my hands are red and there's a knife between my teeth
holding my jaw in place because
i never learned how to swim.
i'm god, i'm immortal
all-consuming
and you laugh while you eat me alive
there's red on your hands and a knife between my teeth
i watch as you pull them out one by one
swallow them like pills
you taste like barbed wire fences, like eyelashes cutting my tongue
they’re kind of like knives
i leave clawmarks on everyone, there is blood everywhere
everything about you is tangible
and i think i’m the antichrist,im unholy and you’re a bible verse
you taught me how to evolve
there’s a drumbeat in my lungs and it’s all i have
i’m in control, i promise,
this is my game
havent you figured it out yet?havent you solved the puzzle?
sorry, sweetheart, i meant to tell you ages ago but--
they named a constellation after my fingers
after the way they closed around your throat
i will be buried alive and i will enjoy it
six feet deep,
what’s a coffin among friends, and
i never loved you, i guess, and
rip me apart
you’re enough funeral for the both of us
and you ask me with blood on your teeth if you're scaring me yet
who's the monster now,
like this is a game, and
i'm ******* immortal, and
rip me apart

I'm a spy
A super hero
Of your enemy
Watching, analyzing, construing
I know your strengths
But more crucially
I know your weaknesses
I have a license to break you heart
To destroy your world
I'm disguised as your
Best friend, your lover, your confidant
You "are stirred, not shaken."

Her sneaky way of stretching your ear
And silently one stepping herself inside your head
Completely unaware of the puzzle she's building like castle walls around your brain
No matter the combination to your safe of hidden secrets
There she is
Surrounding you like a thousand knights to one thief in the dark eerie woods
Prying even more secretively behind the red scene
Twisting the rope of war right out from under your feet
Because your hands are already tied
No matter how determined you are
About keeping your hot hair balloon afloat
She'll squeeze you like a lemon to get your acidic confession
Her blood hound senses will sniff 'em out no matter what
And then lick up the floor to judge your statements
No chance of over looking the oder of guilt gushing outta your pores
Or the bashful heat boiling through your veins
And the shameful twitch starting in your left eye
But of course
Your attempt to stuff those emotions inside the false confidence of your jeans
Is only a clean wiped window for her to look through
She'll ease herself on you at this point
Knowing the mouse in the trap has nowhere to scurry
Her approach will stare deep into your soul
Very painfully silent
After a crucially long moment
The silence shatters with her first question of interrogation
And the weight of your balloon comes crashing down to the crumbly ground
Feeling broken and hopeless in the rubble
Laying limp in the muck like a wet noodle that has escaped the spaghetti plate
Drained of emotions
And exhausted by shock
The final announcement says the war is over
And the opponent has won

How can I search for Truth in a world that's built on lies?
A lid resting heavily over a once glistening eye:
Shielding, masking, concealing
What last droplets of wonderment are trickling and asking to pierce the concrete ceiling...
...Instead I cynically note its off and aging colour...
"Yellow: Choice Number 4!"
Relays my proud voice, with a more
Assertive tone; I, the host...
Discussing aesthetics to collectively pathetically awe-struck guests, over specially served toast...
"Yes, I'm an impulse shopper, so it seems"...
...(Well, according to the ******...something article I read in my monthly subscribed to magazine)...
Happily consumed by consumerism...
But still unable to consummate
Anything really, Truly sacred...
...Unless I'm exactly half naked...
(That includes wearing Calvin Klein SoCKs)
And crucially still sporting my brand-named top,
Designed for tight fit to cull any ounce of shoddiness,
Whilst giving the impression of an existing healthy body, no less,
And then, due to superficial attraction,
An end will occur, hopefully, of distraction,
From the absence of my once healthy mind...
...but that never happens...
So then, how can I search for Truth when the bricks of my own guise
Only resonate deceit, sealed to create a facade of falseness?
Sure, I can articulate,
Wielding words like swords,
Pure, planned alliteration...
Baffling the bemused by barraging both beautiful and brutally belligerent brilliance...
But...
Showmanship is the tool of the restlessly minded,
Those who search the hardest for the key to authenticity but yet cannot find it,
And then paint their walls with vibrancy set out
By observing the mass hysteria of the layman,
Because nobody wants, Truly, to be classed as grey...
Do they?
Or it may
Be that that is exactly what we're all tactfully missing:
The fact that appearance, in some sense,
Is reliant on one sense,
And thus, in defiance of what we're meant
To wholeheartedly believe,
It is, in its very nature, subjective.
We were not designed
With a panel of judges judgmentally judging what pair of shoes should be selected,
Our mind's
Blueprint was principally a highly charged and thirstily receptive
Open book, with no printed prose,
No preordained guide to "Truth",
Merely a transient vessel:
A glowing red beacon of vulnerability in glorious, continuous distress,
Uncompromisingly afraid of its own ignorance, which, through an act of defense,
Strives to follow other's paths,
In arbitrary hopefulness that someone knows the meaning of it,
The answer to it,
The code that locks it,
The spark that drives it,
So in our fearful and ever conscious lives it,
Makes us want to hide behind this
Fantasy of an apex being,
Where our car seats vibrate and our carpet is soothing,
So that we seem to have a clue of what we're doing,
And instead of resting our ego-bulging heads and choosing to accept,
That we're just not quite, you know, as adept
As we might have thought, we choose to reject and neglect
Our opportunities
In communicative
And interactive discoveries of the beauty
That goes beyond and lies behind that neatly fashioned fringe,
Within.
Love is humble as we are stupid:
We'll see that one wise man has cottoned on, and knows
That even though
He hates that smell that his wife
Adores, he incessantly sprays it lovingly from a canister for the rest of his life.
But he'll never say a word,
Because, from what he's heard,
Truth no longer exists:
In fact, as soon as the larynx allowed the habit of opinions to persist,
It became a frozen entity,
A vague depiction of pure, untampered quality...

i wouldnt be able to escape you
youve wrapped yourself around all of my atoms, everything that i am
youve consumed my organs and floated within my veins for far too long now

youve stitched your name on the inside of my eyelids
so everytime i sleep i dream of you
and everytime i blink i see you

when im dead, we will rest together peacefully in the silence of my grave

every time i  see deep brown eyes theyd swallow up my memories and project them on a screen like a sad old black and white movie at a drive in theater

ive studied the syntax of your sentences and id teach myself to talk like you, so everytime i had a conversation youd still be a part of it

our time together was brief yet long enough to capture the magic
like a shooting star except you were my entire night sky

your heart the moon and your thoughts danced amongst the stars

and the kisses my mother gives me each time we say goodbye will never compare to the way your lips met mine so crucially like i was the antidote to the worst kind of poison

if we broke up there would be no antidote.

Where are you?

I am in the midst. Of nowhere and of mislaid sanity. I am frightened of who I am becoming into, plunged in Iliad.

Where the sequence of misfits and my torments combined, I am crucially breaking my existence. Broken, who am I pursuing? sparkling eyes, igniting palms they were showing tricks on me.

They were here watching me. They outgrow wings like a slipped angel descended from grace. Their eyes glittering into mine. Slowing ticking blasts, so I'd still have time to endure every bleeding and the state of my miserable hovel.

Where are you?

I am in the midst. Of being lost and being formed. I am in the pilgrim of my dreams — a wayfarer in the desert.

“Where the shore clashes and the stallion whimper at the sprinkle's coolness, I will get you there.”

I am a sightseer on the spot — where the faint could not be obtained as I stray and travel, I knew this is who I am developing into.

To discover you in the forsaken as a wayfarer in strange seasons. A tourist ahead of time, a butterfly in the coming age.

A warrior in the cage, a threat to them the shadows in the deceased.

“Where the shore clashes and the stallion whimper at the sprinkle's coolness, I will find you there.”

To meet you is to be lost.
To be created is to be miserable.
Being whole is to be broken.

And there, I found you.

From our ancestors to what we are now.
We are Filipinos, racism we won't allow,
People have changed but not our culture.
For our culture, we respect and treasure.

Lapu-Lapu is still in our books.
Made history with an arrow he took.
Tried to stop Spain and killed Magellan,
Made a shrine in Cebu, in Mactan.

Many things in the Philippines.
Like a church older than our parents.
An eagle that's crucially endangered,
Or the Rafflesias in Mindanao.

They are the diamonds we treasure.
Those things can give us pleasure.
From seeing other people happy,
We will be full of glee.

This is partly because of a communications network called NEON (New Economy Organisers Network).
Neither affiliated to Labour nor Momentum,
this organisation has been working hard behind the scenes to train left-wing  experts, community organisers and activists
in direct action peoples power
Corbyn’s anti-Semitism crisis  and the proliferation of the extreme left factions proves one thing:
The old Stalinist gang is back in charge of Labour

Those people, whose lives were fundamentally shaped by a Labour government determined to keep them out of the UK because of the colour of their skin, might be surprised to hear the claims in recent weeks, from different quarters, that Labour always has been or was an anti-racist party.


This is a label people in Labour have long claimed. And to prove it, there are particular facts they point to. The introduction of the UK’s various Race Relations Acts all happened under Labour governments. The Stephen Lawrence inquiry was established in the early years of the Blair government – crucially, though, after years of campaigning by Lawrence’s family. And even though it was often met with a frosty reception, there is a rich tradition of anti-racist and anti-colonial organising within Labour;

A little over 10 years ago, New Labour politicians were describing children whose parents were seeking asylum as “swamping” UK schools, running a campaign that declared Labour as on “your side” and the Lib Dems as “on the side of failed asylum seekers”, treating people of colour as not belonging to the nation, defending colonialism and overseeing policies that made asylum seekers destitute. And then there was the post-New Labour “controls on immigration” mug under Ed Miliband.

If we allow people to misrepresent the past by erasing the racist politics that have caused pain, economic degradation and treated people as “other” because of their skin colour, religion, immigration status or “culture”, then we won’t see racism – including anti-immigration racism – as structurally embedded and systemic. These fraught histories are ones the left, within and outside the Labour party, can learn from. Declaring yourself something doesn’t mean you are that; it takes work.

When you put pigs in charge of Democracy
you get pigswill and muck!!
playing ***** chess
and eating bacon butties
unaware of the irony
enough said!!.....

Within the dialogues of Plato, the founding father of Greek Philosophy – Socrates – is portrayed as hugely pessimistic about the whole business of democracy. In his Book Six of The Republic, Plato describes Socrates falling into conversation with a character called Adeimantus and trying to get him to see the flaws of democracy by comparing a society to a ship. If you were heading out on a journey by sea, asks Socrates, who would you ideally want deciding who was in charge of the vessel? Just anyone or people educated in the rules and demands of seafaring? The latter of course, says Adeimantus, so why then, responds Socrates, do we keep thinking that any old person should be fit to judge who should be a ruler of a country?

Socrates’s point is that voting in an election is a skill, not a random intuition. And like any skill, it needs to be taught systematically to people. Letting the citizenry vote without an education is as irresponsible as putting them in charge of a trireme sailing to Samos in a storm. Socrates was to have first hand, catastrophic experience of the foolishness of voters.

In 399 BC, the philosopher was put on trial on ******* up charges of corrupting the youth of Athens. A jury of 500 Athenians was invited to weigh up the case and decided by a narrow margin that the philosopher was guilty. He was put to death by hemlock in a process which is, for thinking people, every bit as tragic as Jesus’s condemnation has been for Christians.

Crucially, Socrates was not elitist in the normal sense. He didn’t believe that a narrow few should only ever vote. He did, however, insist that only those who had thought about issues rationally and deeply should be let near a vote. We have forgotten this distinction between an intellectual democracy and a democracy by birthright. We have given the vote to all without connecting it to that of wisdom. And Socrates knew exactly where that would lead: to a system the Greeks feared above all, demagoguery.

Jaw worked, a painful mix of emotions was felt as she stared loathingly into the soft eyes of the girl she held sacred.
Expression matched, two palms meet at the crystal divide that separated their worlds, foreheads suddenly joined.
A quiet moment of raw connection facilitates wordless understanding that flows back and forth like fluid. There are no questions here, no explanations, only validation.

She feels weightless here.

Eyes searching eyes, she catches a glimpse of what she knew would be found eventually.
The strength, the determination, the hold.
Weakened, but nevertheless blatantly present.

She knows why she came here today.

Face ******* in betrayal, she gives a shout of anger whilst ripping herself from the other, the distance apart becomes crucially important.
Gently, she holds herself from across the room, fiery frustration reduced to a resolve of tears now.

She has her answer.

Blinded by pain, she summons the rage to throw one last disgusted glare towards the girl crumpled on the floor mere feet from her, appearance identical.

She sneers. She couldn't deny it.

She hated her for loving him still.
She loved her for loving him still.