Saturday, 4 July 2015

Drama in the Boondocks

I am no woman of the boondocks and yet now here I
Am bewildered owner of five hectares of agricultural
Land with a view of the sea and thank heavens high
Ground away from both inundation and the proverbial
Giant of the mountain top where now my vision blurs
At the sight of Charlie halfway up the coconut tree
Amidst the gales of a storm that has passed his slippers
Upon the roots and soil beneath him young Charlie
Is old with wife and many children beneath him mother
And mother-in-law and her mother all past their hunger.

I am no woman of poverty and yet I feel the uncharitable
Lives of these people, the lessons that I have learned
In catechism, the drama of the telenovelas, the palpable
Pain from prize-winning photos of emaciated children
And the visits to urban orphanages and slums, and yes
I feel the drama and see the gritty life of these people
As my own, Charlie up the tree, he stops his ascent less
Than a foot away from the top, and I gasp ready to call
Not to take his own life at least not upon my rose garden
When he swings an arm and pulls out his phone and chats.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Saturday, July 4, 2015

Sunday, 24 May 2015


Here is a slender noose that runs down from neck to brassiere
Made of silk and cashmere and upon it is a lightweight bodice
Lace in fine cotton yarn, now if you pull that noose you still
Need to unravel the length of lace round beneath my breasts
And the loop that goes over the back of my neck you must untie
Before I am naked golden brown nipples push against cotton
Laces, you must lift over my head, lick my breasts – they shy
They tender they sore for you, suck me gasp and sigh and turn
This glowing gaze towards the window and the balmy morning
Light swells the pleasure of your tongue, your brilliant lapping.

This skirt is long sheer silk batikked in verdant colours and round
It is wrapped tightly a beautiful songket of purple, orange, gold
Of fine cotton, hand-dyed and dipped in gold, woven on a loom
Made of bamboo, have my songket unfastened so you may hold
Me, the silk between us now, the silk between your fingers and
My warm sex, lift the silk, take the cashmere, pray and look upon
The Mangosteen of Maluku, taste the white fragrant flesh ripened
And nurtured within three or four degrees latitude of the equator
Consummate its dark and intoxicating wine, feel how terra firma
Turns when a white man’s head decorates my Orientalia.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Thursday, July 2, 2015

Saturday, 23 May 2015


At the end of polite dinner conversation there is sometimes this
Appetitive where brutish behaviour manifests typically in coitus
And related rituals, yes, the cool diplomatic regard with which
Men and women of high pedigree consider one another puts
Delight in brutal fucking and burlesqueries, surely it heightens
The pleasure when there is restraint and so you must take
Your time, come not until after the midnight hour lengthens
Into dawn and we have teased each other, me whore you rake
And other such verbal abuses, self-deprecating performances
Rubbing your cravat between my legs, your teats in my laces.

It wasn’t difficult pinning him to the floor, if he had any teeth they
Would have been broken by the impact, and when he came to he
Was already fastened, naked, his cravat stuffed into his mouth, way
Inside his anus an enormous anal plug of ivory and pearl inlaid
He screamed mutely as I carved my husband’s insignia on his back
In blood that caked my breasts; all of his body markings belong
To me, scarifications of a strange love that hides us in a crack
Upon the delicate glaze of respectable society and whispers low
Beneath aperitifs and opera we never take seriously, the walls in
The drawing room are adorned with their anti-masturbation devices.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Saturday, May 23, 2015

Friday, 22 May 2015

Sorry I Don’t Masturbate on Webcam for Boyfriend

Wistful, I was awake when the alarm went, and, I, watched
The two dots, blink, switched off after the first beep, then took
The time to appreciate the glow of dawn, first light, snatched
A towel and washed, primed myself a bit for that dreamy look
That morning ritual with the webcam at my bedside; smile, he
Says hello and the glowing image of his breasts on the screen
Turns me on, turns the throbbing light on, the voltage of his
Watchful eyes behind the electron veil, the deep of night seen
Beneath the shadow of his side of the world, and his hands
Hidden somewhere beyond the frame of slowly shifting sands.

The sand dunes on the sea coast whirl in the wind, their grains
Slip and he rocks the shy boy in his hands, a slow rhythm like
A ship on the water, and soon the boy’s body turns rigid, strains
And bobs in and out of view from God’s eye, so I just might
Witness and begin to feel the tip of his phallus in my throat
Lodged between breathing and ecstasy, to feel his wrinkled
Scrotum against the soft of my fingers, dirty, unwashed, uncouth
Unreachable and deliciously so, his tobacconated tongue licked
As he begged me, spread for me, please, he begged me but he
Moaned and gushed as I held my dunes to his twisted face.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Thursday, 21 May 2015

Le Prix du Wank

We were early inhabitants of Usenet, the Internet of chatty things
And because we were colonised and subdued by America we spoke
Their English with proficiency, we learned their vernaculars in films
And soaps, and we sometimes believed that we were white, we broke
Into chatty laughter and displayed uncanny intelligence intensifying
Our feminine allure almost masculine, we silenced the newsgroups
With the simple declaration “I am a Filipina” as if every fetishising
Belonged to us, as if cyberspace were our harem, and the loops
Of connections and pings between networks spasm for a second
So our risqué intelligence may give time for the others to abscond.

But these days of social media, the Internet of depiction and image
Offers us more to see than to think, hence we disappear quietly
Into the backstage of visual effects and some of us carry on dazed
With no dignity, listening to the rants of feminists whilst matriarchy
Dangle from our armpits, seeking to impress white men of various
Colour underpants with our biting cynicism, our no bullshit erotics
And our political minds, prompting a stampede of pricks in serious
Need of masturbatory release preferably Koreana puckered lips
Pink wigs and white breasts, preferably No English Please whilst
Their cyberboyfriends wipe their cocks on their Microsoft Windows.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Monday, 2 March 2015


I used to think that the very first ray of light was a great
Mystery, an untold story that I had to seek and unravel
For the day, but these days I awake and drag my weight
Out of bed, the light had long passed, nothing to marvel
But merely the faint hope that I would not be reminded of
My loneliness, these days, the song of birds, the colour
Of summer brings a smile from within my heart and love
Wells within my lungs for an instant and then the pallor
Of days, weeks, months, years, a stupor and a hunger
Fall upon me like a dark cloud, but it never rains, never.

The simple meaning of a melody heard from a distance
Escapes me, and the memories of laughter and tears
From a passionate life has gone so far away, a chance
To escape this prison has passed me by and the years
Have made me fragile, breakable; so my heart is nothing
But a scab, these days, and I could never see the first ray
Of light just as I could never feel the magnificence of living
In paradise, so this is what it’s like, if you ever stood amazed
At the towering waves of the sea and you knew you’d die
This is what it’s like to live with someone you do not love.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Monday, March 2, 2015

Wednesday, 25 February 2015

The Ultimate Art

Under capitalist democracy there exists the deep anxiety
Of the artist who is never able to escape the role afforded
Him by the plutocrats that has divided his beloved country
Into two classes, wolves and sheep, a hierarchy regarded
With much merit, a fate most inescapable in the industrialised
World where the artist’s identity is defined by what he does
And where he sits in the manufactory, churning out glossy
Eye candy, romantic verses, regurgitated music and videos
Here the production is immense and builds the artist’s bevy
Of existence by expectation, of a life expressed in anxiety.

And so the artist rebels, attempting to escape categorisation
He abhors traditional ethics and morality, defies wolves and
Sheep, but failing miserably and falling deeply into alienation
He finds his own subjectivity unbearable in the presence and
Possibility of his master, the Other, the system that enslaves
him with brotherly gaze, the eye of God that is always present
But is never seen, and only against which the rest of his days
Are given meaning as he makes art for – , makes art against -,
Makes art from – , makes art with – and of – , limiting his free
Will and making sense of one and only one thing — suicide.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Tuesday, 24 February 2015

Civilisation and Two Forms

The culmination of the various means of forced labour
Against the capitalist diktat of a great western civilisation
May take on two related forms as I have witnessed for
Two decades passed with each a struggle into cessation
Of all psychological and physical activism against the state
They pray the system submits to a collective suicide yet
Until then there are two forms, yes two forms, first is a fate
Of complete mental degeneracy under duress of legal authority
Drugs of mental restraint and the suicide of a smoking spate
Albeit slowly, financing gains for the great tobacco industry.

Second is the strict production of whore art under license
Of the banks of popular culture through which the pimp state
Profits from the high beliefs of self-proclaimed outcasts whose
Status is only possible through the benediction of the same great
Satan against whom they practise their struggles, a narcissism
Dutifully ensues as they view each other as sexual competitors
Each convinced of their uniqueness in an ocean of parasitism
With the master they despise, there is no dignity in such vitriols
They scream against the hand that feeds them, they pretend
To be avatars of Oriental poverty but cannot submit to its demands.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Tuesday, February 24, 2015

Thursday, 19 February 2015

Seduction Fail

Please, if I sit before you and bare my legs perhaps
I am interested in something, and you must look, open
Those insipid eyes and see, it is sunset a short lapse
Of time and you will miss the reflection of redemption
On my thighs, when the shadows grow long it won’t
Be the same, yes, my cunt prefers the natural daylight
Its Stygian furs short and its lips blushing, oh don’t
Chatter on, just shut up, look at me, how many times
Need I say don’t anal fuck me, don’t poke my clit it
Hurts, so just look at me I get off if you just look at me.

It has come to the level of boring absurdity, the level
Of post-modernistic self-sexing which has all lost
Its charm, its craft, even its novelty, and I only marvel
At the flatness and sterility of it all now because those
Are all there is, where is the sweet pleasure in these?
Even nihilism has its beauty, but these, a new age thing
Of blandness and confused appropriations of Asiatic
Culture, ack! global chic! nothing could ever be so boring
No explanation or non-explanation could ever pierce
The consciousness of such bloody thick white skulls.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Tuesday, 17 February 2015

A Conversation with T. Merton

And as expected, the devil knew and came to practise
Non-violent resistance donning the badge of the pariah
Yet the shining privilege of one who has sold out glint
Not of the pariayar but of the Pharisee’s high moral ideal
Where non-violence is craftily employed as moral force
A subtle provocation devised to expose the evil of Other
And the justification of oneself content to prove to those
On each side of the division that one is so right after all
Because the devil has successfully confused symbols
With objects, baffled the Atman with the Reality of fools.

Where truly are the meek, those with the power of poverty
Without strength not out of defeatism or false passivity but
Of the desire to converse and behave not a politeia but
Of love, yes, only love, my spectre, would you have sincerely
Asked and forgiven, would you have wretched the pride out
Of your heart and practised The Art of the Possible and
Beyond it the efficacy of love, the openness to learn about
The heart of your adversary, to hope against all hope, to
Bear and endure everything, to listen with uncalculating
Patience, my beatitude, will you truly embrace no thing?

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Tuesday, February 17, 2015