Literary as hell.
lapses, lingering at the corners
of my consciousness, a flower-
petalled dagger I cannot refrain
from touching. Poisoned,
your passion is a needle
that renders me numb. Brain-dead
zombie, I return automatically,
submerge myself in the familiarity
of your darkness.
The end of a century flipping like a calendar number,
and here I am kissing a short squat building where
everyone says hello, and no one recognizes me.
Upstairs there are families I once lived in, but
pawnshops have moved in like stray cats. In the garden,
rhizome dreams borrow the curiosity from a stare,
sending up tomorrow as a stalk and teaching it to listen.
The end of a century flipping like a calendar number,
and here I am kissing a short squat building where
everyone says hello, and no one recognizes me.
Upstairs there are families I once lived in, but
pawnshops have moved in like stray cats. In the garden,
rhizome dreams borrow the curiosity from a stare,
sending up tomorrow as a stalk and teaching it to listen.
Terrestrial Bliss
Heaven is a two-concourse parkway, I know,
I saw it through the glare rising off the parking lot asphalt
And also the glare bouncing off every window
From buildings in the office park or the cars still between the lines
Afternoon is a jeweler
Setting hours in gold,
As silver glinting waves
Slap the garnet shore.
Gonzalinho da Costa—a pen name—teaches at the Ateneo Graduate School of Business, Makati City, Philippines. He is a management research and communication consultant. A lover of world literature, he has completed three humanities degrees and writes poetry as a hobby.
The night stars, I’m going to miss them
light up the dark sky, like Dante’s god.
From here, on this cold hill, it seems
the earth is dark but heaven is bright.
Languishing in a state of dire straits,
he contemplates the rate of his life,
the ways of his strife,
the days and the nights.
An abecedarian learning to speak again
in his most recent reincarnation,
walking fine lines between monstrosity
and virtuousness.
The streets are clogged
with heat and horns
the crash of sliding metal gates
sidewalk steams where it’s been hosed
in the paper
I search for mention of people I used to know
the sun bakes my face
All the cock-sucking,
all the cunt-lapping,
all the butt-fucking
in the world
can’t forge a bond
that lasts beyond
the bounds of flesh and boredom;
time, a river with
Charon waiting
patient as Job,
shuttling busy
as a bee
from bank to bank
carries us all.
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