You are 20-inch short of being a basketball superstar.

Had you been so, you wouldn’t be wanking a lot over

a Scarlett Johansson; you could easily pick one pirated

version of her plus a kinky schoolgirl with her twin sister

altogether scewered in the male’s shower room, your pals

are cheering, you are their envy, the local Rocco Siffredi,

the patron saint in that regard. How about filming a video

scandal with some fans all over your cock? I have an idea

how to make it more than the usual youporn treat: give it

a classical music for background while some sonnets marquee

up the screen. But since you are a basketball superstar with

the golden cock, you can’t afford to have the time for such

sentimentality. Control+z. Concentrate on being a testicular God,

a coital divinity. Art sucks, right, art sucks. Only beautiful women

who suck don’t suck. Holy fuck! Artists do art because they are

bored and imagination only works for their daily masturbation.

Cum on. Learn that wisdom while you are young, you can do better

than to write a poem about your fucking, literally fucking frustrations.

A dry Christmas awaits me. Not that I care too much about the yuletide season, I just said it simply because I am anxious about not having enough money to revisit the mystery girl in a brothel three towns away. It was on a Christmas eve, but that’s not going to be the topic for today. The thing that really troubles me nowadays is leaving my office in SK.
And with leaving means I will be deprived of all the privileges I once have like this personal computer I took home some years ago. Yes, this personal computer isn’t at all personal. This thing belongs to the youth I failed to serve with compassion. I will miss the cheers, the adventures and the spectacles of being the lord of a depressed community of young people. I will miss signing stacks of paper, doctoring them sometimes, most of the times I mean. I will miss the incalculable idiocy of the people I was working with. I will miss the letters from the federation asking for an explanation why I haven’t been on regular meetings successively, why I didn’t attend the city-fiesta parade, the Milo marathon, the Alay-lakad, the jogging inspection with the Mayor and the long etceteras of futile activities. I will miss, above all, the honoraria, the kickbacks, the commissions and other financial benefits I used to have. I am not sure if I can ever find a job as unproblematic as being an SK Chairman. Take Dindin Llarena for example. Dindin is a child singing sensation discovered in Eat Bulaga, in case you aren’t familiar with her. She must have realized that show business is too complicated, too risky, too controversial, too tiring especially for someone of her age. And on the other hand, chairing the youth council in an average-sized Barangay is as easy as blowjob, except that in blowjob you have to please the people you are serving. In SK, you are not obliged to please anyone.
The only thing you have to keep in mind is not to get caught with your pants down.
It is now observable, I know, that while I keep on bashing fraudulent public officials like Gloria, my confessions here reveal that my deeds are absolutely in contrast with the advocacies I have been mouthing and blogging all the time. And whoever messes up in small political affairs cannot be trusted with bigger political responsibilities, I understand. But there are things you need to know first before you can conclude that I am all the same Trapo I hate. There are deeper reasons I am not sure I can tell you; just hang around and wait for other revelations. In the meantime, I have to surrender this PC back to the SK office, part of the scheduled clearance before I can collect my meager terminal pay.

I am broke but I managed to treat her to a classy resto where people are snob and they always pretend to overlook the magnificence of my hair. I’ll tell you first about my hair. The last time I have it cut, I was in 3rd year high school. Count. I must be taking masteral studies or, who knows, maybe law, should I went on with political science. Instead I took the road to misery, pursued a lifelong career in professional bumism. I guess that helped you picture where my hair reaches now. One final clue: it has grown more than half my height. No, don’t ask about my height. That’ll be too much. Did you know that I can solve the rubik’s cube faster than you can tie your shoes? You bet. I date girls who believe that height isn’t so much a factor, and basketball, along with other sports is but a stupid invention. But I do not deny the fact that basketball players get laid the most and poets, well, among the least. Having only three free-throw points in my entire sex life where others dunk their ways in, I am a living testimony to that. What I mean with free-throw points is some unchallenged goals, some paid lays. But I paid the bills in a classy resto does not mean I paid the girl so I can have her banged after the date. That’s exactly the justification from Malacanang about the controversial cashgifts handed out to local politicians: it wasn’t any bribe, it was all charity. Similarly, I wasn’t after a piece of her ass, I just find it fitting to thank her for being patient with me. And it was her birthday too. Okay, let me be honest about this. I am dying to have someone beside me. Preferably a girl who doesn’t smoke, who doesn’t drink more than occasionally, who appreciates art, who can endure Ginsberg, Hitchcock and Prokofiev, who shares my disgust with Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, who is not afraid of growing old and getting uglier each day, who is not aware of her own beauty, who can love me even though I am not that loveable. The good news is, she seems to be all that. And she likes my works, she even pointed out, “the careful balancing of the scents and stenches of social realism in your verses makes them hypnotic, and more often explosive” as we finished our plates and some of the people suddenly turned their heads when we started our lengthy conversation about America’s Got Talent. Oh, she was such a joy. The next time I’ll take her out for a date it’ll be under the naked sky, beneath the fullness of the moon. I will read to her some of my erotic works and she will love me, and she will kiss me, and she will bring back the humanity I have lost in the streets in my continuing crusade against the institutions. Dreaming, you can say I am dreaming. When I think about something beautiful as her on a wedding gown or in the nude lying on my bed, I can’t help but reflect on my hair. How far have I gone? I realize that all I have become is a glittering failure undeserving a shared life with a cultured, accomplished, artistic, beautiful human being like her. But whenever I read poetry, I always see some hope.