At the Station, w/o a Destination,

& in starlit Quiapo

heavy hands the sky;

bejeweled headlights murmuring illicit affairs.

How to survive a wasteland:

another stick of cigarette

as she comes down from a jeepney

and we ferry over the calloused waves

of this Acheron: holding hands as if we

are heading towards a Brobdingnagian tombstone:

RIP Love; inside are harlequins

guiding us to the doorway:

watch the worm squirm in-between the Bering strait

bearing bare skin, paring innocence w/ flesh

& tongue,

rogue saliva smeltering sweat & goosebumps

every fare is fair in this roadworking patchworking

back-breaking acetelyne famine: Fantine in the light;

no rubbers please, just plain old, same old

bed creaking, hinges squeaking, all holes of hell conquered

as if Dante, as if soldiers scurrying to foxholes

when bombarded by this mortar;

I am the mortar, my pestle--

This soul now turns into blinding research

for what is left in-between the impact:

your scent is mine to keep as it lingers in the sunset of memory,

my scent is the economics of your deprived reality,

you filled me with this inflation, now deflated,

this pocket--your pocke--

*Pocke sounds like "Puke", the Filipino term for the female reproductive organ.