Virginity Of The Wicked
She loses a part of her halo every time she
talks about Van Gogh’s ear and Picasso’s madness.
The keys for the eight of June, written out of desperation,
passed on from lover to lover, victim to suspect, all
while the guilty one mishandles the truth.
Her words, as crude and nonsensical as emo music, brings nothing
but trouble. She might as well be the undisclosed disease
that killed Chopin.
She was out for ten hours. Five on the run, one in
hiding. Four in my bed. Her naked skin caressed by
my fingers and seventy percent cotton sheets. We dance in bed,
all the while persisting the she is as innocent as sheep.
No innocent can scream the bourbon out of my right ear. No innocent
can be this beautiful. No innocent can epitomize Chopin’s Nocturne
In B Flat Minor. She is a temptress. A demon. The devil.
My own personal devil-woman.
I hand her my blood stained hands. I nervously
smirk as she examines the blood trail on the creases of my bloody hands
as if it was the missing scrolls of the forgotten gods of old manila.
My memory involuntarily recalls why the blood was there
to begin with. It was hers.
Denial Of The Wicked
My midnight lover
Mad with murder
Living for birth
A solitary kiss
On salty lips
Means to an end
Hearts on envy
Hearts in trial.
Acceptance Of The Wicked
she tangles up between science and romance
stomps on ideologies she shares not with him
overdosed on caffeine and conscionable imbalance
disbelief on what Cathleen said in between
faultless trust in superstitions of the old days
“never fall for a broken heart,” “never on common ground”
smiles and safety in her arms, the sentimentality of grace
climbing on her mad laughter, voices her evil thoughts aloud
dark red takes control over strung out maladies
what was yesterday should never have occurred
idiosyncratic opinions of individual singularities
as lines of uniqueness and dementia are blurred
faithful skepticism in the death of forthcoming nights
“remember points that never existed,” “never kiss a madman”
lyrically numb, blame tastes and sounds and sights
a reference for the future, the discrete evil has a plan.
The unconscious existence, everyday living;
Questioning everything from head to toe,
Body to soul, past to future. Last year’s heartbeats
To tomorrow’s heartbreak.
She downs the last bottle of chardonnay,
Disregarding advices from both friends and saints.
Cathleen kisses the tip of the bottle, embraces
My arm, forgetting my newly born scars.
She spills my scotch, intentionally, as if to say
She’s the only one allowed happiness. Proclamations
Of yesteryear’s tears, forgiven by who we were
Ages ago. Back when we were still one.
Halfway through the chardonnay, she undresses
Every ideology I ever taught her. She deconstructs
The notes I keep reminding her. All for
The sake of, according to her, today’s déjà vu.