“I SAW YOUR ASS, MS. K.”

I saw your ass, Ms. K.,

up there on the stage.

I saw how you twirl

that red flower to cover

a bloom much brighter,

saying,

“I am poor.

I can’t even buy me a dress.”

But you forgot to offer the flower

and say,

“Merry Christmas everyone.”

I saw your ass, Ms. K.,

“and all the world dropped dead.”

THE RAGE OF REASON

I should have slapped Ram hard on the face, slashed his gut out or at least punched his rib out of place. I should have kicked his head or elbowed him on the nose. I should have done something exquisite with his worthless existence that he himself would call it an art. But, no, I only pulled his dry hair across the Atrium like a sissy girl, him struggling, me twisting him in anger. The pull was kind of silly and now that I have removed myself from that moment of pure rage, looking back, it was somewhat funny. I chased him like a rat and he was screaming for help all the while. My outrage sounded like a fart but at least I vented out a good steam.

 Part of the outrage was ego. But it was not my ego against that insipid creature’s ego. Since it is about ego, it was actually all about MY ego.

But do I have this pin-sized ego that I heed to that animal’s nuisance? Am I this hot-headed bastard who involuntarily attacks on something that pathetically provokes me? Does my perspective range only from something low-angled to zero degrees that I do not think before I act? Who cares? It is my ego. I love stroking my ego and the moment you try minding how I rub it, there’s gonna be a lot of problem.

Do I need to resort to violence? Yes. I feel I do. Again, this is not about Ram’s irritating existence. Too bad for him I’ve been having bad days that the person who piques me the worst gets the kick in the ass. Part of the outrage was also an outlet of my combined long-suppressed anger to the world and those living in it. Yes, it was a stupid act, a stupid act done to a stupid person. It was stupid that it was immature beyond the level of a third-grader. And stupid that it’s like a Willy Revillame song. It was plain stupid. Period. But I tell you, the act was fulfilling. Freaking out is sometimes good.

I want to ask: How many times have you kept white, hot rage inside you? How many times have you felt smashing a bottle and stabbing the broken pieces into someone’s eyes? You feel this dire need to break a neck but all you can do is punch a wall. But what good does it do to you? I forgot what American book I was reading but it said that both keeping in and letting out anger cause heart attack. No one ends up with a good choice so I chose the latter. At least revenge is a fine delicacy.

Yeah, you said so many times to yourselves that you have to keep your cool and to act civilized because the society expects these out from you. Bullshit. You are always reminded that you are “intelligent”, that you are above from dogs that bite each other’s balls off. Studying in UP gives you the all the freedom of expressing yourselves. Yet, does it not bar you from actually doing what you want? You are prevented from doing the slightest mistake for god’s sake, things that you really want to do, things that you might need in life to grow up.

Outrage is a stupid mistake. Yet article 3, verse 4, soup number 5 of the holy book of Constitution gives me every right to exercise this expression. I chose to make this act just for the hell of trying something new. Try ignoring Ram? You can’t even ignore a puny goddamned fly. Try confronting Ram and talk it out? Have you tried talking to a cow? A cow will moo and will act as if it does not hear you. But a cow would understand you far better than what Ram could comprehend about the difference between his stinky feet and his stinkier face.

Giving in to rage is not always being the loser. Who told you you are the one at lost once you lose your cool? They are either chicken or they are just not well enraged. They’re only half half-baked human posing their half-baked emotions. Though, my emotions have short life span, shifting from one extreme mood to the other opposite extreme, I can proudly say they are all well-cooked. I can use them very well on my advantage.

Okay, so it turns out that I lost (given that I am defending my action). So what? This is not about winning. This is about raging.

We always hear other people say they are in rage, in pure rage, in pure white, hot rage. But what do they really do with this precious, god-given rage? Who knows what kind of heart attack they are nourishing in their body? People who claim they are in rage do nothing but rant, rant, rant! Or walk out! That’s why Trillanes was a joke.

Those people who are always entranced with violence in news, movies and the American wars are the ones who are always have strong conviction against violence. I feel that they have seen too much violence in colored screen that they feel they know violence well. They masturbate on violence yet they freak out on the moment they see the first sign of actual violence. They are the “intelligent” ones who know better at understanding rage and violence and tell you you are a loser. They contemplate on rage and violence yet don’t know the actual difference. At the first sight of red shedding, I can see them either running away or running towards the first blood. They say it’s bad but the fact is that they are lulled into seeing more hitting and beating. They say “bad” but they love it. Ram was infatuated with violence that he didn’t not know he was asking for it the whole time. Someone has to give it to him.

So let us stop intellectualizing rage. Rage does not need high cerebral impulses that make you understand it. It’s an act of its own backed up only by other concepts of human coexistence. Rage alone is tiring.  Go take the rage back into violence. There has to be a reason behind violence and the only valid is rage. Violence without reason is vapid. Also, stop romanticizing violence as something we only do our brothers and sisters and something we like to do when having sex. Go reunite rage and violence. Go place it back to the ground level of nature and back to the rawest form of humanity.

If raging Trillanes went beyond than just being angry and cute in front of the camera and start shooting some little president, like a depressed white teenage American, he could have done something practical. I should have done something practical, too. I should have made more beautiful things to Ram. Piercing his forehead with an ice-pick is not bad. Or whacking his head with a piece of wood to the point that I see bloodied teeth fly out from his mouth. But all I got are few strands of dead sticky hair. Maybe I could use them to put a vex on that little bitch.

_______________________

Note: If anything happens to that ugly being, I have nothing to do with it anymore. I did what I could and I’m done with him. Again, this is not about him. This is about rage. MY rage.

]]> http://jipre1.wordpress.com/2007/12/07/the-rage-of-reason/feed/ 9 jeps http://jipre1.wordpress.com/2007/11/30/my-eyebags-are-cheaper-than-your-second-hand-prada-bag/ http://jipre1.wordpress.com/2007/11/30/my-eyebags-are-cheaper-than-your-second-hand-prada-bag/#comments Fri, 30 Nov 2007 08:42:52 +0000 jeps http://jipre1.wordpress.com/2007/11/30/my-eyebags-are-cheaper-than-your-second-hand-prada-bag/ ]]>

HELLO MY FAITHFUL READERS!

Yes, you! you two!

 My ultra-orgasmic faithful readers. Meloi and Titit. Two not-so little pigs. Two slimming pigs. Two fat things that I wish were my boobs.

What was I up to for the seven months that I was not able to properly write things on my blog, you ask? Those times when you said you missed my writing, wanting me so much to write. Well, I’ve been reading things.

For seven or so months, I submerged myself into the pools of literary waters. That black, crystal ocean not all understands, not all able to decipher. See these two fat curves hanging under my eyes? They are the results of reading three Anne Rice (two novels, The Vampire Lestat and Queen of the Damned and one erotica Beauty’s Punishment), Mitch Albohm (Tuesdays With Morrie), Emily Brontë (Wuthering Heights), Lewis Carroll (Alice in the Wonderland), Annie Dillard (An American Childhood), collected poems by Ricardo de Ungria (Waking Ice and Pedgin Leviations), essays by Jessica Zafra (Twisted 6 and Tw7sted), collection of short stories edited by Noelle de Jesus (Fast Food Fiction) and David Thornburn (Initiation), Wikipedia.com and Microsoft Encarta articles, two comic strips collection by Manix Abrera (Kiko Machine vol.1 and vol.2) and many more readings from Survey of English Literature II and Survey of Philippine Literature in English I. There are more works and figures I’ve read that I forgot to mention, more interesting reads than what I could remember. These things are so addictive, like white caffeine, they can keep me awake for three straight days.

Three days straight without sleep makes one boy hell of a gothic trash. These two dark curves hanging under my eyes, so vampiric, they are also the results of watching too many television series and movies from pirated DVDs. There were Prison Break Season I and II, The Avatar Season II, Monster Episode 1–74, Fushigi Yuugi, One Piece, Miyazaki Hayao and Studio Gbili movies (My Neighbor Totoro, Grave of the Fireflies, Spirited Away, Howl’s Moving Castle, Princess Monoke, I Can Hear the Ocean, Whisper of the Heart, Kiki’s Delivery Service, etc.), Tim Burton (Edward Scissorhand, Betelgeuse, Nightmare Before Chritmas, Finding Neverland, Big Fish, Bride Corpse and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory), two arthouse (Short Bus and Anatomie d’Lenfer) and many lousy films. Hear that word shooting like pop corn. It’s everywhere. Lousy. Lousy. Lousy.

Lousy music seems to affect my eyes, too. I can’t listen to rock music anymore because every time I hear bass, drums and electric guitar, they automatically register a crop of hair bangs to my mind. I’m so appalled by the emo phenomena that every scream I hear, I see an eyeliner kid being crucified upside down. Not that I’m grossed out, or being so uncool, it’s just that I don’t want to evoke my sado-pedophilic tendency, especially to those sensitive boys crying because they wish to be a gum under a chair. So I went back to the local FM stations, their everywhere pop music and their senseless deejays. In jeepneys, I don’t get too close to the speakers. I can smell their breaths. But I am loving what they do to me, keeping me awake for nights, making me lie down on my bed, stare at the ceiling wide-eyes.

Wait! Wait! Wait!

 Why am I writing again? Who do I write for? I’m curious. Maybe you two, Meloi and Titit, are just playing with me. Wanting me so much to write, telling me how much you missed my writing. Maybe you two are these ugly things under my eyes, two fat things, one for each eye. Well, let me tell you, you two dark curves hanging under my eyes, two fat things that I wish were my boobs, I’m… I’m… I’m… I’m so loving you. You are doing things that you are unaware of that lift up my mood.

People say, “So gothic, the eyes. Where did you get those dark eye bags, emo kid?”

I say, “From my seven-month-old entertainment waste basket and my two fine friends.”

_________________

*disclaimer: I am not emo nor gothic. i just look horrible.

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duha2 co tit kung gamiton naco ni blog para sa among poetry pero try lang.

buing. dili co ka transfer sa blogspot kay kapoi buhat. dial up lang mi.

 lage. lage. balik na co sulat og mga walay pulos.

wee.

if.

oi. uga ang utok, mel. uga

REUNION ver.2 (reviving a lost poem)

So we’re back in high school,

playing hoops on our old court,

running and shouting under the same denim sky.

Reflecting the planets above,

our half-naked bodies glisten

from some far pale lamp post.

Chains rattle and the ball bounces,

echoing the beats of our heart.

Ghosts come, whispering old jokes.

The wind gathers our laughter

and scatters them into the night.

Up in the bench our beer gets warm.

The music from the hall is still loud

but slowing down.

After we gather our car keys and

forever leave this place,

only the night remains to remember

our secret desires, our hidden delights.

Bottle

It stands on the edge of the table.
Its sweat, a bead, a tear,
trickles from its lips
along the lines of its breast,
and drips down to the wooden
cracks on the floorboard
forming a stain, a blot, a spot
where other sweats from
other bottles wet.

It stands on the edge of the table.
A woman, a goddess, a mother deity,
a staple of modern-day dietry,
posing its ancient beauty
for the world to see.
Its caramel fizz freezes the nose.
Its soda bubbles burns the bones.

It is cold, it is cool, it is a cooing crow
that fills up man’s sweat
he lost to a woman’s scent.
It stands on the edge of the table,
erected, mounted, and very tangible,
a rising tower, a hardening dark claw.
Its lips glistening with
its sweat, a bead, a seed,
longing to be grabbed on its
head to quench an
animal thirst.

It stands on the edge of the table,
sexless for its being sexy.