Inside a Dry Well

its mouth craves for superstitions and hungers for unseen things

like fear, love, faith, mercy, devils and angels in ministerial garbs;

those infinite exhalations of humanity, excretions of dissipation.

its shade - the color of death and other indescribable iotas. we wail upon sighting

our last rocky bed, the long fall, the wet bones down below.

the impending torment sucks our tongues and blinds concepts of morals and sins and gods

to one unglorious, breathless scream! Exhalations of lucifers and michaels!

can’t you see the world is a dry well?

Manila, Black and White

dreams have no face in Manila;
only coins do.

people walk about without a trace
of a good morning kiss,
and scurries along septic walkways,
footbridges and the lazy man's lifts.

if dreams exist, they are sure to be found
behind closed eyes and the occasional
smile of a complete stranger in the train,
helping you get out of the crammed box.

when you're in Manila, never look up.
you'd be disappointed to see there's no sky,
only a gaping gray hole, a skullcap
on top of obscene towers and billboards.

and sleep never conquers Manila, oh no.
she passes on swift wings
never looking under dark bridges and skyways
where the restless ones wait
for her final gift of sleep.

the sun never really shines in Manila:
you never really see the sun rise in the east,
you never see it cross over your head,
nor hear his last departing sigh.

only the gray plume of amassed sin and smoke,
sits idly on the city,
and a thousand faceless dreams
deafeningly audible as a permanent hum.