Philippine DemoCRUSTY: A Letter For My Dearest Classmate

Yesterday, in my Work and Society class, Dr. Portugal asked us if we were all registered voters. Some of us raised our hands, some of us didn't. He therefore asked why some of us chose not to vote, and I was appalled, and to a certain extent, angered by what one of my classmates said--"I don't know anything about Philippine politics. Why should I vote if I don't have the capacity for it?"

What are you! Freshman? Didn't you take Phil. Soc. and Pol. Gov.? I could tolerate an "I don't trust the system anymore" answer, but an "I don't know anything about Philippine politics"? My brain just exploded into pieces.

My Dearest Classmate,

First of all, what are you? Don't you watch TV? Read the newspapers? Listen to class? Log in to Facebook? The Maguindanao massacre is all over them. It's actually everywhere. The incident tells a lot about Philippine politics.

For your information, clans and dynasties have been long asserting political monopoly over and over in our country. Most of them wreak repulsive violence in every possible and innocent corner of the land just to gain authority. Aren't you aware of the Marcos regime? (assuming that you took High School before you entered the university)

And these injustices continue to persist because of YOU. Because "you don't know anything about Philippine politics". Yes, it's because of you my dear classmate. Because you're waiting to be spoon-fed with information. Because you're not aware of your right and obligation to participate in Philippine democracy. Because you CHOSE not to know anything about Philippine Politics.

Democracy is about YOU, my dear classmate. It's about each one of us. We run this country, in theory that is. The people in the government are supposed to represent us. That's why there's elections.

No wonder why people in power is as ignorant in true politics as a six year old is. Because people like YOU, my dear classmate, exists.

Original Song Compositions

lyrics: czyka
music: mao

Karma Trance

AM7 C#m5 DM7

You look at a mirror—
A broken reflection of a man
Scars your soul

Crimes you committed
Hearts youve bladed
Good deeds kept in debt
Came crashing in one go

Whats done can’t be undone
So just dance into the beat of the drum
Embrace the song of the sun
Let it go… let it come

Every image is mislead
You sigh, and create noise
Echoing a wish
For a second chance for choice

Feel the music in your palm
The melody is the balm
Dry the tears that drowns your lung
Breathe the bass baby
Be the symphony…be serenity
You and harmony is one
All else is gone

Whats done can’t be undone
So just dance into the beat of the drum
Embrace the song of the sun
Let it go… let it come

Booty Call

Gm7 CM9 Em* Dm*

Don’t say that I’m your muse
If your after for is only a matter of use
I ain’t no cheap drug baby
I’m not just any substance that you can abuse

Late last night you called me beautiful
We made all the stars fall ‘til dawn
But when I woke up you were gone
And then I realized…that it was just..
a booty call (2x) with second voice

Overnight passion
Hangover illusion
Overnight passion
Wakes an illusion

You treat me like a random number on your list
Your mere last alternative
But baby Im no sedative
Don't wanna be your whim

Overnight passion
Hangover illusion
Overnight passion
Wakes an illusion

Im singin this not for your pity
I just cant stand your infidelity
No I aint waiting for your return
Don’t ever think that youre hard to unlearn
Letting go is as easy as one two three
Numbing one’s heart is the key
Oh please find another to fill that hole
Coz Im an extra…ordinary soul
And I ain’t just…your booty call…
I’m like you, I’m like you, I’m like you (second voice?)

Overnight passion
Hangover illusion
Overnight passion
Wakes an illusion

I don’t need a temporary high
Id rather be forever dry
So don’t just ring me
when youre in the mood
for LOVE

Bootycall, bootycall

Ode to Sadness

C Bm A# AM

Life is a fallen chord on a fading song
A rotting relic of a dying metaphor
A star collapsing right into itself

I am a fainting mental image
In your stream of consciousness
Standing still, shadowless

Searching for a familiar gaze
Only puts me in an endless maze
Who can free me from my own chains

Love Aprhodisiac

(heartbeat)

Your tongue is like a stash of grass
Calms me in a puff
Your eyes shine like crystals
They make my soul alive

(Im addicted to you)
Oh baby let me have more of you
Coz every piece turns my being anew
You’re my aphrodisiac
My one and only love
Breathe out and I’ll suck
Oh bring me to the heavens above

Drop your tears in my vision
Let me fly, change my perception
I’ll melt your hands in my mouth
So I’ll have ecstasy without a bound

(Im addicted to you)
Oh baby let me have more of you
Coz every piece turns my being anew
You’re my aphrodisiac
My one and only love
Breathe out and I’ll suck
Oh bring me to the heavens above

You turn lust to love
Your burn my memory of pain
My body and soul you can all have
Let me take you like a drug

implosions

suffering 'til unfeeling



transcendence, the child's dream of flying



happiness, the beams of the moon



where is he who can share this with me?



sophia as the last strand of sanity

Poems in LRT Removed

I finally had the opportunity to go out again last night after a year of just being at the confines of the home. Martin was invited to jam in an open drums session in Tomato Bomb, and so we went.

I was so "czyked" to ride the LRT again because I missed the poems posted on top of the LRT windows--"mga berso sa metro". Can't help but love them! In the midst of the city's restless hustle and bustle, I am put into a solemn pause when I read these verses. It makes a humdrum of a journey meditative, meaningful. But, to my surprise and utter disappointment, when I stepped inside the LRT and looked above, I saw Anne Curtis inviting me to drink GIN. My poems are all gone! It was replaced by wallet-ripping, soul-snatching ads!

I always thought that whoever conceived the idea of putting poems in the LRT was genius! I don't know but there's something about trains that makes me ponder about life. There was even a time when I spent a day just riding the MRT, with nowhere to go, no itinerary whatsoever, just sat there with my tickler, observing, writing, making verses out of the people's various facial expressions, listening to gossips and colloquial conversations, musing about urban life--searching for the poetry in the prose of everyday.

I have this rather odd idea that I have a connection with the genius who thought of placing the poems in the LRT. Not romantic alright. I think we have the same hunger. Hunger for the soul. Hunger to see the being breathing underneath the mundane, to see it raw, stripped of the city's artificiality. And we both want everyone to be like us, hungry as hell. That's why he placed the poems there, I suppose, in an attempt to spread the hunger.

But what now, the genius became a sellout? Well, I shouldn't jump to any conclusions. Most probably it was not his idea to replace the poems.

Really sad about what happened. A hope for change just turned into dust.

Again.

For the "Intellectuals"

funny how some people spend half of their lives philosophizing about life, lulling themselves with the theories of science, when the answer to the ever elusive meaning of life lies somewhere else. not sure where that is, really. i just think we should learn how to accept that some things in life shouldn't be explained or else it will lose its beauty. Sophia taught me that.

So, stop. pls stop that intellectual masturbation.

A Story in Progress

There's a story floating in my head for the longest time now. Its conception happened two years ago, I think. I promise myself that from now on I'll be keeping track of my ideas for this story in this blog.

Random thoughts:

-"the basis of identity is memory."--this will definitely be one of the themes of my story.

-"The dew of life came rushing in my bloodstream, reviving my soul anew. It was like the first time, and he the first who ever entered my world. I thought to myself, this must be thing they call freedom"-- I want to put this line there somewhere. (hehe)

- I need inspiration. I can't start this story. every thought is random and without sense if not placed in the bigger picture

A Spoonful of Sugar

one of my valuable possession is missing. just left it beside the sink and now its gone. i don't know who has it, or how and why was it taken, the point is, it's gone. it's the free tumbler you get when you buy a large Zagu. martin gave it to me when he was still courting me. i have a brain-ripping hung over that time. then he asked me what do i want. i told him that i want something that can end the mind-killing migraine I have. i don't want food for I also felt nauseous. i told him that i want a plain water flavored Zagu. and of course, he said that they doesn't serve that.

but, lo and behold, after fifteen minutes, I was drinking a water flavored Zagu. water slurpy. crushed ice half melted.

he said that he'll give everything that i want and need.

bolero talaga.

but it works all the time. (hehe)

NO TV FOR SOPHIA

My desire not to let Sophia watch TV until she's seven grows stronger everyday. TV corrupts the mind. Aside from its unfiltered content that could teach my baby violence and malice at an early age, the constant and abrupt shifts of ideas in TV makes the mind loose its thinking unity. The TV juxtaposes too many unrelated ideas in a small period of time that can thereby damage the ability of children to make sense out of what they perceive. It is also proven that TV decreases our ability to concentrate. It makes us hyperactive, doing multiple things at the same time, not being content on a single activity--another effect of the ever-changing flashes of thought in TV. Furthermore, I want reading or any form of art to be Sophie's main source of leisure, not TV (Please).

But my mom is against this. She told me that I have to let Sophia watch TV. And she even went to say that when I was a child I loved watching TV and I grew up smart.

NOT. In truth, I had a hard time weaving ideas in college. Coherency was my weakness. A minute of reading makes me sleep. I was only good at math because it doesn't require too much mulling and attention. You get your results fast. But I was taking up Humanities. So obviously, absolutely everything requires time and attention to details. I only survived because I practiced and practiced. I don't remember the last time I opened the TV when I entered college. I don't even know Paris Hilton until she was discussed as the most popular Hollywood hedonist in one of my Philo subjects.

So, what do I do now? I don't want to disobey my mom, as that will really upset her. But at the same time, I want the best for Sophie.

Well, I should just probably let Sophie watch full-length films. No brain damaging pop-out commercials. Plus I get to filter the content of these films. (This will also save me money because Sophia will not be a consumerist baby, those whose first words are "buy me that barbie I saw on TV")

When she gets to the age of reason, she could argue about what she like. She could watch TV if she wants to, but I'll still be beside her to guide her. We'll discuss what she watched after even. But before that, I am the boss. (hehe)

PS:

Saw this article about the effect of computer and surfing to the human brain. It inspired me to write this article. (http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200807/google)

Sophia Sophia

6am. Awakened by a bad dream, my eyes open in an unexplained agitation.

I suddenly see this angel staring at me. Her eyes damp with the innocence of youth. The morning sun kissing her chicks aglow. Her hands is in a struggle to create a meaningless motion.

The nightmare ends.

For some reason, this makes me want to pray.

Humdrumming

Humdrumming

The desk lamp stares at
the ruins of a dead constellation lost
in the vast piece of
nothingness.



The light suddenly burns out.

Incredible Hulk On The Loose

I hate myself when I get jealous. Insecurity is my worst nightmare, really. It makes me succumb to my baser instincts. Or rather I succumbed to my baser instincts first that's why I get green. I'm not really sure. Which came first the chicken or the egg? Wait, but which is the egg and the chicken in the first place?

I think the egg is the succumbing. I imagine it similar to impregnation. Jealousy is the chicken, or rather, the chick.

The Sex: I yield to my baser instincts, entertaining the possibility that the skin-deep shrimp deserves my envy. I open his account and check if he visits her page. And I discover that he does and he even comments on her pictures. Unfuckinbelievable.

Labor and Abortion: I fight its birth as I don't want to stoop down their level. Reason tells me that what they had is over. But I also know him well enough to know that he is flirting with this lower life form. My friend Aurora once told me that I shouldn't be jealous with women that is not at par with me. But then, I can't help but feel this strong pang of annoyance and animosity within me because the girl is just so puke-provoking. A bone-headed model? Come on! He should have picked a beautiful girl or a smart one at that. She failed to fill both qualifications.

Even though I keep on battling the labor, the chick persists on coming out for reasons that transcend my intellect.

The Birth: So now, here's incredible hulk on the loose. She cyberstalks, rants and sourgrapes. It makes me ugly.

I can't believe I just made this whole article just to talk about her.--Incredible hulk on the loose.

My self-esteem and self-respect? Bermuda triangulated.

I hate her.

But I hate myself more for hating her.

Exploration Of The Gray

I've been thinking of quitting my new job after a week of doing it. I find some of the tasks given to me unethical and even illegal. I don't want to go to the nitty-gritty, but trust me, it's like cheating in exams. But because they pay well, I continue to cheat. The 9 units of Theology I took in college--gone. 9 units of philosophy--gone. My school's Credo, mission and vision--all gone. They're like stars that exploded into the darkest of black holes.

I need this job. I have a baby to raise. His father's salary is not enough to feed us. I'll only do this for a couple of months anyway. I'll have a real job next year in Australia. So I think this could do no harm.--I can keep telling this to myself forever but it won't change the fact that I'm cheating. I'm cheating. I'm cheating. And I can't deal with it. It's eating up my nerves every freakin' day.

By mere chance or by destiny (can't possibly know), I encountered a blog that has this phrase on it: "These people need to realize that just because you can do something, it means you should...." Timely, right?

After having read that, I found myself in deep contemplation.

Morality or practicality?
My soul or my child?

To hell with this. I have 4 more articles to write.

No time to waste.

A Pledge

Finally, I've convinced my alter ego to blog again. Skills get rusty when not used--this dawned on me when I began writing my first assignment in my new job. After several months of not "romancing my muse", I surprisingly found myself running out of things to type in the blank page of MS Word. Ideas that came easily evaporate like damp footprints on a shore. Words seem like strangers sitting beside me on the LRT. Now, I don't know how these metaphors fair in the mind of a good reader. Oh I think that's my problem! I'm too conscious about how my words would be judged by readers. It's the fault of that dumb seminar I attended and paid for last summer. An apparently renowned writer gave the talk. She's alright. Fluent. Seems professional. She was in a corporate attire during the two sessions, I think. She's fine. But she's a god damned magazine writer. Women fashion magazines. But I learned something about passion from her and about risking. Pursue your passion even if you're not sure where you're going with it--you might be surprised. Well, I give her that credit (but she didn't even put it as beautiful as I just did haha)

Well, the point is that I got the virus she was spreading. I wanted to be a profit writer. I wanted to write for magazines because apparently, they pay well and they make you popular. I wanted to be published even if it means I'll write sell-out uncreative shitzits. Thus, I stopped writing in this blog because the stereotypical reader might not buy it.

Aside from this, I'm pressured because I was pregnant. And, if you get impregnated, unprepared and unmarried, expect the worst, even from your family. The pressure would be everywhere like zombies. On the one hand, I have my sister ridiculing me, telling me that I can't achieve anything anymore because I got knocked up. On the other hand, I have to live side by side with my boyfriend's family. Don't want to go into details, but trust me, you don't want to leave your home when you're pregnant. I was really at an all-time-low at that point. So I stupidly decided to make myself famous and get myself a normal job on a big well-known company just to taunt these animals.

And it was a big failure. I didn't actually fail. But since I was unhappy pursuing something I deem useless, I stopped. I used to be passionate with my otherworldly dreams and crazy ideas. And then I turned into a bitch bandwagon. Because of what? Because I wanted to belong. Because I wanted to be respected. I need to end this futile sojourn.

I realized that if I don't start respecting my unique weirdness, others would not start respecting me as well.

Today, after seeing my rather eccentric tattoed friend accepted in society, I got really inspired. I visited her fan page in facebook. Yes, she's now popular and is an upcoming teenage role model. I realized that as long as you stay true at what you are, you'll belong.

So now, I pledge.

I pledge that from now on, I'll be true at what I am oblivious of the approval of the unpeople.

I pledge that I will regularly write in this blog, whether it's a perfectly thought entry or just some brain fart.

I pledge that I will freely write with my soul as my pen.

I pledge that I'll not care about what the shrimpheads might comment about what I write.

I pledge that I will write and write and write and write and write...and never stop something that I believe defines who I am.

My 1st Published Article (Published in Manila Bulletin)

People would often blame media for the apparent moral decadence occurring in Philippine society. The distorted values media projects are said to have effectuated negative repercussions in society as they greatly influence the actions, dispositions and principles of people. However, these assumptions seem to hold no water for they undermine other factors that form part of a people’s culture, such as, the family, school and environment. These facets of society equally contribute to the formation of a culture. Hence, media should not to be seen as monster eating the sound values of the country. Before judging if it really causes ill effects to Philippine culture, perhaps it deserves to be studied objectively.

Does media dictate the substance of Philippine culture or it is our culture which dictates the substance of media? Such is the question we ought to ask.

Thirty five university students from different universities in the country conducted a rigorous research study to address such issue with media. They were convened by UNIV in its Final Paper Presentation held at Tanglaw University Center.

The UNIV congress is an international gathering of students organized by Istituto per la Cooperazione Universitaria (ICU), an Italian non-government organization that promotes social projects and developmental activities on an international scale. UNIV annually conducts a research study on a particular issue besetting present day society which is deemed to hold great impact on human development. University students all over the world are invited to take part in the project and are given the privilege to research on the chosen issue in the light of their respective disciplines and cultural backgrounds.

This year’s theme is "Projecting Culture through the Language of Mass Media". Eleven groups of students coming from different universities participated in the event. Four groups concerned themselves on the role of media makers and media consumers in the shaping of the Filipino culture. The titles of their papers were "Media Watch: The Filipino Parents’ Role in Mass Media", "Parental Guidance: Using Television as a Tool to Teach Children", "Towards Multi-People Perspective: Resuscitating Indigenous People in the Filipino Consciousness Through Mass Communication" and "Women Journalists Towards Empowerment: Strengthening the Media Industry for Society". On the other hand, three groups tackled the so to speak, "filipinization" of media, that is, how has the Filipino culture permeated media and eventually transform its language into the "Filipino language". These were the titles of the papers that delved on this topic: "Thinking out of the TV Box: The Unconventional Telenovela—An Anthropological and Historical Study of Philippine Telenovelas", "Redefining Beauty: The Philippine Advertising Media’s Portrayal of Feminine Beauty" and "The Filipinization of Mcdonald’s Television Commercials in the Philippines ". Moreover, two groups zeroed in on the impact media hold in shaping ethnic identities in the country. The papers on the subject are "Race, Ethnicity and Solidarity: Filipino Ethnic Youth Groups in the Waves of Migration and Globalization" and "Dinagyang: A Kaleidoscope of Ilonggo Culture". Finally, two papers explored the so called "alternative media". The paper entitled "Youth’s Apprehension towards Internet and Information Technology and Mass Media: An Exploratory Descriptive Survey of University of the Philippines’ Students" focused on the cultural significance of internet and information technology in Philippine society, while the paper entitled "A Study on How Texting Affects the Youth and Their Relationships" zeroed in on the effects of mobile phones in human relationships.

The participating universities were: Ateneo de Manila University, Ateneo de Davao University, De La Salle University, University of the Philippines – Diliman, University of the Philippines – Visayas, and University of Asia and the Pacific.

The event was also graced by Rachel Khan, Executive Director for Center for Media Freedom and Responsibility, who gave the keynote speech.

Tanglaw University Center in Quezon City served as a "laboratory of ideas" where the papers were presented. A rather intellectually enlightening research convention occurred there that time. By searching for the objective truths about media, the researchers were able to liberate media from myths, prejudices and misconceptions. They were able to see media through an enlightened glass, through a positive light.

After the UNIV Final Paper Presentation in the Philippines , UNIV International Congress will be held this Holy Week of 2006 in Rome , Italy .

Lost in Transcription

Whenever I try to express myself in writing, I often commit the mistake most amateur writers commit: I don’t get the real “me” do the talking. I think that this occurs mainly because of two reasons. The first one is my natural inclination to be so obsessed in knowing other people’s opinion about my work. More often than not, I secretly wish people would love what I write, and thus, letting other people speak in my works, instead of me speak in them—a thing that often happen to several advertising agencies. The second one is my strong affinity to my idols. I can’t help but imitate how they write, think and talk. I’m even interested in the kind of alcoholic beverage that puts them in the creative mood. And I would like to try that too. Apparently, in the process of my worship to these artists I admire, I lose my identity as a writer.

But if you really mull about it, the two are not really much of an anomaly. Desiring other people to want your works is a feeling most successful writers also have. What’s the point of writing if you don’t want to touch other people’s lives? Also, knowing what you like to read is part of knowing what kind of writer you want to become. The things you are attracted to could actually help in defining who you are. So obviously, the two are not so big of a deal. Probably, my real problem is not so much the tendencies themselves, but my strong propensity to go to the extremes of these natural inclinations. Because of this, my true voice gets lost in the whole labyrinth of self-expression and social communication. Consequently, my writing career is in jeopardy since knowing your voice in writing is the foundation of good writing as it endows uniqueness to your opus.

I decided to text one of my greatest most honest friends and the only person I trust when it comes to understanding my writing, X Vallez. Right away I told him my writing predicament. And low and behold, he made it even more complicated. He said, “you know Czyka, you have to learn how to command to silence. I studied two years of zen just to learn that.” What the hell?! First of all, I need urgent money as my family needs a hand in paying our monthly bills, so I have to improve my writing now, not in two years time. Secondly, I don’t have the luxury of time to study at this point of my life. But of course, I understood X’s point: I needed to make time for deep contemplation so I could think straight without distraction, feel with my mind, be one with nature and for other mushy stuff to occur that could allow me to grow in self-knowledge and thereby finally get my authentic voice speaking in my works. Well, being the most stubborn person I have ever met in this lifetime, I don’t follow this advice. I’m too lazy to do that. And I love the noise of the world too much to stand a minute of oblivion. So instead of bringing myself to contemplate to a quiet place where I could “command silence” to sit, roll and stand, I open my laptop, and start writing.

And out of nowhere, like a star falling in the vast universe of clouds at twilight, the tips about writing in a book I read a few years back called “Trip to Quiapo” by Ricky Lee came to mind. But only a small section of it. According to that part, there are three ways of getting to Quiapo—Quiapo being the metaphor for achieving good quality writing. He talked about three types of writers who all aspire to arrive at Quiapo.

The first one is the learned one. He reads the map contrived by the experts. He religiously followed every instruction in the map, not straying one bit from the “right” path. Consequently, he arrives at Quiapo just right on time without experiencing confusing hassles on the road. He thus becomes a good writer.

The second one does not bring a map along with him. Hence: he gets lost. But only temporarily, as he eventually asked directions from the people around him. After a long while he arrives at Quiapo a little later than the first one. Since he got lost and experienced new things, he discovered a new route to Quiapo. He founded a new style of writing that veered away from tradition. He’s therefore a better writer than the first.

The last writer didn’t bring a map with him and didn’t asked for directions from anyone either. As a result, he wasn’t able to reach Quiapo. Yet according to Ricky Lee he’s the best writer among the three. Why? It’s because he made his own Quiapo. He told himself, “Why do I have to follow these people and go to Quiapo if I could find a better place?”

Lesson: be yourself? I don’t know what to make out of what I just said actually. I did not narrate this to lecture to you or something. Like I said, I just thought of it all of a sudden. It just crashed into my crazy mind. Anyway, I now decide to just write and write and write and write and write and write and write…until I discover who I am, and then let that person speak in my works. I believe that that’s the only answer to my problem: just write. I don’t care if “experts” would say that I’m doing it right or not, I’ll just write and write. And I’ll write for myself because I believe that however unique my ideas and experiences are, other people could always relate to it simply because we are all human beings breathing under the same atmosphere. Oh there could actually be some other helpful follow up’s. After writing, I could let other people read and comment to my works. Knowing other people’s point of view won’t hurt and could actually help in making my works mature. Constantly reading the works of good authors could also help me in refining my thoughts and writing style.

For me, knowing once voice in writing is a lifetime process. I think one could never be certain that “this” is his or her writing technique. Style changes in time. Ernest Hemingway only had existentialist themes in his latter works. As writers age, their works also grow. But of course, there are also things in one’s tekne that is not altered by time, like Gabriel Marquez' classic romantic use of words, and J. D. Salinger's angst and Haruki Murakami's incessant mention of the background music played at the scenes in his stories. Anyhow, it’s therefore best if I keep a journal so I could be familiar of my own variations and constants.

Meta Sutra

Meta Sutra

“What else would I want?”

—Larry asking Alice to strip in front of her at Closer

I.

Listen to what I say,

to the words slivering

thin mists before my lips,

to the marriage

of my syntax and lexis

still,

you cannot hear me.

Inhale my breath,

the gasps of my neck,

my shoulders,

my nape,

still,

you cannot smell me.

Take off my shirt,

my pants,

my bra,

my panty,

still,

you cannot see me.

Caress my cheeks,

my breasts,

my legs,

my back,

still,

you cannot touch me.

Lick my tongue,

my ears,

my belly,

my nipples,

my cunt,

still,

you cannot taste me.

II.

Unless you understand the lyrics

of my silence, the melody of the gestures

I deplete and their harmony

to the heavy sighs I secrete,

you can never hear me.

Unless you breathe the scent

of the transcendent, the shadow

fumes of my present behind

my body’s crescents, my thrust’s

glowing embers of tomorrow

escaping from yesterday’s

burning sorrows,

you can never smell me.

Unless you look beyond

my body’s nooks, see the scars

behind my smiles, the gaze

of forever in my stare,

you can never see me.

Unless you stroke the mysteries

swathed in human pelt, the sweat

of memory trickling secret

frets and regrets,

you can never touch me.

Unless you lick the subliminal

beneath the carnal, the ethereal

living in the self’s animal, and melt

them all in your tongue.

you can never taste me.

III.

I am the music

that slakes

the ear’s passion

but goads it to hear more.

I am the aroma

that sates

the nose’s hunger

but prods it to smell more.

I am the vision

that quenches

the eye’s thirst

but rouses it to see more.

I am the form

that douses

the hand’s longing

but yearns it to touch more.

I am the food

that satisfies

the tongue’s yen

but craves it to taste more.

I am your unknown lust for eternity.