Sunday, 6 September 2015

Memento Mori

The coconut trunk I left for dead has hollowed itself to
The rhythm of white ants, leaving a shell of pale earth
Mimicking the mud on swine as the sun beckons who
Loves me after the rain with a bowl of mais to the heath
We guzzle our morning meal then play rooting searching
Turning over the vegetation until we are tired, the ground
Breathes and our breasts heave of excitement, tickling
Our bellies with scrubs, there is a dark fellow the sound
Of his voice scrapes the skin on my arms because he has
A knife I fear him for you are sleeping when he will pass.

But there is comfort for when he comes you don’t know
And I’ll be away thinking of your mahogany fur and coppery
Taint when your blood is drawn, your tongue wet and cold
As the snouts of pigs wrinkling, patting, beautiful, a tetany
For a second or two and our suffering is over and with it
The days of gay and the white hairs on your head fade
From my registry of childhood comforts leaving every
Coconut trunk in the garden a niche in the cuddly shape
Of your body, there will be no fly strikes or graves for you
Are bacon, ham and sausages an honour made when due.

This poem was inspired by my duroc pig, Bootleg.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Sunday, September 6, 2015

Thursday, 3 September 2015

The Poet Anonymous

There is magic in the pressurised air of the Udderground
Aground of wordly machinations where the magic happens
In way of Error: Poem Not Found in way of Poet Not Found
In the Udderground Game of Tit-for-Tat and human kindness
Hence the prisoner’s dilemma plays out once more for thee
Whence the poetry factory never sleeps its frenzy its madness
Its following and sadeness follows what predictable patrony
Of likely admirers, of fans fanning the fart of arty farty friends
Of friends of multi-level marketing and organic herbal paranoia
No Approved Therapeutic Claims: is she writing about moi?

Lately I notice how popular she is the poet Anonymous lest
From the Dialectics of Tit-for-Tat arise the contradictions of
Disgust and Adoration, where imitation is the sincerest
.. flattery
hits the poet like a bus damaged in transit behove
Of postmodern plagiary and no approved therapeutic claims
Before the congress of god-man, is she writing about me asks
He, is he making fun of me asks she, who cares and blames
Anonymous without looking in the mirror afraid to see what lacks
For the surfeit in the magic number of points, but hey don’t count
Because the poet Anonymous don’t care, she don’t count.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
September 3, 2015

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