Cello Suite for the Mildly Depressed

Cello Suite for the Mildly Depressed

I. C Mayor, lent et triste

Look, t(h)inker, clock-reaching cockroach in the works,
Be on your feet and tremble! See how hollow the night.
Miscreant, in the middle and fifth of C,
The glowworms feed on your carapaced stomach lining bleached
In a dozen colored curlicues brought on by the smoke
Of your burnt trials. Sink, make me. Border-trample the tempest
In the groomed brick of silent scale. The pavements
Cry their rhapsody, now, the wet heat expressing their sizzle
In the ear. Color me surprised. I heard you and your nightmare
Galloping across the frail shields of men afraid of laissez faire,
Savor me, now, in wick. Candle-shaped pine trees do flicker in winter
And the flame on their heads are not for you to lick.

==x==

II. F menor, andante

Please, projection, you are mere, even for the stellas in your sangre.
Your platelets may compose constellations under your skin,
Your icy bones may form planets in your tears that muster galaxies,
But in the grander scheme of things, you are a carpet of logic compressed
In a paradoxic vacuum. Leave and elevate. Leave and elevate
The skin, your toil, such eviscerations and dirt factory,
Carpal tunnels reside in your art; in your heart,
Calloused emotions breeding demons. Life, through carbon, is
A series of sensations punctuated by arousals, accented by
Chromatic cymbals of attractions. But rhythms are not self-contained,
They glean the stalk of everyone’s name, the vibrations in the strings
Create echoes; may your fate be with mine, in the reverberation.

==x==

III. A menor, lent et douloureux

I am mildly a shadow, an existence in the final straw, I hung
My lips on words; I hung my ears on sound, my skin on touch,
A testimony of testimonies. Take all of me and the subtle cracks in my
Perceived legato — leave me out of your tierce de picardie.
Your expected brightness in the ending, a preconceived
Colossal composition of what petty chemicals your existence is made of;
Oh, contuse, confuse, grave sadness. The elegy is coming to a close.
Claim my core, forte, fortissimo, louder and louder and more and more,
And be solemn, and be still, I am mildly a shade. I may blur
In your hand-waves. In your clear, corrosive light, I might disappear.
Come, whisper dangers in my ear that my heart might believe them;
Come, make me feel like I am more than what I am supposed to be—

==x==

IV. C menor, largo (coda)

Softly, like a stream,
Carry me to my dreaming, softly
Like a stream, carry
Me to my dreaming, mildly
Like the wind, carry me
My arrest, mildly,
Like the wind, carry me
To my rest.

— A. P.

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bulaklak

Bulaklak

nakalulunod ang tingkad
ng iyong gayak ngayong umaga,
bulaklak,
‘di ko pinagsisihan ang
pinustang tulog upang ika’y
muling magisnan.

ang bawat panaginip man
ay sintamis ng unan sa ulunan,
bulaklak,
ang tinig ng iyong
magandang umaga ay
mas matamis pa,

alam kong ikaw
ang dapat binibigyang-alaga, ngunit
ikaw ang dumilig
sa puso kong lanta.

—A. P.

salagubang

Salagubang

Mag-ingay, bawat kalamnang nagpapatakbo ng pakpak at
Ihampas sa hangin ang bawat damdamin. Salagubang, singkulay
Ng pagkakakilanlan ang aking bawat pagtibok, ang kaitiman
Ng iyong kalasag ay kaitiman ng aking buhok. Tinig na matagumpay
Sa pagitan ng bawat linyang nilukot. Salagubang ng lumbay,
May tiyempo ang tuwinang pagaspas, may ganap na indak,
May lihim na sayaw. Paikot nang paikot hanggang sa mahilo at
Magmakaawang tumigil ka na, na magkakulay ka na,
Sintingkad ng balat ng dalaga; sing-init ng apoy sa kanyang saya,
Tunawin ang bawat maskara gamit ang hindi na kailanman malamyang
Pananalita at pangungusap na tila punyal, salagubang ng pagpapanggap.

Ang gapang, ang bawat talim sa pagitan ng balahibo’t tinik—
Panulat, sumimple ka lang sa pagsakal, sa paggapang sa hangin,
Sa liham na maari o hindi maaring pagtatapat at pagpapatiwakal.
May pakpak pa rin ang damdamin, salagubang ng mumunting lipad.
Banayad na naman ang hangin na hatid ng mala-pelikulang gabi sa saliw
Ng mga kuliglig at guni-guni, ang tiyempo mo na lamang ang kulang;
Salagubang, ako’y nangungulila sa kanya. Pakihatid ang aking
Mga salita. Pakibulong, salagubang, sa kanyang mga tainga, na siya’y
Itinatangi. Itinatanggi.

Salagubang, mag-ingay ang bawat tadyang. Kuntento na ako sa mga
Pangakong sa ulap at araw ay naipon na lang; hindi naman na natin
Maaabot iyan. Ang bawat kwerdas na nahimlay sa bawat luntiang damo
Ay naghihintay. Sadyang mailap ang tulog sa mga tulad natin, salagubang,
Kung saan may puwang, kung saan may puwang. Pumarito ka na, sinta,
At umuwi na sa’king piling, kung naririnig mo man. Samantala,
Halina muna sa damuhan, salagubang, halina muna sa kawalan.

—A. P.

itami

itami

Pain is as soft
as her gossamer cloak,
with brightly claws of turmoil brewing
seas of hope,
just beneath the wave-crest,
barely touching dawn even
on the horizon where eyes of the moon
rest to wait on her pain. Pain —
with its phases through and through,
the caref’lly-crafted doubts,
the ill-refined unwillingness,
the nothingness in between,
this is a subtle void,
a rest amidst a stormy song,
a dirge unshackled, buried long
before symptoms of sickness made
the poorest heart its home. Pain
leads the humble beast to build —
with its mind’s simplicity — dreams
as tangible as the nature of these
fleeting, passing, fading pictures. How
only a fool could write it, thus,
and believe it to stand firm. Pain
is caution. Pain is dire.
Pain is beautiful.
Pain is fire.

— A. P.

Moonswing / Duyan ng Buwan

Moonswing / Duyan ng Buwan

With the cradling of the moon
and upon the evening’s glow,
lies a sweet and tender answer;
one they cannot wait to show.

On the pinnacle of sky,
lies a cetain innate peace,
where the seething shall depart
from the rushing of the breeze.

And if only you’ll allow,
‘pon serenity’s embrace,
but to voice the wanted song
I can only hope to taste,

by the whispers of the gale,
where you carry your endearing,
all your lullabies I’ll sing,
thereupon the endless cradling.

==x==

Sa pagduyan ng buwan,
sa ningning nitong gabi,
may mayuming kasagutang
‘di maikukubli.

Sa tuktok ng kalawakan,
may likas na tiwasay,
ang poot at pagngangalit,
sa bugso’y humiwalay.

Kung iyong mamarapatin,
sa payapang malaganap
ay itinig ang awiting
pilit na pinapangarap,

At sa pagbulong ng hangin,
sa pag-irog na ‘yong tangan,
ang paghele’y aawitin
sa patuloy na pagduyan.

— A. P.

I’ve Been Talking to Somebody’s Ten One Hundred Diaries

Appropriation: in sips of swiftest beak, the fish asleep, the careless deep too tired to weep. She takes in little whiffs of pieces of memories contained in china, the bubbles beneath reflecting the waves; resonant, merry; hollow, empty. One by one they grew thorns that lodged on her throat, the back-channelling cavern grate sating her moat, grout in the linings of her pulpy core, mouth asana’d into vomiting. The corners of her lip twitched and curled toward the sun like some wicked feng-shui, her tongue taking paths of least resistance. I wonder, this girl of unknown aches, living alone in shuffled states smiled in stillness, in reserved rate while talking late on the phone. She types, she waits. She closes her eyes, debating whether to let others’ intellect devour her walls, that her body may rest.

Insinuation: I dreamt about her as soon as I was allowed nightmares in the nightmarish hours of sleep. I say dream because she is. She is a dream. She is a dream amidst the nightmare, like a bubble reflecting rainbows in a wasteland where the only light source are luminescent reactions from chemical whatnot. I asked her questions. She answered them. She never asked me questions. I was the only one curious. But over the course of my shameless digging I found out about her age. I found her wants and whims — only a little bit. As little as she would allow. I found out how she dreamt of journeys and parks and caves and flying and beaches and streams; anything, really, to break her windowless room’s claustrophobic seams.

Situation: Even the most graceful of swans need deep water to hide their awkward feet. I took cover as her words rained like sleet, emotionless pieces of petrichor hitting the dead emptiness that is my street. Even the most graceful of swans need sleep. Even the most graceful of swans weep. Sometimes I feel like I am too shallow or selfish to contain the almost outpouring of emotions — and she can sense it. She hesitates, and decides not to spill, after all. Perhaps I presented myself too shallow a glass, and for all the facades that say she does not care, she did care a bit. And that’s saying something. Little hints of twitch, of tiny vibrations on the string, of gale in the perceived airless echo chamber — this is the essence of feeling. Like notes on a glockenspiel, she wrote melodies monophonic; one must collect them and feed them in the delay and recourse and round and round and round and round and round and you get this beautiful cacophony, chaotic and tasteful; rich.

Speculation: Perhaps I presented myself too much of a person when she did not need one. I have been talking to ten one hundred diaries, the weights of which cannot even equal what discourse the millions of words could present when I wished for it. Perhaps I am not ready, but perhaps I have been using the word “I” too much here. Listen, listen, listen. This is not about you. This is about the careless deep too tired too weep. It is about the tongue in this particular path of least resistance, the subtly calloused smile in uncomfortable asana. I (there it goes again) have been content having dots for eyes. I dot my I’s. Cross my T’s. Perhaps she did not need me to; perhaps she disliked rules. Perhaps she learned long ago that rules never really help. I also use the word “perhaps” too much here, indicating my uncertainty.

Conclusion: Keep in mind that when you wish for someone to open up, make sure that you are ready for the rain. Make sure you can contain the outpour. Make sure that you are a ready vessel. It will rain. It will pour. It will rain like hell and it will pour like it had never poured before, and you should make damn sure that you never wish that you never wished for rain because you will destroy yourself in this storm, in this hurricane you asked for. Worst of all, you will leave her empty — without even the slightest connection or empathy with someone to show for it. In the outpouring spring you must both be drenched, bathed in this belonging, and tell her that yes… you *feel.* You feel again. If you’re going to ask for rain and run away to leave her halfway, then you might as well kill her.

Conversations: I have been talking to somebody’s ten one hundred diaries. I have only been getting canned responses, like a harmless horcrux I pursued in some random avenue. I know what I wanted, and I am a ready vessel.