The Claudine Barretto Fan Boy Post

It's not about Angelica P. It's about ABS-CBN attempting

to destroy the optimum stardom it created in Claudine B.

I don't normally express my devotion to a star, but as a Gen Y

I was reared seeing Claudine as my Vilma S and Judy Ann as Nora A.

This perfectly explains why I love her so much:

These Are The Cusses

These are the cusses

splashing onto your face

for smiling back at the winks

of Manila lifestyle magazines.

These are the assholes

for hours wasted staring at

the leather shoes, the skinny pants,

the caps, the luminous sheen of

high-res photographs.

These are the tarantados

for hopping into the cars of the cool,

for touching the frames of the party pages,

the captions, the lights, and the mugs who rule.

These are your well-deserved gagos.

They are inside a box wrapped in ululs, so the

next time you talk to your payroll ATM,

you can see it can't spit words from Zara and H&M.

And don't forget these pretty putanginamos.

wear them whenever you feel climbing the ladder,

singing the anthem, and seating on the toilet.

Your shit may be brown, hard, and sticky, but

it'll still look like a cake in a box of glittery.

Inception

Inside a room full of people, all lips are sealed, the hands restlessly tapping keys to establish a fragment of work. One corner has a window half-covered, the midday light coming in as if echoing a boy who said, I want to work in a spaceship. He munched the chocolate bar and craved for more lego blocks, seeing a new set of wings and some planetary labs. But you can be a doctor, the mother said, holding a pen and staring at the calculator. Or a lawyer, she added, smiling at her reflection on the psychedelic screen. Outside the house, on the surface of a frame, a man wanders in the streets, hunting for words to be sewn. He stops by an edifice and sees one window half-covered, laughing and thinking about a room of silly people. The park is bare and full of umbrellas. He sees words on a bench and picks them. Sees them pasted on the posts and unpasted them. There are some on the trash bin, the pavement, the roads.

The Kwek-Kwek Poem

For Jose Garcia Villa

The kwek-kweks are being fried,

They are like little balls to the kiat-kiat tree.

(A man has only two balls,

There are many balls in a kiat-kiat tree.)

Soon the kwek-kweks will turn orange and yummy:

I shall pick up two...three…or many…

Like a modest girl (or boy¹), I shall first lick their skin,

I shall lick them before eating (the egg of) the Bird:

I shall be reminded of a bunch of boys.

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I shall kiss kwek-kweks because they are the balls of a boy.

In UP they say we are postmodernists now, sir, and are free to write about our Jacks and Davids—without suspension.