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

Breakable

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

Alive

The breeze came with the footsteps of the enemy
Upon dry vegetation of the south-east, his head
And shoes burned under the morning sun, and he
Heard their guns cock before their fingers held
Between the steel and sweat in a very bad dream
He saw his friends beneath a hail of imaginary
Bullets, he saw the top of all their heads they gleam
Under the heat of the sun the blood curdled quickly
It smudged the sleeve of his shirt a brush of black
On green, the grass soft and hot against his back.

Gunfire teased the air above him, his face to the sun
Blinded and one ear broken by the sound of a single
Shrapnel that found its way to his neck and into one
Grinding tooth, it kept him from closing his eyes until
The cackle of indirect fire came from two kilometres
Away, but sleep would never come because of the pain
Because of faint jeering, his enemies, because of sputters
Of gun fire in each face nearer and nearer and again
And again he gasped until the last sniper fire finally scared
Them away and a chicken came upon him and pecked.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Tuesday, February 17, 2015

Monday, 16 February 2015

Ga-

She wasn’t his type, a rather large homely woman, pulpy
On the cheeks and breasts and yet he decided to give
Himself the benefit of a fuck he rightly deserved certainly
After being the most considerate bastard yet they leave
They always leave and he couldn’t understand why what
The fuck do they want do they need if he had gone to
The Oracle she would tell him to crash his car into that
Big slut’s fence and yes call her slut then come down to
Where she’ll shriek as he sucked the sucking sounds a
Joy to hear to the rhythm of her short breathless ga-

Do you think I should turn him in, oh what do I mean turn
Him in, well there are some people who would, some
People who would love to know where he lives just when
Some people, who do you think, the fascists who come
Round with their shotguns looking for the suckers those
Suckers who, freeloaders who, spongers who pretend
They are sick and indisposed, jesus christ wouldn’t you
Just kill to set things straight the way they should and
Set things back the long and narrow, fascist mercenaries
Walk this way the bone and marrow, they will know who is-

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Monday February 16, 2015

Saturday, 14 February 2015

Practise

There never seemed any closure to the broken strings
In his life, he knots the pieces together but his heart hurts
In the night when the dream comes, the vision that brings
The sham that keeps him alive, he stood naked, the welts
On his chest throbbing like a gaping wound and he walked
A narrow corridor its walls decorated with photographs of
His son, his daughter, his dead ex-wife whom he often talked
Of to numb the emptiness of his conversations, to numb
The pity and anger he felt because his friends had forgotten
Him it seems they could not keep up with his cock and b-

At the end of the corridor was a window, he looked and saw
A house that he once knew where a man came round with a
Shotgun with the cigar with the sneer looking for the fellow
Who was shagging his wife, he knew it was best to turn away
Into the darkness where he entertained the photographs with
Songs and monologues because the photographs did not
Disappear, an audience with determination and resolve with
The staying power his tedious talents his cock and b- called for
In these dreams he practised the whimper that came between
His tears and his laughters, and this is how he endures the din.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Saturday, February 14, 2015

Friday, 13 February 2015

The Exile

No I never sold off, not in the silence of my sanctuary
I never turned away from my disgust of the bankrupt
Fortress of capitalism, the fruits of cruel depravity
Deep in the culture of fetish and commodity, but stop
There and see that I still love you and think dearly
Of our labours, the struggle in the name of our art
When art was unafraid of the power of money, control
Of the lives of our people, do you remember what
I said, did you not think I was bold and no one would
Dare because they fear they have nowhere else to go.

Here is the secret, the hidden key to freedom, thus
I have found upon my exile, while we are so used to
The creative powers of our code, the use of detritus
To build our computing machines, we overlooked so
Easily the energy of the earth from which all things
Come and there there is sanctuary, it is forgotten it is
Outside the grasp of most of us so much more of our
Enemies, there are no retailable assets in these nor
Prestige for the post-industrialist seeker of fortune now
Where else is nowhere, I found, my struggle is over.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Thursday, February 12, 2015