Current: Disintegration- The Cure

(I miss the kiss of treachery…)

Loud. Loud. Everything too loud.

I can’t concentrate.

I can’t control myself. But I have to keep on because there will be nothing for me to work with tomorrow.

But I can’t. Like I said. Too loud, too loud.

Even music is noise.

And I have not felt this in a long time (or maybe I have, I just suppressed it long enough(I’m just so much better at lying to myself now)), but what would be really good right now

is to cut.

I would like to kick my sister’s face.

And that stupid radio.

Just so they’d stop being noisy.

And this laptop.

And my goddamn brain.

And my foot itself for not being able to reach

To kick my head.

And all would go on but me

And it scares the shit out of me because I can’t stand it

I cannot act my age and be responsible.

Mercy of the universe, kill me now.

Or at least, summon a blade for me

And let me cut

Because I rediscovered how good it is

When my fingers felt them again on the mountainside

It was the single satisfying feeling that will be reachable now

Except that there is no clean blade

And whoever cuts unsanitized is stupid, says Era.

Or was it Sonmi.

I never forget her. Why?

Goodbye, 5 months of clearer skin

I can’t where short skirts again.

Please do not listen to me.

Self-inflicted wounds contaminates

People to own dishonorable words

(Attention-seeking whore)

No one will help you now.

But no one can hurt you too.

No think of Jayson, Jamie, Marlon

And everyone else you now care about

What would they say?

But when did you care about that?

Tomorrow is too long to wait for that fucking 5 peso blade.

I hate you.

I hate you, my dear.

Don’t ‘dear’ me, you hate me.

I hate you.

Go to sleep.

Mind nothing.

Mind nothing.

But the burning grasslands from your dream last night.

That is hell calling.






The Singer and the Swinger

Well it was always strikingly ambitious

The Singer and the Swinger

(Because she was an amateur

And he, actuated by the digital player)

To take the world-stage together.


But what is present is the wisdom in Trying

Roughly stringing the words in paper

Of a humble heart

That yearned its friend back.


She sang heavenly;

He knew the dance too well—

But that’s what they didn’t know.


For a year and a seven moons

He fed on her in visions

And for a year and a half

She is everywhere his eyes roam.


She listened to the cheerful Swinger

When he’s tiring

And he watched the lonesome Singer

When she’s smiling

That was friendship,

After all.


Nights of this and there was not

A moment to lose

To ask:

“Would you sing for my dance?”

“Would you dance for my song?”

It was a surprise the other should think the same.



(The face told the other:

She asked in doubt

But he seemed so sure)

But neither answers.


Because it was always ambitious.


Hoping the swinger could write a dance,

The way the singer may her song…

Might he write back?

Might he ask her again?


Because she knows the answer now.


January 1, 2017

5:45 pm- 6:09 pm

To the Plot Swinger of my 2016…

The Shadow We Hyde Inside: Carl Jung’s Shadow Archetype and Failure of Individuation in ‘The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde’ by Robert Louis Stevenson

“Between the idea / And the reality / Between the motion / And the act / Falls the shadow” Whether this stanza taken from T.S. Eliot’s poem “The Hollow Men” is, in context, referring to Shadow Archetype from Carl Jung’s The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, or some common representations of shadow in various literary forms, it suggests one thing in common: something hidden from view yet looms and is certainly there. Robert Louis Stevenson in his well- known novel ‘The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde’, more than showing the struggle between good and evil, attempts to be speculative in the subject of the duality of human nature: what if humans could separate the bad, unacceptable part of themselves (not necessarily referring to any sort of universal pattern of bad, but bad as in what the society dictates) which they hide, from the socially accepted or a personal standard of “good”? Stevenson then presents a ‘what then’ in the revelation of what becomes of Dr. Henry Jekyll and Individuation.

Even in Utterson’s dream before he had come face to face with Mr. Hyde, a literal and figurative Shadow appears which would terrorize London and eerily, his friend was there, sleeping and smiling at a dream. Then this faceless figure would rouse him from sleep and make him do its bidding. The Shadow in Jungian Archetype is ‘’the darker side of the unconscious self, the inferior and less pleasing aspects of the personality, which we wish to suppress” (Guerin, 2002). The Shadow as part of our unconscious often bears the qualities that contradicts our personal values which the persona, our social personality, upholds. As a tendency, we ignore it or repress it. The mild mannered and almost saintly Dr. Jekyll attempts to separate himself from his Shadow by formulating an elixir which would transform him for a time into Mr. Hyde. Through Mr. Hyde, he could commit brutal (the incident in which he had mercilessly trampled over a girl) and even murderous acts (he murders Danvers Carew in plain sight of a witness), and get away with it by the time the elixir wears off. No one will ever suspect that Dr. Jekyll, “a large, well-made, smooth-faced man of fifty, with something of a slyish cast perhaps, but every mark of capacity and kindness- you could see by his looks that he cherished for Mr Utterson a sincere and warm affection” could be the same Mr. Hyde, “…pale and dwarfish; he gave an impression of deformity without any nameable malformation, he had a displeasing smile, he had borne himself to the lawyer with a sort of murderous mixture of timidity and boldness, and he spoke with a somewhat broken voice’ (Stevenson, 1886).

In order for a person to be able to Individuate, the parts of the unconscious self, the persona, the anima, including the unwanted Shadow must be accepted and be assimilated into one’s consciousness, in the inner person. The Shadow though unacceptable must find itself released or assimilated to consciousness in some manner. The more it is repressed, the more it is strengthened and becomes dangerous. It is important to understand that Dr. Jekyll was never really morally pure in the first place and that Mr. Hyde was always inside him but the emanation of a Mr. Hyde did not necessarily free him instead it lead him to his failure of Individuation. He was indeed free to commit crimes in the evening in sight of some stranger who talks but Dr. Jekyll still hides complete association with Mr. Hyde in as close a degree as being one and the same. The small stature and deformity of Mr. Hyde may also represent him keeping “his evil self under wraps, stunting his inner growth and forcing his unconscious desires to conform to modern civilized expectation” (Thurmond, 2012) pre- production of the elixir.


The climactic point, in which Dr. Jekyll wakes up but finds that his arms were the hairy arms of Mr. Hyde and so is his whole body without the elixir in between transformations, is the temperature reached in which the volcano is about to explode and wreak havoc: the household could now hear him whimper and make all sort of noises that they were sure is not Dr. Jekyll at all; there were odd and repeated requests from chemists of a certain substance and complaints of its impurity (the “material symbolizes his own inner self. He is not a wholly “pure” figure, morally upright, but a flawed mixture. That is the reason the potion worked to bring out his Hyde self; the impurity of the material drew forth the impurity of Jekyll” [Thurmond, 2012] as aforementioned); Utterson being called into the house because of such oddities and breaking down the door together with Poole which remains the only barrier between what became of the person on the other side of the door. Unable to recreate the potion that will turn him back to Dr. Jekyll because of the issues of impurity, he was in great despair being in full inhabitation of the Shadow, Mr. Hyde, which he had suppressed. Rather than be caught and found out, and quite possibly hanged (as was the punishment for murder), he had chosen to kill himself. His inability to accept the part of his psyche that became Mr. Hyde stunted his psychological growth into Individuation leading to his eventual demise.






There is no heartache as such:


To be gone

But to not have been missed;


To be lost

But to not have been looked for;


To be ground quite fine inside

But to have been ignored as complete;


To bleed

But to not have been bandaged;


To cry

But to have been left to one’s self;


To heal

But to have been blamed and to be the only one there is;


To hurt again

But to have been made to feel not entitled to life;


To die

But to have been shed crocodile tears for;


To survive

But to have been proven friendless.

Nov. 10, 2015 Early PM

Nov. 10, 2015 Early PM


The papers are above the TV screen

And you’re being evicted from your own body

And all of you

You feel

Oh, you know it’s near


And we climb the high rise at sunset time

Forgetting about the love Divine

It’s beautiful to see the day is dying with you


We’ll be home, darling

Be home soon


The clock above the counter says 5 pm

And you move away in a count of ten

Piece by piece

With the salt inside your tears


Now the cold is crawling into you bones

And you look down, Wait

Somebody’s home

It’s hard to see someone else is dying with you


So you tell ‘em

We’ll be home, darling

Be home soon

(Date Unrecorded: November 2015 {APEC Week}


You lead-ball-weight hunger
Founded in the stomach pit
Your whirling grayness
Heave yourself a little longer

I’ll soon let you drop the whole way
Disappear in the center of “me”
And you will! Don’t worry:
I’ll let you outlast me..

April 15, 2016 Around 9 am

If only my mind is a daytime bird:
As the night come forth,
Speeding up to its homely tree
With not a second to lose

For they know what lies beyond
The rim of dim and day
Henceforth, it shall find their eyes shut
‘Til the new gold shows itself.

It is but a human mind:
Of-age but struggles
In the rhythm of wings
To beat, to glide, to halt?

And they all flew by
Silhouetting overhead
But here am I
My slippers, my jacket
Camouflaging against
The resting stormy sky
And empty, my mind conspires.

December 16, 2015 5:20 pm

The weeks, Days, Minutes, seconds

At their silent passing

Well accounted in my mind

But memory fails me

I could not remember

The time ago it did not feel like this:


Palms red and sore

Imprinted of friction


What is nourishing me

Feeding my worth

Wants it back in double

And I am hungrier

For grace

For mercy

For vindication

For love

That I can’t possibly have.


For I was hauling

Under the desert sun

Through great distances

Ending places exactly where I stood

The golden sand is wasted on me

But it tells me on

So I persist

A week

A day

A minute

A second more.


How could it be that

Some move it faster than I

When they are small

They must have

The grace

The mercy

The vindication

The love

I can’t possibly have.


But I know of souls

I would like to collide with

But not like this

(For my battles are damned to be only mine)


Not this week, day, minute, second

Maybe the next?

But where is next in this vast distance

That may not even be?


I haul on still

A week

A day

A minute

A fucking second more.



On the corner of a hellhole



She is repeatedly run over
By her own tears but she
Remains quiet, perched

In the back of my mind, but I

Could see in her fading
Darling face the reflection
Of the phantom dark cloud
Above her head, shooting lightning
Every which way
Her feet shuffles
And tries to go…


I House No Love

I house no heart in my chest.

And it’s all in puzzles

Tiny and out of sorts

Like many other things:

How could a step on your quest for happiness

Copies that of misery, if not worse?


There is only anger behind my breasts

(That of which too soft was I

To have it towards another then

And I wonder why

It’s so easy to throw it to myself)

And its wild energy to solidify

The hole in my ribs, caged

(‘And my, what a cage!

Can’t keep anything in or out,’

I grumble)

To pump my blood

(And to stop it too)

(How do they do what they do?)

And whatever had been has been evicted.


See Father

See Mother

See Faith

See Jezyll

I address

No embrace

No kind word

No meal together

As I stow myself in the bedroom

Being myself

Or a nothing.


And time is unforgiving


But I could still so easily outdo you in that matter, time

It’s so hard to forgive myself)

Nothing can be undone

(Undone is the nothing I am)


See Alecs

See Cielo

See Larraine

See Nichole

See Julius

See Zephaniah

(She said she lost me.)


(I lost her.)

I address

No embrace

No authenticity

Of laughter

Or smile

(Or word.)

No no-ill- thought

No no-push-aways

No care

As I sit by them

(But never with them)

On the deep blue

Atop the green

Being a writer

Or a reader

Or an observer.


Or a green- eyed monster

(Or just about any monster)

Or a user

Or a plague of sadness

(I thought it won’t come back)

(But it did.)

Or a fading picture awaiting the shower of enormity

That makes one flush pink

Or a fake

(Who are you?)

Or a casualty

(Whose touch leads to yet another)

Or a nothing.


And I left as it came to me

Being a wanderer

(Who has been keeping people hanging

Or me there on the edge

Now that I feel like it)

(Oh, but I don’t)

(I want Before back)

(Then maybe time really is more unforgiving)

Still a nothing.


Sorry, girl in the looking glass

I could not love you in kind

It will never even be love if it’s not.


And there only awaits folly

For the girl who is wrapped in her own anger

For the girl who knows and never says,

“I house no love in my heart”

But now that she did, says more,

“… so don’t you knock


Oh, stranger.”

(Don’t make me open the door

I’m the new Pandora)

(Oh, but it kills me that I always will, I just know)

To the stranger who was not.


February 18 2016 5:30 am-

February 21, 1:50 am

March 6, 2016 (Extended)