Tag Archives: party

Febfair {Diliman}

PicsArt_02-18-09.12.53

I woke up this morning

with blisters on my tired arms

and wilted grass blades and mud stains

stuck all over my filthy trousers

my throat dry, red eyes throbbing,

a giant pandemonium of a headache

swelling triumphantly in my brain

so I staggered to the bathroom

where the mirror replayed memories

of us screaming elatedly on dizzying rides,

walking about blinded by neon lights,

picking out cheap food from every

stall that we chanced to pass by,

taking blurry photographs with the widest

grins plastered on our sweaty faces,

telling cheeky stories against the noise

of both rock concerts and chattering crowds,

and secretly stalking our smitten friend

around like a bunch of nosy, giggling idiots—

and finally half-drunkenly weaving across

dark street ends after midnight (though we didn’t

have a single drop of alcohol in our systems)

stars barely visible, shoulders interlocked

the whole way back, middle fingers up

to your late night curfew, and we hugged it

out goodbye, silently wishing under our breaths

that the other one wouldn’t leave just yet…

jolted back to the present, I stared at my

trainwreck of a face and decorated party tattoos

and decided, with a wistful smile,

that I have never felt this good.

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You’re All Phases And Dark Sides Like The Moon, But You’re Not As Bright (I Would Turn This Into An Extended Play But My Band Hates Me, I Have Mediocre Musical Talent, And No Record Label To Beg)



Phase One: I Don’t Know About You But I’m Ready To Move To San Diego(‘s Disneyland© Theme Park and Resort)

[EXTRACT: WE DO IT IN THE DARK WITH SMILES ON OUR FACES
WE’RE DROPPED AND WELL-CONCEALED IN SECRET PLACES
W E  D O N ‘ T  F I G H T  F A I R]

To all the divorcees in the dancefloor

Singing songs for poor dumped hearts

Won’t you come and take a million pictures

Of my latest 100 billboard-hit chart?

I’m not famous, but I’m on your magazine

Load up the ammunition baby, take it in

The articles say that I’ll save your life

But all I’ll do is steal your brain-bored wife

So I don’t give a shit about your ideal weekends

But buy my merch, I’ll be your best friend

And don’t pretend you’ll just forget about me

When I’m bitching about how everything’s a travesty…



Phase Two: She’s Got A 10 PM Audition Starring At The Back of A Costco Store

[EXTRACT: I’LL KEEP YOU WARM AND WON’T ASK WHERE YOU’VE BEEN
WITH YOUR BACKLESS BACK DRESS SOAKED TO THE SKIN
W H E N  A L L ‘ S  S A I D  A N D  D O N E  T H E Y ‘ R E  S C R A M B L I N G]

West coast smokers choking to death

And a trashy nosebleed is good for the health

Kiss it hard in the back alley like a desperate man

Blow out your sixteen candles with a gun

(and paint the town an ugly shade of party-red)

.

You’re all grown up and ready to waste a week

Looking for a dive bar to drown shots cheap

But the boys never liked you, Mr. Barman

Now won’t you sleep this out again with no one?

(the insults are only as bad as good guys get)

.

I swear I won’t swear, my mouth is clean

I go to church on Sundays and I’m never mean

I swear I won’t swear, I know that it’s all true

Your secrets are all worthless but at least I’ve got you—

(completely wrapped around my finger)



Phase Three: Warm Sympathy Is Just Cold Sarcasm For Wimps

[EXTRACT: I KNOW YOU’VE HEARD ALL THIS BEFORE
LET’S HEAR IT FOR AMERICA’S SWEETHEARTS
I  M U S T  C O N F E S S ,  I ‘ M  I N  L O V E  W I T H  M Y  O W N  S I N S]

I don’t love you at all but I love your therapy

You talk like you’re going deaf, so won’t you lie to me?

.

If it’s not about comforting then I wouldn’t even care

You look even messier today, did you do something with your hair?

.

I said I’d write a million poems about you but I got carpal tunnel

Just like how you said you’d give me a taste of first-class hell

.

We both smiled like a girl’s best friends, only it’s all fake

And we didn’t believe we could mine such coal-black mistakes

.

I don’t love you at all but you scare the devil out of me

But I wouldn’t call you an angel, don’t you just love my honesty?



Phase Four: Children’s Nursery Rhymes Are Really Letting Themselves Go These Days

[EXTRACT: MY SONGS KNOW
WHAT YOU DID IN THE D A R K
S O  L I G H T  ‘ E M  U P]

I ‘ l l  S T U M P  y o u ,  I ’ l l  S T U M P  y o u

I ’ m  a m a z i n g  w i t h  i d i o t ’ s  s y n c r a s i e s

I ’ l l  s T u M p  y o u ,  I ’ l l  S t U m P  y o u

I ’ m  a m a z i n g  i f  y o u ’ l l  a s k  m e  t o  b e

I ’ l l  s t u m p  y o u ,  u o y  p m u t s  l l ‘ I

M y  n a m e ’ s  n o t  P a t r i c k  b u t  b a b e ,  I ’ m  a  s t a r

B u t  i f  y o u  t h i n k  t h a t  t h i s  j o k e ’ s  g o i n g  t o o  f a r

T h e n  I ’ l l  d u m p  y o u ,  I ’ l l  D U M P  y o u .



Phase Five: If My Brain Could Actually Think For Itself, What Would It Say?

[EXTRACT: IF I COULD GET MY SHIT TOGETHER
I WANNA RUN AWAY AND NEVER SEE ANY OF YOU AGAIN
N E V E R  S E E  A N Y  O F  Y O U  A G A I N]

I’m

                    too

fucking

                             tired

           for

                                               all

       this

                                                                 bullshit.

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The Bulls Are In Broadway

Some people have it and other people don’t
You’ve been making some threats, got my name and address
I’m breaking habits you don’t want to know
Though I’m wearing my clothes feeling cold and exposed, yeah
Don’t say you miss me, you probably don’t
Well, I’ve been crossing some lines that most folks won’t…

~*~

This is the academy of wasting second chances

And the maggots in my eyes are drying up my tears

My intuition knocked itself out on cheap champagne

As the discourse turned to an allegory dance severe

.

It’s a sociogenic alacrity, and my dress is on too tight

But I’m far too smitten by repertoire to call it a night

So remind me again, what’s my capacity for secrets?

Tell me with a gun to my head and I swear I’ll keep it

.

My lips are shivering from these hemlock-laced canapes

So admonish me for all my bad manners and mistakes

I’ll just downplay the lust for another fractured spine

The consequence for saving the best for the worst lines

.

Mismatched manipulation, but they will take it in anyway

Blink back the altercations and accusations that ricochet

With a sympathetic sigh overstepping the plague’s carnage

Like finest red wine, tragedy gets better when it’s aged

.

This transition was intransigent, an accolade for incoherence

Bent backs turned upon lacquered lies and marble-carved doors

You don’t get to die on me, not after my life has taken the perfect end

So won’t you let write the last chapter on my unresponsive monitor?

~*~

Oh, don’t say you’re more than this or above all this
With your blah blah blah and all your friends
Don’t say you think you know, when you know you don’t
Because tonight the Bulls are in Brooklyn and you’re still at home!

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A Happy Kind Of High

I know that there’s no dealing
With the way I’m feeling
I’m so out of touch with everyone 
And everything’s a blur to me…

~*~

I’m super high on happy

The dopamine nearly kills me

Bouncing like an excited puppy

Smiling wears me all the way to revelry

Slightly crazy, mostly high

But right now I’m too stupid to die

I may have ditched the walk to town

But playing sour notes won’t get me down

I could talk about love all day

But don’t get me wrong, ‘cause it’s easier to say

Than to complain about my cold coffee

The sugar tastes sweet, laughing over candy

I’ll never be royal and I don’t wish for gold

But I just don’t want to do as I’m told

I might have missed another point

But keep your eyes off me until you appoint

Life in blue and colour-coded pastel

The empty picture frames I have can go to hell

I may be tired, but there ain’t nothing to it

And I won’t stare and quietly sit

Because I love songs that scream, songs that dream

Songs with titles ripping at the cover’s seams

I love songs that I can dance to at the top of my lungs

And songs that don’t make any sense, I won’t leave them unsung

Made in America, from Houston to California

A wild party in Baltimore, childish theme parks in Florida

From Australia to England, each road and tour a trip

For each minute I walk and listen, ain’t anything I’d skip

I’m dizzy and frisky on this unfamiliar feeling

My hands raised in devil signs, my feet touching the ceiling

I’m confused, almost passing out from hysteric serotonin

But still I want more, enough to take me all the way to heaven

I’m super high on happy, and I will write a million words

About my eccentric thoughts in this square-cut world

Because I may be sad all the time, but that doesn’t mean

That I’m not allowed to have fun, and in the rarest times that I do

It’s more than what I need to carry on and crave life again.

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Chase Atlantic

For you, I chased down atlantic until it was drained and empty, consuming every last drop, and still, you were thirsty.

Xans, Oxy, gram, adderall, molly, vicodin, ketamine, codeine, amphetamine, heroin, every medication legal and illegal you selfishly overdosed on like it’s the sweetest candy, drugs and money fucking everything up, riding the waves, breathing in the ozone layer and craving the vaporous atmosphere, until all you could hear are birds singing at midnight and all your blank glazed eyes could see where pink shadows coalescing in the basement and the sound of your own synesthetic undersea voice, sewn up into crude stitches before it shatters soundlessly against the restless pastel ghosts; and you find out you were uncomfortably lying on your back in the bedroom floor all along, staring at the unlit ceiling dripping what you thought were your own tears but turned out to be rainwater, dial tone screeching your garbled songs, trying to call nobody at half past four in the morning, worn-down carpet igniting the smoke alarms with your interminable vices. I could only wish to hell that I was there to put it out.

There was a certain elegant delicacy in your tactlessly constructed words, soft beatnik aspersion and aggressive indie slurs romancing and entrancing my chilled spine, humming saxophone amid the alluring amalgamation of incoherent voices intertwining together into a strange, tangible, panicking tranquil. It was an art form in itself, inimitable, one of a kind, scattered accentuation your personal intricate signature. Every careless lilt about the dangerous pseudonymous girls you slept with last night, Angie, Cassie, Roxy, and the pill-popping pharmacists you’ll hold up with a gun as soon as the sun hits tomorrow. All these unsettling courtesies set in three parts of pastel grey and explicit roses, the dalliance and the nostalgia of everything, you were speaking in a foreign language only the truly sick in the head could properly understand, and the way you talked about all the mental pressure and self-esteem and choking anxiety so goddamn beguilingly, the way you talked about addiction as if you weren’t an addiction in itself, the way you just fucking aren’t, it got me overdosing on the panoply panache and sovereign shit on your bedside, but I was so into it.

How many times have you made my pulse beat when it was no longer mine? Every single afternoon, I wake up with a stabbing jolt like a guillotine’s rope pulled tight against my throat, gasping and desiring desperately for more, more of your prevarications. It was a talk show tactic, and you were the host telling me to talk slow and tell no lies, and I was your prize trophy, spilling my secrets and picking my battles cautiously, even though I knew that you were probably lying to me all along. The world was on your shoulders, angels hissing temptations under your skin, and we danced to the beat of your laughter and talked endless miles of film spiels about friends and no friends, gravity and good vibes, church walls and dancing in the dark with the devil, indiscretions and junkie stories high on adrenaline and dopamine, driving too fast and run over by the cops and swimming and thrashing in paradise until we’re so much higher than before, and everything was rhapsodic…until you hit the trigger and got me begging on my bleeding knees again. I’m scratching my nails, shivering madly, abusing my liver, and tearing the veins off my dead-ass heart as you killed my sanity, and baby I was only 23.

I’m obsessive. You said hold your breath, you’ll save me from the fading injections and we’ll run away right here to the underside of the world, and I won’t need to miss you and your anchor tattoo. And fuck it, but I believed all your twisted promises so fervently. I didn’t expect to fall instantaneous victim for such a scrupulous stratagem, this alternative relativity of drugs and parties not my accustomed niche, fucking up this whole thing. I was married to the screaming voices that serenade me everyday and haunt me every night, and I was theirs to render completely deaf into freedom; until you came out of nowhere and divorced me from the nightmares, and you incarcerated me—you made me even worse. You’re a psychopathic fringe wearing a smile on your face and holding a knife in your hand, you’re becoming a work of art. You don’t look too sane when you act like that, and babe, you won’t live too long with a mind like that. I was always fastidious about the taste of serotonin that I place against my lips, but even though it’s fire I’m kissing now, I’ve already been burnt, I fucking have. And I love counting the cigarette stains in my fragile marred skin, sepia-shaded nicotine tattooed permanently between my fingertips, branding me with your whispered name. My parents say I’m crazy, but I only wanna be buried six feet under your bed, ready to meddle about and smoke the cancerous stars away with you anytime. They say be rational about these things, but I stopped being reasonable the moment I listened to your drugstore symphonies and drowned in your cheap perfume. This chemical destruction is beautiful. I’ll keep it up, and I’ll keep riding the waves, crashing into you once more. And why stop at all? Okay is all I know right now. Mama I’m sorry, but reality’s boring.

For you, I’ll chase down atlantic until I’m drained and empty, consuming every last drop, and still, I’ll be thirsty for your eyes.

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Backdoor Unlocked

She got her head in the dirt
And her neck in my hands
She won’t live too long with a mind like that
I can’t hang every day, baby, I’ve got plans, oh woah
I won’t waste her time with a life like that…

~*~

There’s a smile in her eyes

And a laugh in her knife

That wouldn’t reach me

When it’s a quarter past four

“Will you get the door?”

.

But I don’t wanna open it up

Afraid that the sirens won’t stop

And they’ll find me high on oxy

Sleepin’ on a bed of money

They’re knocking, screaming more

.

But it’s all I can do to slur and speak

The colour of her name makes me so weak

I didn’t know how I got so obsessed

They told me they’ll take care of the rest

And the doorbell rings a mocking score

.

I thought tonight was just a nightmare

And you gave me quite a damn scare

When you told me that your heart stopped

And you spit blood in your red cup

They won’t cease banging on my porch

.

But there’s a sweet smile in your eyes

And you hid behind your back a knife

When you said you couldn’t reach me

And it’s ten past five when you killed me

Hiding the weapon under my lifeless body

As you said “I’ll get the door for you, baby.”

~*~

Keep your hands to yourself
Don’t put ’em on someone else’s life
Stay right there, right there
Take advice from yourself
If the energy’s dead, baby, let things die
I don’t care, oh no…

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Small Talk

“If I die now, you’ll be fine, wouldn’t you?” Came the morbid question, startlingly from out of nowhere, the tone rather earnest and solemn, as the rest of her contradictory body moved to pack up her bright clothes and stunning makeup in preparation for the party she was going to attend in that very evening; a glamorous night out in the city hotel for endless hours of revelry and colourful strobe lights and dancing with her inebriated friends.

“Not if I die first.” Was the equally-morbid devil-may-care reply, swift and acerbic, passed off in a jovial manner, accompanied by an amused grin and a playful hand slap, as he continued to stare jadedly at the glaring screen of his computer, thinking about the bottles of whiskey and cola that he secretly stashed away at the very back of the fridge, to be consumed later on at midnight in his bedroom with some crisps; a little party of his own.

They both smiled at each other quietly and let the conversation slide, and they went about with their business. They knew neither one was joking. And they knew they couldn’t do anything about it. So they just pretended to laugh.

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Fast Nights in Baltimore Bars

I took a walk for the very first time
On the dark side of the dance floor
Lit a match just to heat things up
But I got more than I bargained for
Mixed drinks, mixed feelings of elation
I should have known it was a one night invitation…

~*~

Stomachaches and bloodshot traffic lights

Sessions under the sewers and later nights

Angels drink in the city’s insalubrious pubs

Travesties and immoralities, say it’s all love

.

Cause a scene, say what you mean and dare

They’ll fall asleep, knowing you’re not there

Imbibe a dose of reality, a handful of ativan

Lose all trace of humanity to become a man

.

Locked up behind closets, seven minutes tore

Therapeutic unzipping for the playbook score

Five vodka tonics and a misdialed phone call

Acrid tang of mouthwash and bedroom walls

.

Champion friends turned cutthroat solicitation

Pleasantaries choked in stones and desperation

Prized devil horns mounted above the fireplace

Stories of grandeur stitched and tailored in lace

.

Cutting problems with kiddie scissors and unglued

Riveted jaws hang open, loathes passed like the flu

Bad bickering of dollar bills paid under the counter

Chances of stolen jackets and spiels of spilled water

.

Billboards of painful neons, signs of dim fluorescents

Hundred-storey buildings and pseudo-smiles crescent

And if we die tonight, then we’ll die feeling more alive

If they find our remains tomorrow, again we will dive.

~*~

Don’t sweat it, forget it, everything is a-okay
Just let it, go then it’s, off to find another face
I make you come just to watch you leave
You walk around with my heart on your sleeve
Don’t sweat it, it’s over now, our time ran out…

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The Waltz of the Mercury Brides and Cyanide Grooms

The mercury brides dance, gliding upon the hardwood ballroom

Their billowing ruffled gowns fluttering soft, like paraffin wings

Attached to surreptitious sensibilities, quite devilish to the touch

And solemn eyes vigil behind an iridescent veil, languidly hiding

.

Lithe spines bending like black dahlias caught in a hurricane’s breeze

Elegant silken regalia classic cascading, colliding with haunting music

Four by four rhythm hypnotising, alluring deep with symphonic spells

Ladies spun around like barefoot ballerina dolls, rendered quite static

.

The instrumental calls for one brief yet somnolent interlude circulating

As bare puppets and painted marionettes adjust their entangled strings

Sips of blood-red wine are taken and bubbly champagne denied politely

As the crestfallen tones reignite into an opera allegro of soprano valkyrie

.

The idling midnight scene is palpably vivacious and ebullient once more

And porcelain hands are pulled to join the remorseless energy of the beat

Lively cheers punctuating each syllable striking of the commanding violin

Shoulders grazing faintly as harmonious bodies serenade moonlight sweet

.

The cyanide grooms cease to a slowing halt, as ritardando replaces cantabile

Waistcoats nearly strewn away; neckties, gloves, partners, barely hanging on

Disguises are scorned and pasquinade masks are removed to reveal the truth

Finally, the last of the party dissipates along with the nascent coda of the song.

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¡Viva Las Vegas!

A pretty picture but the scenery is so loud
A face like heaven catching lighting in your nightgown
But back away from the water, babe, you might drown
The party isn’t over tonight (lighting in your nightgown)
Hey, where will you be waking up tomorrow morning?
Hey, out the backdoor, goddamn but I love her anyway!

~*~

Don’t wipe off your embalmed makeup just yet

I adore you sweetheart, I’ll kiss you for a bet

Poise and irrationality’s the poison of the victim

A pretty covert movie with the lighting dim

.

Memories of a fading twisted tongue collide

Sophistication sliding off the laudanum side

And all the girls at night are making me sweat

And the boys cheer me with wolf calls of respect

.

Empty bottles of gin, dribbling off your chin

The Vegas lights are burning, all-in, and I win

Snatches of conversations swim past my ears

Saline and formaldehyde of cascading tears

.

So say what you mean, and don’t be afraid

This city is yours, take the applause you paid

It’s history, the avenue and boulevard is lined

And they’re all aching to dissect your mind

.

Every perspective approaches home so near

Nicotine stains, champagne, and stench of fear

Hijack my medal eyes and render me numb

Replace the lens of the camera, pop your gum

.

Forget the nightly cabaret, the burlesque shame

The motel room you rented absolves the blame

Dust away the contrite asbestos off your waistcoat

The caricature masks are ready for the grand show

.

We’re decomposing arrogantly in beautiful quiet messes

Girls dancing in white dresses, formidable men with roses

Foreign deaths alluding veracity, chaotic hurricane storms

Velvet lips sealed under the threat of sin, smiling in scorn

.

This night we will sink so low, so wash me away and drop the anchor

Waltzing along with secret admirers and falling asleep on a stranger

It’s a sensation in Viva Las Vegas, a scandal of grandiloquent galantine

So sit back and drink your daiquiris, you’re in for a surprise of romantic machines.

~*~

Climbing out the back door, didn’t leave a mark
No one knows it’s you, Miss Jackson
Found another victim, but no one’s gonna find
Miss Jackson, Jackson, Jackson…

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