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Showing posts from July, 2012

Be

An illusory of the night,


I come to you, somehow bizarre

Mysterious, not with fangs, nor claws

But steadfast arms and folded knees.

Words and letters, a sucker for

In recesses embed; so lean -

In thy heart I live, expire -

That love would stay, with you I lie.

Apart from scripts, I can't exist

Apart from rage, I wilt, desist.



Apart from you, will not persist

Apart from you, without the mist.

Read me, light me, bend me, now!

Deeply fire me, fierce as how -

You would an arrow to a

Hymen. Gently as you would

To bombs, careful as to fragile wicks,

The ageless angel fleeting lips.

Minds of seas, rose blossom comes

Ascending moon, blue clouds on bed.



Tell me now, the Phallic Force

Tell me now, "die Wahlverwandschaften? "

Show me fire, air, water, earth

Breathed on the mirror of my

Coffin. Trace with your fingers

The shape of your mouth's kiss of

Cross and sacrifice. Tell me

About love. Show me heaven,

As lovely as eternity,

And loneliness when you sleep a…

F I R E D A N C E

Fire Dance


I am called

To be

Yours

Blazin’

Blazin’,

In out swayin’

Pink

Silent as u smudge earth

Wet me

In the wind

Orange splinters crowning space

Wild dance of stars, slow wreathed

Fever on your flesh

Sharp zeal and stream of light

Incandescent.











on a thursday. july 19,2012.


This is literally "fire;" how a light flame moves; the change in colors; and as to how to put out fire, you really have to kill it
dead! (by dirt or water as from the essay of Colin Fletcher "Fires")


Fire is a gift from God, the Holy Spirit shows the way...


May God anoint us : In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.



rosevoc2.iwrotefiction. also on poemhunter.com on a thursday. july 19, 2012

CAB: Air / THE MIRACLE

THE MIRACLE


By Rosalinda Flores and Ben Crisp



The coffee was still too hot, so I cradled the foam cup between my knees and lit my last cigarette.

My last ever, I promised myself, as I had done the day before.

The park was mostly empty. The sun had not yet crept above the horizon, to burn the dirty greyness from the dawn sky, and it would be at least an hour before the rest of the city left the their homes to brave another miserable taglamig day outside.

There had been reports of another journalist shot in Manila. I had long grown used to such news, acknowledging it with a kind of postured indifference that my ex-girlfriend had found no comfort in. It didn’t matter to her that I was relegated to the smallest sections of the sports pages; I was white, and besides, could not an outraged sports fan be just as violent as a vengeful gangster or deranged terrorist? She was probably right. Still, I found comfort in my own sense of insignificance. Speaking barely a word of Filipino, and – so…

Luisito Brasil: Ave Maria

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JM Tolentino: Saranggola Sa Ulan (Kites in the Rain)

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