for their efflorescent scarlet to return and splash colour on my filthy grey dress again, and forevermore shackled and watching the suspended horizon; but a mere intangible memory playing tricks on my open lips.

It was beautifully haunting. My demented secret garden.

You alone held the key to the concealed gates. That particular key was crudely carved from roses and bones, finely forged of romance and blood, chiseled from my consumed heart and threaded with my vulnerable veins, but akin to the overflowing ocean of the tears trapped within my tired, pondering eyes, you released me not.

But will I despair? Never. I shall merely smile at your vicious cruelty and wait for patience with all the grace and forgiveness the pallid moon has adorned me with. I’ll peacefully sleep on my bed of fallen feathers and butterfly ashes, and I shall awake again the next day, my marred body still glimmering in a breathtaking fairy tale iridescence, to tend to my own share of bruised paradise and to sing my laments to the ardent stars in the missing sky once more.

Because this exquisite garden shares my every pain, my solitary desire, my one secret, and not simply the very secrecy itself. This sanctuary is mine to hold in eternal memoriam, and in an infinite someday, these silver chains will rust off and unfetter, as the reckless revolution of this damned planet will halt and reverse, away from the sun. And when that happens, you will find yourself starving for sweet freedom and clawing at the iron bars haplessly, forever banished in my grotesque heaven, where all the scathing thorns bear your broken name and all the flowers wilt at the very despicable thought of your nonexistent soul.

And you shall weep. And I, finally, along with you.


Where has my heart gone?
Trapped in the eyes of a stranger
Oh, I, I want to go back to
Believing in everything
I still remember.

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