Enough Poems and a Few Notes on Two Forms





First Kiss from Compostela
The Circus
Rain (An example of the generative use of the 2-sentence/line poem)
The Sexing of the Angels
A Shattering Jade
The Emblem
State of Grace
jass sayin’
Dress with White Flowers
Smoked Fish
The Isle of Wan
The Oracle
Intemperately …
Foreplay for Piety
Dance, Haze, Faded
Black Water
Follenious Love
Fashionista Anorexia


This book is a collection of forty-five erotic poems written over a period of about five months. This book is also a map of the development of two ‘new’ poetic forms that I ‘discovered’ during the course of writing in free verse or open form. These ‘new forms’ are the Interrupted Form and the Rolling Form. At the very core of this book, however, is how form and meaning invent each other.

San Roque, Baclayon
Bohol, Philippines
June 2014


The Interrupted Form is a poetic form of two sentences per line. This form came out of resistance to convoluted academic writing. My first exercise in this form is aptly called “Resistance.” The last line of the third stanza in this poem presents an exception to the rule of the form. This gives emphasis to the integrity of the form.


The Interrupted Form, as such, blocks the flow, gets in the way, interrupts the reading. The period at the end of each sentence enforces a full stop – twice in each line. In “First Kiss from Compostela”, the last line of each stanza breaks the rule of the form, releasing the tension and moving the poem forward.


A narrative function of the Interrupted Form is explored in “Threshold.” A key aesthetic element of the narrative is temporality (the passing of time) – boyhood and the sequence of events proposed to lead to a coming of age. The Interrupted Form provides rhythm and frequency on account of the breaks in the sequence.


The Circus” expresses the obligation to give oral sex. The short sentences – stacked like acrobats – quickly lay the pattern of obligation and dissatisfaction. Here, “incompleteness” is perhaps another aesthetic element of this Interrupted Form. The last lines hint at the possibility of completeness.


In contrast to – or rather, complementing – the element of “incompleteness” in the Interrupted Form is the notion of completion. Underlying the thematic narrative in the poem “Slut” is the mode of stacking narremes (units of the narratology) wherein each narreme must be an independent self-contained sentence. If each narreme is “complete”, then the aesthetic element of completion is achieved. Completeness is tested when the narremes are rearranged to produce a new poem that still “makes sense.”


The “completeness” of narremes in the Interrupted Form is tested in “Rain.” The first two stanzas in the poem comprise the source from which the rest of the five stanzas are generated. Simple rules determine the generative method, for example, the third stanza is made by putting together, alternately, the second sentence of each line from the first and second stanzas. From here, I begin to take a closer look at construction techniques in narratives.


I find the Interrupted Form to be most suited to storytelling. Short sentences are like bricks that build up to tell stories, from simple to complex ones. “The Sexing of the Angels”, “Effigy”, “Surrender” and “A Shattering Jade” are all tests of the limits of this fragmented form in telling a story as vividly and as briefly as possible. The stories told here all derive from actual events with very little use of symbolism. At the end of these “tests”, I began – via the device of the moth in “A Shattering Jade” – to consider the exposition of the metaphor and, consequently, the allegory and likewise more symbolic language through the Interrupted Form.


A Shattering Jade” uses the metaphor of the moth to direct the tragic but courageous tale of a male military sex slave. This poem is also one of my first expositions in narrative construction. I prepared a summary in prose for this poem, followed by an outline of sixteen “events” to be depicted in a poem of sixteen lines. The constant reference to past events alternating with current events is a basic but loose rule of this narrative construction.


As complex narratives are tested in the Interrupted Form, I began to work with the allegory. I was curious of “discovering” new ways of using the allegory, ways which may or may not be inherent to the Interrupted Form. Through “The Emblem”, I found the Lock-and-Key narrative construction technique. Here, the last stanza of the poem provides the key to interpreting the allegory.

The use of symbolism, metaphor, allegory and other such semantic devices is widely explored in many poems following “The Emblem.” Interestingly, such explorations would lead to the “discovery” of a new form which will be discussed later.


This poem “Interment” bears the literal interpretation of burying the dead, but there are two other interpretations which are metaphorical. The Interrupted Form establishes regular patterns of words to create meaning. The simple symmetry of the form allows easy recognition of shifting meanings using similar patterns of words.


Themes of bondage and sadism are strong in “Tears”, a poem about the tapping of coconut flowers to make wine. “Dance” is a poem devoted to podophaelia (foot fetish). “State of Grace” explores the hasty journey from passion to guilt to self-loathing in a clandestine affair. “Lachrymatoma” refers to an erotic sense of dacryphilia (fetish for tears).

The Interrupted Form has been instrumental to my study of eroticism. Such a fragmented form lends itself well to the discovery and expression of techniques that are essential to the erotic genre. Such techniques often involve the depiction of powerful contrasts, for example, the pairs concrete-abstract, internal-external and body-mind.


Lachrymatoma” is a term I coined to refer to a “body of tears.” I wanted a term that captured the sensuality of the fetish but not its sadistic elements. The brevity of sentences in the Interrupted Form often demands compact words and concepts. This form gives me the freedom to create new words where existing ones are insufficient. As this freedom expands, the form begins to change.


The first instance of change from the Interrupted Form is the transformation of one word to another. The second instance is the disregard for punctuation and full stops. An extreme example of these changes is the poem “jass sayin’”. This poem helped in the development of the Rolling Form.


The Rolling Form is a poetic form wherein the last word of each line determines the first word of the next line. The “relationship” between the last word and the first word is crucial to the construction of meaning, and ultimately, the development of the form. My first exercise in this form is “Slay.


The experimentation with recurrence and symmetry in the Interrupted Form were also instrumental to the development of the Rolling Form. “Dress with White Flowers” plays with the basic rule of the Rolling Form, gently creating and breaking the recurrence of words and word sounds. The recurrence demands that I “invent” numerous words in this poem to allow the transformation to take place, to let the poem “roll” from one line to the next. Any number of lines may make up the Rolling Form but I found that sixteen lines ‘closed’ the form to a tight symmetry.


The first line of a poem in the Rolling Form establishes the cadence of the entire poem. Generally, the length of the first line is thematically determined. “Slay”, the first poem written strictly in the form, with its short lines and tumbling cadence, draws of the fragmented aesthetic of the Interrupted Form from which it evolved. In contrast, the poem “Lamatrice” has considerably long lines and rolls less easily without diligent use of word transformations. I consider “Lamatrice” as an important transitional poem in the shaping of the aesthetic elements of the Rolling Form.


One of the most fun ways to write in the Rolling Form is to glide the word transformations across the lines. The poems “Smoked Fish” and “Plumbomb” are heavy with these movements where transformations take place mid-line.


Writing in the Rolling Form focuses on the word and its transformations as the unit of constructing the poem. “Vow,But” contains many examples of variations of transformation.


The Isle of Wan” breaks the symmetry of sixteen lines. This was unintentional. I was immersed in conjuring word transformations to affect the sound, or perhaps ‘song’, of the poem. The lack of line symmetry in the poem seem to have been compensated by nested repetitions in lines eight to ten. Such nested repetitions have the effect of “extending” the cadence of the lines.


Since the experiment with “jass sayin’”, sound remains an important aesthetic element in all the poems written in the Rolling Form. “Lull” is heavy with sound and movement and begs to be chanted aloud.


Much about eroticism may still be explored through the Rolling Form. The most compelling aesthetic elements of the form which lend to expositions in eroticism are word transformation and sound. I continue experimentation in these areas. In “Talisman”, I also take a gentle glance at the limits of the form in narratology while inventing new words for the erotic lexicon.


New forms arise in the development of the Interrupted Form and the Rolling Form. Along with the ‘discovery’ of new forms is the expression of new themes. For example, while writing in the Interrupted Form, I found a shortened new form that is most suited to abstract themes of the seasons and human emotions. The Rolling Form, in the meantime, directed my interest towards two totally different mediums – the chant poem and the brush poem. The Rolling Form also initiated experimentation with word sounds in the Philippine language expressing more humorous themes. In the observance of form and meaning, one thing always leads to another.

I hope these short notes have been as enjoyable as the poems, and will enrich your appreciation of the forms of poetry.



They sat on the grass. Young Li and Madam Chu.
He will read her his poetry. She will talk to him about it.
He’d written it in a small notebook. Bound with linen.
With ties that fell around his wrist. Pale skin.

His fingers flipped the pages. The last poem.
He wrote it last night. While anxious of this meeting.
Madam Chu, his mentor. He always wore good shirt and trousers.
He smelled pleasantly of cream and soap. She nodded and he started.

It was a poem about a journey. From Taipei to Taichung.
Young Li waved his hands. There were mountains and beaches.
There were lines about the breeze and the train. And the birds.
When he finished, Madam Chu was inspecting her painted fingernails.

It was an early sunny morning. The grass wet with dew.
Made little dark marks on Young Li’s trousers. Tickled Madam Chu’s feet.
The wind. The tree above them swayed its youngest branches.
And fell its oldest leaves. Young Li looked to the sky.

The starched blue collar of his shirt. His neck, fresh skin.
He lay on the grass. The linen book to the side.
There were lines about the peony that sat on her bosom. Soft.
About the tea cups that touched her lips. Her dark slit eyes.

About her tangerine fingernails and her smile. Her hair.
Puffed, short, framing a face that escorted his fantasies. The sweet cum.
The runny milk, glistening, dried on the sheets. With his sweat and sighs.
The scent of her douche. Her aging feet.

“I want you to kiss me, Madam Chu. From Taipei to Taichung.
A hundred and thirty kilometers of spit and squelch. My lips and yours.
Slither your tongue under my nose. I pucker on your ivory chin.
Don’t fondle me when I kiss you. My penis has not ripen.”

The sunshine warmed Young Li’s forehead. The soles of his feet felt cold.
Madam Chu read his poetry, her eyes wide. He gave no resistance.
He let her. There were lines she would never let him.
When she finished he was frail. His sweat evaporated with the dew.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
December 28, 2013

First Kiss from Compostela

He is as the rocks of Compostela. Broken by the drills of construction.
Workers heaving under the sun. Sweating their thighs like cattle.
In a salt cure ala mechado.

They gazed at him with desire. The men of the valley of rocks.
He was smooth and undiscovered. Proper in his gabardine.
He is quarry and fair game.

He is as the bells of Tamil Nadu. Hung, prized and paraded.
Rung to a hollow prayer. Heard intermittently in the night.
The women listened, gasped.

The men of the congregation. They craved for his slender body.
They confessed of the weakness of their faith. The sweetness of their sins.
The novel delight of their wives.

He is as the furnace of Odeillo. The hog casings of Lucania.
The snake wine at Huaxi. The men of the lakes of Axis Mundi.
He is the first immortal.

Broken but not hurt. Fagged but not regretting.
The pleasure of fissure. The pain of the first.
Kiss from Compostela.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
December 30, 2013


There is simply no delectation greater. For your consideration.
The swither and perspiration of a gratified man, sr. Your servant, jr.
Without the profit of a cut-rate whore. A stripling for your coitus emeritus.
I am your servant, your consideration, flat-rate. Today only.

For tomorrow I may be as the Summer. In heat, prickly, high.
Thereafter, I would be as the Fall. Spent over that famished broad.
Subsequently, I rather not say. For today, I am your fauna, only.
Today and not thereafter. Colonise me once.

Let me suggest we commence with a lecture at the Cathedral. Paper cutting morning.
Such dexterity with the fingers and the knife. Create the most elaborate of shadows.
So you can walk me home. If I may call that home, that rock of paederasty.
Let us take some bread and some wine. I am hungry.

Let us feed each other. Let us cut paper animals.
Let the daylight shine and cast the apparitions. Zebraic, cobraic, tigric.
Let us drink and cut paper clothing. Let me strip paper for you.
Until we are tired and happy. Until we are ready.

I want to see the light when you penetrate me. It is the opportunity to discover.
To demonstrate to the boys beyond the barrier. The immovable threshold.
Between sweet and brackish. Between a hoard and a bargain.
Escort me to the last phase of this service. That which makes me a man.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
January 1, 2014

The Circus

He thought that he would do her a favour. The delicacy of the night.
Her hairless pudding gaped. Confectionery of the gods.
His mouth spread the entrée. She did not like that at all.
His hands seized her buttocks. To steady the target.

The great articulator. The agile serpent wagged.
Between the crust and the icing. Her brown sugar melted.
Saccharifying his tongue. She did not like that at all.
Thus fudged another rapture. To end this circus act.

Finished his mouth was glazed. He looked pleased but incomplete.
She thought to return the gesture. He worked hard, after all.
Her lips embraced the summit. As tight as she thought he pleased.
With a wave she gesticulated him. But he did not like that at all.

She suckled and smashed her face. Mad at the gristly phallus.
He feigned a sigh of pleasure. His strength crept down his legs.
She pulled, rode her tongue on the crest. He did not like that at all.
So he sighed and shot limpid. To end this circus act.

Finished, they lay together. Wrapped in blanket and arms.
They imagined they pleased each other. Without pleasing themselves.
Finished but incomplete. For the best was yet to come.
When the cold came with the dawn. And the perfect embrace of lovers.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
January 3, 2014


It must be my imagination. Or is it a curse.
There is a man who keeps following me. In the day.
It’s like he had seen me for the first time. At night.
He is a hungry animal. He prowls me.

I cannot cast him aside. I walk to work in the morning.
He sees the skin behind my knees. He walks with me.
There is a brief conversation. He wants to know me.
I get on the train and leave him. His eyes on my legs.

I sit at the desk. He stands behind me.
He sees the skin on my thighs. He breathes heavy.
There is a brief conversation. He wants to know me.
His hand descends to my knees. My heart darts.

Is it a daydream. But it feels so real.
The same man every morning. With many names.
But nothing is different. His eyes, his hands, his fingers.
His lips and the warmth of his breath. A phantasy.

I come to the cafe each night. He is there.
Just before I walk out he comes. There is a brief conversation.
He strokes my arm and I laugh. His hand runs upon me.
Smooth and warm and I blush. He walks with me.

Each night he has different name. All else is the same.
Is it my imagination. Or a nightmare.
My breasts tremble in his hands. He licks and sucks them.
He rides me, naked, and thrusts. Up to my neck.

In the morning I pass by the market. He sees me.
I pick up some olives and he acquaints himself. A new name.
The old woman selling cheese smiles. I walk away shyly.
The man of many faces haunts me. He knows me.

A familiar flatter against my breast. In the train.
He slips his fingers between my legs. He sighs.
Tonight he will fuck me. He will cry.
This body is no curse. This is a blessing.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
January 7, 2014

Rain (An example of the generative use of the 2-sentence/line poem)

On a cool day of summer. In the morning of delight.
In the maze of pleasure. He is science, I am art.
As the wind caressed. As smooth as a plum.
The first drops of rain. I am home, I am found.

As the rain came down. I listened to its music.
I hummed a melody. Such utmost pleasure.
The beauty of a virgin. I opened, I drenched.
His fingers played me. As gently as a cloud.

In the morning of delight. I listened to its music.
Such utmost pleasure. He is science, I am art.
I opened, I drenched. As smooth as a plum.
As gently as a cloud. I am home, I am found.

His fingers played me. As the rain came down.
I hummed a melody. As the wind caressed.
The first drops of rain. The beauty of a virgin.
On a cool day of summer. In the maze of pleasure.

I am home, I am found. As gently as a cloud.
As smooth as a plum. I opened, I drenched.
He is science, I am art. Such utmost pleasure.
I listened to its music. In the morning of delight.

As gently as a cloud. His fingers played me.
I opened, I drenched. The beauty of a virgin.
Such utmost pleasure. I hummed a melody.
I listened to its music. As the rain came down.

I am home, I am found. The first drops of rain.
As smooth as a plum. As the wind caressed.
He is science, I am art. In the maze of pleasure.
On a cool day of summer. In the morning of delight.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
January 27, 2014

The Sexing of the Angels

She walked briskly. The distance between the hut and the hillside.
It was about a dozen of the the lord’s prayer. She tried to remember it in Latin.
She sang it sometimes. She stopped when she reached the swidden farm.
And began to dig for the yams. He looked at her from a distance.

The sun was kind to her. It warmed her when she sweated.
And the cool wind dried the skin under her dress. She wore a scarf.
Around her head it suck up the sweat on her cheeks. Sunburnt.
She swung the machete. The vines fell to her feet.

She did not hear him walk through the vines. She did not see.
Her dress, the wind and the sun insulated her. Kept her.
Her scarf shielded her simple mind. A mind that knew only yams.
And a Latin prayer. He stood behind her and gathered all of his strength.

He flung his arms around her. She was too simple to be stunned.
She laughed when she saw his hands. She knew them.
The boy who walked funny. The boy who talked to her often.
The boy who knew about fish and asked about the yams. She laughed.

He tightened his grip and pulled her. He did not hear her laugh.
They fell amongst the vines. Her digging bar rolled beside them.
He tied her hands to it with the vines. He kept her scarf on her face.
She hushed and he looked around them. There was a cloud far away.

He found her knees and flung her dress. He pushed her legs apart.
The sun kissed her vagina. Smooth like white temple flowers.
He rubbed her and she giggled. The flower glistened with dew.
A shadow came upon them. He thought it was a cloud.

The men and women of the village. Condemned the sexing of the angels.
She was a dim-witted slut. He was a rapist.
He was 15 when they put him in prison. He was 16 when they took him out.
There was no blood left in his body. Murder said the yams.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
January 9, 2014


To those who must roam in peril.

She learned her art amongst her sisters. The Sea Gypsies.
Whose romance with the waters ended with state-sponsored wars. Down south.
It was the flares of strafing bullets that took away their men. In the night.
The dancing lines of fire across the waters. Sparks on their fishing spears.

They took apart the boats that spared from bombing. Turned them into caravans.
They fell the colourful sails that adorned the sea horizon. Turned them into tents.
They conjured fires with sticks and stones. Danced the flames on their spears.
Those become the staple of their next exile. On dry land.

Once in a while they lose one or two of their daughters. To sickness or war.
Or other circumstance. They singe their children to take their place.
Like the old men who ruptured their ears when they were young. When the sea was theirs.
That made them extraordinary human fishes. Now extraordinary flaming effigies.

So while their fires leapt from their mouths to their spears. They lost her.
As they plied the journey north. She took the parallel route of the slave trade.
They travelled without her, but with her. They did not singe a child in her place.
They remember her in all their dances. She will return to the tribe.

So what came to be known as the Fire of San Sebastian. That was her.
The great conflagration that gutted a city to its feet. Burned all the brothels.
Set all her whores free. Flames peddled by rats from house to house.
Charred bones and teeth back to the earth. It was the most magnificent.

The most beautiful elephantine fire she had ever made. San Sebastian burned.
For seven days. Half the journey for her tribe to find her and half to flee.
They cried the reclaiming of their daughter. As if they have reclaimed the sea.
Their hearts burned with greater fervour. For the day they take their boats again.

To the sea gypsies on this island.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
January 18, 2014


Beneath her bedding was an enormous heap. Hundreds of bundles of money.
They bore the faces of her country’s heroes. And the autographs of her government’s thieves.
A large white blanket lay over the heap. Once pure now patched with dirt, blood, sweat.
It was a gift from her mother, three years ago. Given on the day of her wedding.

The dirt came from the revolution. When the young couple moved to the hills.
The blood, when she lost her children. At the riot against the regime.
And the sweat, oh the endless nights of anguish. Until they found her husband’s body.
His teeth showed through his cheek. Where they cracked the butt of their guns.

Tonight as with every fortnight. She will escort her hoard through the hills.
For this world in arms is not spent money alone. It is buying the hopes of her children.
She lay on her crisp and precious bundles. And the only relic of her future.
She smiled at the thought of her awesome destiny. She is envoy, soldier and fighter.

But this morning she is woman, she is goddess. She is the icon the congress worships.
Her face bears the symmetry of a perfect axiom. Her body is an eternal maze.
Her enemy’s uniform is on the floor. He has relinquished his weapons to her devotion.
In a country desperate to kill, there is a peculiar madness. A desperation to fuck.

He pushed up her arms to bare her breasts. She quivers this act of surrender.
Yet the fear quickly turns into a delicious spasm. As he suckles her, tender and sore.
She remembers when she nursed her children, she smiles. She closes her eyes.
But his mouth jars her motherly dream, as his tongue laps her. She takes a moment to look at his face.

He is young, but his cheeks are shallow. His nose brawled, broken.
His lips are lusciously red but his teeth yellow, rotted. She can break them with her fist.
He had dark thick hair, meticulously clean skin. Must be from the city, must hate it in the country.
When he lifted his head, she saw his eyes. She pretended not to see.

They were delirious, insubordinate, quenchless. She watched him very closely as his hand reached down.
His fingers spread open her vestibule and she unfolded. Her wetness seeped to the blanket.
His eyes glowed with a deep famished fire. She collected her strength and defiance.
She is promised a queen’s morning and she will claim it. She felt the hard head of his phallus.

A breathy cry came from her throat when he pushed. She refused to close her eyes.
He pushed deeper, some more, his hands tight around her waist. He too, unblinking.
Their eyes locked in a stare, suspicious, untrusting, alert. The deathly glow in his eyes raged.
She kept her arms over her head and reached out. Down she felt the smooth buffalo horn of a knife.

They came, their voices floated, travelled. A gust of wind diverted the sounds of their pleasure.
From the public market, high above the empty huts and dissolute paddies. Into the woods.
She witnessed the capitulation in his eyes, calm like a pool of water. Their chestnut colours brightened.
She let go of the buffalo horn, she closed her eyes. And they fucked again.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
February 1, 2014

A Shattering Jade

He powdered and kohled more than usual. He was hiding the bruises on his face.
A naval officer arrived last night and fucked him. Played his face with his gun.
Dressed in flirt gloves and glittering gown, he danced. To the rhythm of their laughter.
A few men in their khaki uniforms. Game for a drag queen dance.

He learned Fawn Thai from his mother. He fluttered his hands like a moth.
Like the white silken filament that soared. Through the smoke and yellow lights.
He bent towards the stars, arms stretched, hands curved. The soldiers cheered and laughed.
Oh he loved this dance of the fingernails. But not like this, not this way.

He followed the moth through the hovel, waving his arms. It chose the man in the tunic.
Cheers and a hoot prompted the man to rise. They danced, the moth and the bomb.
The soldiers outside came in to watch. A spectacle had taken place.
The Princess of Siam and the Samurai of Satsuma. The drag queen of Chiang Mai.

He danced for his mother and the drafted sex slaves. He will not dance like this again.
With a final curve of his dying body. The clink and the triggering pin on his finger.
He stretched back his neck, breaking. The moth jittered into the firelight and burned.
Someone spat on his face and he closed his eyes. The sun swallowed their lust to the ground.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
February 19, 2014

The Emblem

The bird was of a mythical colour. It was no larger than the common tree sparrow.
It came from quite a distance, travelled quite a distance. From the sky to the city below.
It was a bird never before witnessed. It had no name in the world of ornithology.
It was of a species born of isolation. Of myths, folklore, the undiscovered colony.

The rare jewel flapped its wings for the last time. Thus it slipped into a concrete crevice.
Its eyes shut, beak rested on its breast. An emblem crimson in the mark of a heart.
In the early smog and the cold it tucked. No bathing, no dusting, no nests.
By high noon it had died, its plumes rigid. No weeping, no poetics, no song.

He accumulated all of his strength to love her. He devoted all of his life to her happiness.
With that and without intention. He built her melancholy prison.
He could never give her what she needed. Simply because he did not have it.
When she died they opened her heart. There was nothing, she had escaped.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
February 10, 2014


He swung the shovel vicious. It pierced the parched earth.
His calloused shaft taut. Her dales a fertile prospect.
He dug with dire expediency. Her hollowed earth prepared.
He slid the stiff in swiftly. His crime, her lust interred.

But trees have eyes, winds have tongues. These pierced the parched earth.
These slid the stiff out swiftly. These dales a fertile gossip.
He dug with raging urgency. Her hollowed earth disturbed.
They hid their skins in misery. Their lust, their crime interred.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
February 2014


He elected one of her many inflorescences. It peeped out of her womb like a phallus.
With bare hands he gathered her young flowers. He was gentle but firm.
With split rattan he tied her into a bundle. Tight and straight and neat.
Soon her soft springy flowers stiffened. She swelled of his constrict.

With a keen knife special for the purpose he cut her. A slice clean at the tip of her bundle.
She wept and he caught her tears. With a cup that concealed her wounds.
He will return at dusk and again at dawn. Each time he risks his life for her tears.
Tears neither of heaven nor of earth. But of the libations between.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
February 7, 2014


Now I remember. His fancy began when I stepped on the stage.
While I talked about booty capitalists. His eyes fixated on my feet.
I wore a pair of flat sandals. My choice of comfort when travelling.
But it was the ankle bracelet that got him. He asked to see it.

To interrupt our conversation. I think it was about commodified knowledge.
He wanted to see my ankle bracelet. Barefoot, I sat on the chair.
I lifted the hem of my longyi to show him. It was beautiful silver.
Red cloisonnes dotted a wide strip of tiny silver droplets. It came from India.

He knelt on the floor. He wanted to look more closely.
Two fine loops of silver dangled over the top of my foot. I must say.
It was really beautiful. He took my foot in both hands.
And kissed the silver. My foot felt cold in his warm hands.

I looked around quickly. Maybe someone was watching.
It was early evening. The hotel cafe emptied of patrons.
They were having dinner elsewhere. I looked back at my colleague.
He held my foot in one hand. His fingers played with the silver.

His lips touched the skin at my ankle. One hand under my leg.
His fingers caressed my calf. His tongue licked and moistened.
His fingers ran down my leg. His tongue flicked around my toes.
I could not believe what was happening. But I did not want it to stop.

He pressed my foot in both hands. The foot looked so tiny.
He has big hands. He kissed the top of my foot.
His fingers circled the tender border of my sole. Something.
Something crept up my leg. I gasped.

What was that again? Academic knowledge.
Commodification. White men worship little Asian women’s feet.
He looked up at me with an impish smile. His palish hair over his eye.
He stroked the soft muscles near the arch of my foot. My eyes widened.

His mouth covered my big toe. He gripped my ankle as I roused.
He sucked with the rhythm of his fingers. His tongue warm and ticklish.
He stroked my heel with endless pleasure. Sending shots of ember.
From the arch of my foot to my cunt. It was impossible.

To stop this white western male. From invading, colonising, exploiting.
My lovely silver fell to the ground. His strong hands kept me in my place.
I pressed my legs together. I could not stop this pleasure I should not have.
I will break and bind my feet for you. I will not dance!

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
January 14, 2014

State of Grace

I woke up at 4am. The flat looked unfamiliar.
Of course, this is his place. This is his bed and sheets.
The dawn peeked through the curtains. It illuminated.
His naked body in the shadows. My sleeping beauty.

I sit up beside him. The man I should have loved.
I touch myself in places where he’d kissed. For once.
For once in my life my nakedness means something. Beautiful.
Alive. This is the man I should have loved.

I walk to the window. Pretty cobblestones below.
I will stroll that path today. An hour before the wife comes.
With my umbrella. With my wrinkled dress.
My heart aches this very moment. Much too much.

I gaze at the man asleep behind me. My prince.
He’d grown his golden hair longer. He sleeps like a child.
His cheeks are kissed by the sun. The hairs on his breasts glisten.
He smells magnificent. Like young green rice.

If this is love, my God. Then what have I?
How can I bring these kisses? At my husband’s feet?
Who will believe the purity of this love? Such wretched.
Ravenous whore, slut. Bitch.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
January 20, 2014


The soft glow of dawn ethereal. A half-light, the sun and the moon.
Bodies stir in bed romped. Half-lovers, the bachelor and his wife.
He rests his eyes on the undeveloped light. It was a fabulous evening.
She smiled somber at this pleasure’s passage. She is love’s libertine.

Then suddenly his eyes glazed. The plaint jewel dangled and gorged.
It reflected the stars in the endless distance. Heaved once and swam away.
She watched it carve a sheen in the shadow. On his face like a vein of silver.
Her carnal blood burned, she sweltered. Danked her sleeping heatheness.

Another jewel set upon his eye. His heart wept this obsolescent love.
But each emanative ornament trapped her. Gilded her harlot’s heart.
She kissed his drenched cheek. Pulled his hands to her breasts.
They made love in the daylight of her delirium. His tears her avatar.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
February 19, 2014

jass sayin’

ah kin kind kinda just
keen jass jowle lie lyin in
lie in bet bed thinkin
thin thinkin haw hah
hah na na nice you ah your
your bood bood boody
boody feel ah feels
ah then an then hee
hee hee hee hee hee hee
puts pukes pokes puts ah
hell helland lands hands
on moi mai mah me an
an ah keep creep kreep
thin thee thinkin that
watt what wassat whatta
dat was sum wus wussit
wassit you yes ya you ya
so soe sow ah mee can
me see cloose loose
close me ayes close my
sighs an dread dreem
dead ream deem ba ba
bat batter ba but there
you doth dowse nose dath
there ain’t no other prick but yours I want fucking this cunt naked under the goddam sun and ever after you’re spent for limp I’ll suck you back to holy life good morning!

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
March 22, 2014


She scratched her nails littlely bitterly
Bit them with the focus of a violin maker
Marked the edges of thumbs with deep
Depressive presses with her soft fingers
Finicky with biting skins on sorest edges
Gestily grinding cold teeth to raw skins
Sknip a synapse in her brain with seething
Teething damned jealously lousy strut
Trummed like the strings of an old harpy
Pray for this to pass like the rest of them
Thereafter sweep up the mess of them
Theremin the untouchable be all of them
Then my poor tired heart of skin and nails
Slay this jealousy with thy frightful laugh!

Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
April 4, 2014

Dress with White Flowers

Well I just had to show you my new dress I put it on and how lovely
Laughly the deep blue hue speckled with hundreds of white blooms
Bloomy little flowers here and there buttons up and down the front
Frockled legs and thighs are showing slipping peeking picking those
Showy little flowers wet in the drizzle wispy in the watery dew drops
Prods springly little nipples buds budding prods nipped in the buds
Bodily buds proddily prods teasily tease unbuttony belly no yes no
Oh lovely little dress with collar little short sleeves cooling my skin
Skinnily shadows she hiding in the half light as me of you and yes or
Roll me over for a gander at those ankles those legs those thighs
Sigh shyly thighly thy hold me in your hand like a cock cockingly so
Oscillate ossify occulent pearl of the opalescent orient cockily tease
Sees this skin in the light of lafternoon drizzle waiting now for the
Thiamond ray of sunlight lightening light to cast upon this riverine
River running with delight delirious oh! my dress so creased of him
Missed of him mused of him making me moist of him making me weep!

Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Sunday, April 6, 2014


The oil smelled lightly of chamomile in your cupped hand a tinge of coconut butter
Slither and softer on my naked belly there I lead your hand to touch to rub gently
Carefully start slow where I lie where I can see your face your naked chest calmly
Firmly round and round to calm my stomach and my womb that wondrous dome
Home not with child but with something else some things strange unknown yet
Let it feel the comfort of your presence the soothing motion of your warm hand
Command the demons of this uterine virgin to leave calmly but surely for fear of
Offending your authority over the pleasure of this tired body this pelvis glistening
Gleeful of the strokes of your hand gliding over mass and mass and myomatous
Mass throbbing with blood and water obey the signal of your oiled hands to go down
Now quietly down from the navel to Venus with such soft flexible fingers fondling
Stroking running over and across this terrain of neoplasia oh you make me giggle
Me tickle with your stubble beard your comic affection make me laff love laugh
Enough to forget whatever cares in this mortal world this ageing body high in heat
Sweet and high of flower oil smell milky milk from happy womb oh let me go on and
On and on like this such pre-orgasmic bliss wards death away for more for longer.

Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Monday, April 28, 2014

Smoked Fish

Hang the fish fiddly by the tail my friend by the window
Winnowing in the wind of the carbon winter winding fast
Fasten fast as the dust and the dirt and the smoke of hell
Helpless yelpless hapless yet happy perhaps perchance
Chances of a pearl in the gutter rather unlikely like a gutted
Guttural trall of tonnages of metal mental madness flying
Plying prying frying this hair this skin this lung this heart
Heartless in the high honk and clang of human inhumation
Exhumation of orchestral carnage this carriage of carrion
Carrying the carcass of the city foul and desecrant foul of
Sacred grasa concrete masa the poor and the dead of EDSA
Sale at the malls of sadness as my fish smokes in the smog
Smokes in the fog smokes in the smear of my fish fiddling
Fine tuning my signal to the stars sending ending fending off
Offending smells of defiance now my friend my fish is done
Done for and so shall we as we fry-fry and eat-eat poisson

Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Tuesday, April 15, 2014


Will you still love me when I’m dead oh press your lips on my cold
Lolled cheek chankered and cankered by cankersores but kiss
Please liplick this mortified face facing the lamplight morgue
Lord will that ever make my soul jump with joy my eyes pop with
Heathen delight and my blood in the bath tremble curdle crack
Crease my sullied skin with your breast warm me with your living
Breathing touch feel the bones beneath my molting flesh caress
Duress rest in pieces of me swathing swading spreading like virii
Lily water my lilly drench her with your spawn spaw me paw me
Merciless prick on my dead fucking clit sit me on your lap lapping
Papping palpitating my teatless teats teething through sickly
Wickly anteverted engorged enlarged transvaginal womb a bomb
Plumb anterior intramural posterior subserous lateral subserous
Obscured by myomatous mass occupied by a unicolar complex
Structure homogenous medium to high level echoes devoid of colour
Flow my dear Sassone-5 my dear sweet April booby bombastic boom!

Fatima Batten, Quezon City
Thursday, April 24, 2014


And so the blood of my coming of age of adages of an age of decades
Oh! ages since my first ripe rite of spring has dulled the lull of love’s
Sickness this slickness of loveless lorn for in betweenness in be
Tweening and weaning me of bets of second bets and second bests
But best to bet none and bed none and bleed for none and only no one
Knowing were oh where and when have I bled for one or none a prick
A dick of just a little kick a little slick such sweetness please such certain
Sweetness sure as sweet as sugar surely I will weep most sweetly herely
Merely where my wherewithal of kunst and cunt of wuss and wank a smile
A sigh oh! “Hi there handsome are you lonesome can we cum sometime?”
Someday a time for cumcumber sandwiches eating reaching for your
Hand? Is that your hand? Handsome bedsome fucksome fellow lucksome
Lucker where my luck has goner somewhere over where you are tonight
Tocatch toglimpse tosteal that splendid sight of your sacred ancient beauty
Bounty for my love booty for my broken heart you have me break my vow
Now ne’er to bet ne’er to bed ne’er to bled again for any mortal man but …

Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Saturday, April 19, 2014

The Isle of Wan

She observed him from a distance the man the Impossible Man
Named and made so after her own subversion of her hereafter
After her conversion into heresy this heterodoxy of contentment
Mendicanting thereafter for such vile and simple pleasures of
Flesh fleasures as much as such as may be gazed through the haze
Brazen and dazed were his signals through the orthogonals of his
Histrionics of paradox like the pandabox that boxed neither cat nor
Catacombs of Herr Schrodinger dingy as dreamt by the man in the
Man in the man in the Impossible Man as seen by the woman in the
Woman in the woman in the Isle of Wan oh but the colour of her skin
Snaked as the earth and the blood of her ancestors run red for such
Touch such scorch such much delicate succulent kisses by and upon
Pondering the long lingering sentient skin of his Being her seeing is
Seething is steeping is seeping her sappy of this enchanted lifelong
Longing dream to never ever die until this Isle is awash with her blood

Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Thursday, April 17, 2014


It was a non-sleep an un-sleep a pseudo-sleep replete with
Witholdings of a heart trapped in the trappings of a trappist
Pistolero my old man who thought what thought thought
Thoroughly roughly laughably languished guised as lovely love
Loverly louvered for the ghost of that hostaged agedly leening
Lynching the wind wickedly with his whistling sling lingering
Malingering ringing in my ear to hear the near death defying
Edifying defiant antithesis of desire siring the aspirant spirant
Spiralling linger piraling longer a loner we aspire to become
Comely in the comedy of our tragicomedic tragedy traveling
Trapped am I in time and thine in space in paced pacing betwixt
Better or worse my kingdom for a horse or for a king sans dom
Domitably doomed are we together to gather to get to sleep
Spleening over yet another Arab Spring for the slove of snore.

Fatima Batten, Quezon City
Saturday, April 12, 2014


The heart opened at midnight and I stood under its phallic tip deep
Steeped in the ecstasy of the pearl that customarily falls from its core
Whore am I who but a whore-wife waiting for the he-pearl to uncurl
Unpearl into this seared mouth but alas there is no pearl but a gush a
Rush of blood red rich thickly sticky gore gushing my eyes my mouth
My nose that coppery stench that warm brush with debt for redebt
Redemption for my awful sins of the flesh punished severely shamed
Shammed by my own disowning of proper behaviour of marital vows
Sows sucking the boar’s swinerod now steeped in blood for the stew
You fool you expectant flirt seeking pearls from pig’s hearts you get
Whet in hog blood bleeding through the slashing throbbing throat
Croaking choking on the bamboo stick stuck down between my legs
Dredge the dregs when done leave not a trace of blood to forego to
Foregot disbegot the memory of my gaping mouth this dejavu this
Dissing myth of the heart that knew not what they do but they knew
Too well the talisman belongs only to the meek and humble and pure.

Fatima Batten, Quezon City
Thursday, April 24, 2014


The Oracle

He lay on the sand. Grains pinked by peculiar sea life.
The foam fondled his feet. Cooled his burnished body.
She marvelled at his nakedness. Wanton and unashamed.
This be God’s imperfect flesh. Corpulent, dimpled, scarred.

“He is the Oracle,” she whispered. And she knelt to God.
His body lay between her legs. He was her Revelation.
As light as a sparrow she kissed. The funicular on his chest.
Aplombed between his breasts. Down his flagellant heart.

Her lips stalked his topography. A journey of salt on her tongue.
His body a map to forever. Her lips his lonely pilgrim.
She followed the scar to his navel. A storm brewed in its pool.
She dipped her mouth for a drink. The sky shifted above them.

The pleasure in his belly spread. To his legs and to his heart.
The compass at his loins quivered. Its needle turned to the sky.
She witnessed and she bowed. With the dignity of a lady.
She opened her mouth and obeyed. The command of his audacity.

The sands shifted beneath him. The sea rushed to his head.
She grasped him with her mouth. She assumed command at the helm.
She gave him to the surf and back. With the softness of the foam.
He raised his arms to take her. The world has returned to its senses.

And the hues of the flora of the East. Sparked on his shoulders and arms.
He embraced her with this magic. Took her face to his breast.
To the wounds that once saved him. To the rhythms of his heart.
He gave her behest of his body. The Oracle has been found.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Friday, March 7, 2014

Intemperately …

I walked a hundred miles for this. For a perfect view of the sea.
Behind me a home in shambles. An unbearable existence.
I walked forever it seems. For this country of perfect peace.
Where the blue waters kissed my feet. Soothed my aching body.

And then I saw him. Risen from the water.
When the shore stretched to the sky. He emerged from the sands.
“Come to me,” he said. I stood struck by the light of dusk.
Those words came out of his mouth. Like the kelp fondling my toes.

So he began my seduction. Wading through sand and water.
His golden body glistened. He had the strength of a mighty Manta Ray.
He flicked those lustrous locks. Like the ribbons of a Man-of-War.
This boulder of a God stood before me. I was just a shrimp in the sand.

And yet he wants me. Like the tavern wants a happy reveler.
And I am parched of walking. And a breath of sea is not enough.
I took Poseidon’s face and inebriated myself. Lapped and caroused.
His lips were as soft as butter. And he tasted of deep old wine.

The water swelled around us. But I was moored upon this rock.
I laughed with intoxication. I let him mount and fuck me.
This once salubrious body. This once consular home.
How far have I walked for this spirituous end. Intemperately, intemperately…

My body floated for a while. Then it sank amongst the scum.
There was the spirit that conserved my flesh. It traversed the Pacific.
There was the memory of my birth. It died with the pardon of my sins.
And the last morsel of my mind. Danced drunk upon the waves.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Sunday, March 9, 2014


I lost my wings tin years ago. Now I rootin’ in the dust.
But sometines the westerly win blows. And I can see the sea horizon.
That’s a day of the carnivel. I can wear my dress an hat.
I can paint my face in garish colours. The music’ll make me laff.

I’ll take your hand, stranger. I think it’ll be alright.
You haven’t danced in a long lone time. Well neither I.
I got no shoes you got no shirt. What is there to lose?
Just hold me tight and let’s dance. Let’s just one last dance.

So did I tell you stranger? ‘Bout my old man?
Don’t look at me like that. I just wanna salsa.
You got arms to hold me. I kinda need that stranger.
You got soul and swing. I just got my old man.

But I’m no duffer, love. You’re no babbler either.
We got those waves rollin. And the win’s mighty whistlin.
Seabirds got the fugue. Like some yillow fever.
Sands got the groove. We just got too much, stranger.

But I won’t be ’round for the last round. No happy endin.
I’ll hear the echo of the roarin sea. What can we do, love?
Now press me those lips lemme feel the real thing once. Once more.
Before the dust takes me back. Stranger, just kiss me.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Monday, March 10, 2014

Foreplay for Piety

The interior of her home displayed a dispassionate religion. Its walls lacked ritual and idolatry.
Her mechanical rigour as wife made for the spruce and homely. The air lukewarmed by the sun.
Yet she makes a seditious preparation of herself. A gamy salve of cloves and oil.
A nakedness adorned by silver and silk. In her Ikat she steps into the light.

It was a lovely airing, a good jaunt. The heat and yawning does her likely.
The tattle and musk down the road of humanity. She stops at the first turn, the next world.
She takes her key and unlocks the door. She enters away from the swelter.
In the darkness of her Muse’s hearth. Sweat trickled down her tenuous flesh.

The sentient angel Daniel sleeps. She opens one window and reads his Breviary.
She kisses it and comes to him. She takes a cloth to wash and annoint his body.
The Angel Definiendum, sullied and errant of Heaven. A stubbled warhorse haunted by mortality.
He awakens with the sweet scent of cloves. He rises.

She presses her Ikat to his body. She wists her cheek to his chest.
He feels the flutter of her lashes. He kisses the sweat and hair on her head.
She weeps and her mouth follows the tears to his breast. Her tiny lips find his nipple, she tastes.
With the levity of the haze. Her oiled fingers glide, a sanctimonious piecemeal, upon his back.

He untangles the sash that ties her Ikat. The silver and silk fall to his feet.
The angel partakes of the most delicious of corporal sins. An animal vortex.
It billowed in his belly as her destitute venerator. She praised him with her tongue.
Oh Magnificat! Fatihah! He holds her hands and she kneels.

Angel Messenger of Heaven, Corruptor of the Lexeme. Expelled by God for his detraction of Dogma.
Now bound in famished flesh and a surfeit of Breviary. His phallus languishing in the Hell of woman.
He sucks her confectious fingers with the prowess of a piper. The nectar of her womb annoints his feet.
The gravity of the Earth will never release their souls. For they are doomed to each other’s Flesh.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Thursday, March 13, 2014

Dance, Haze, Faded

The body curved rising from the haze. Like a ravine, tenuous, light.
She tapped barefoot on the ground. Set the pace, rhythm, cadence.
It was slow starting and rising. It was tense, nervous, surrender.
But the heat of the midday calmed her. Sweat flowed, curved, cooled.

Their eyes met for a moment. She lifted the hem of her dress.
The vaporous fabric rose to her womb. She turned to show her belly.
Her arms over her head and she stretched. Like a supple little reed.
Gaunt and sinewy flowing flesh, skin. Under the gentle daylight.

The ankle bracelets jangled. The body danced to the rhythm.
Slowly she teased and yet begged. For the deepest of his kisses.
Her opalescent flower burned. She burned so much for his touch.
He stepped to kiss … She whirled and faded into the light.

Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Wednesday, April 2, 2014


No ghosts last night none of those anxiety ghosts like the ones I saw
Sawing black figures on the cctv the other night pawing each other
Bothered me no end but last night was clear as daylight and the bed felt
Left none of them behind not a scent or a fingernail but just smooth sheets
Feets spread knees bent to the ceiling feeling my belly rubbing my belly
Bellissimo ’twas you last night who else ’twas your hands on my thighs
Rise with sighs of dreamy pleasure delirious of your firm touch such mercy
Merciless beauty smear me with the nectar of your drivel so I know that you
Your scent your touch your lips are real more real than the ghosts on flickering
Slithering cctv imaging by the objective multiplex eye of god capturing
Rapturing the fleeing of ghosts banning the desecretion of our secretation
Thelectation of the pixelated limbs on the monitors glistening glowing slowing
Showing how veritable this sexing this flexing is how sterling this breathing
Breaching the time lapse lapsing between shrieking and moaning faster
Higher louder deeper almost there oh we are almost there where no is yes
Yet no no no means hold that pose and smile with your arms around me yes!

Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Monday, April 21, 2014


The sun shone upon her and warmed her as she ate the day’s ration
A portion of fish and beans and some rice to calm her nervous stomach
Stoic impressively so but her heart and her breathing clumsy in clogs
Clogging the blood to her brain as she waited from morning till noon
Looning soon in the hunger of late in the pang of the wait of the linger
Longer through the night through the dark all alone now and for what
For naught for a heart that craved love aknew to relinquish love aknown
Owned yet aloned but now a certain truth falls upon her like the dark
Stark surely settling to the ground run aground in the wreck of ardent
Absent desire but oh! where are you my love why so far so long away
Yawayward way to wait and I will wait each day warmed with my portion
A ration of fish and rice in the morning and dreams of you till noon
Loon am I for such vagrancy vacancy empty my heart to fill in by you but
Better are you with just a parcel of me leave the rest to wait till dark
Darkness my dress dragged now ragged now of waiting sitting sitting
Blinking no shame hoping no grace but waiting even if there is nothing

Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Monday, April 21, 2014

Black Water

The lines are drawn freely but not too carefully with certainty
Certainly free to follow the form and not digress with the flow
Showing the path the way the map to the peace that you seek
Seeking the light and tracing over with darkness flowing soaking
So nice isn’t it so cool to the skin where the lines are drawn
Scrawn over parched aged flesh oh the beauty and comfort of it
Lit by the blackness in a drop of muddy ink reflecting the daylight
Lightly moving flowing running gently like the feather of a dead
Bird flightless lightless useless things bring the utmost pleasure
Plead for more of the same useless sublimity and draw the fine
Line of black on places where the agony rises where this unbearable
Terrible game of ecstasy this demanding and exhausting sport of
Fuck-me-only is played over and over in a mind of overflowing lines
Signs ciphers in water to drink and to draw for a little taste of some
Thing sweet something dark so let the body of a willing spirit ruin
Run with the stream of night to never see the blinding light of day

Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Thursday, April 24, 2014


She clasped her hands together like in prayer as she looked upon his face
Fabulous faceted vision before her a pallor of white in some places tanned
Tangentially to the setting sun and more like the carapace of a red king crab
Stubbled of white and some black but mostly white as such long ghostly
Ghastly hair molting melting falling behind him like a broken nimbus where
Perhaps his tenorous voice had been once she closed her eyes and gently
Felt the touch of his lips upon hers and the warmth of his breath as his lips
Stouched and detouched and retouched her like a photo editing dreamscape
Scathing the scatted remnants of her mind of his heart of the memoriam
Remembriance of such gentle loving touches of such long gone moments
Momentarily real like midnight mightily wonderful like the caw-caw of crows
Calling because you have not died of his death-defiant serenade of a dozen
Dazzled years of her death-denying dirge of ten temptuous years of apathy
Sympathy for the unsympathetic a lesson in unconditional love sacrificial
Sacral love that opened her eyes to behold the sapphiric crustascean dream
Drifting her into the tide into the surf into the center of gravitus amen.

Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Friday, April 25, 2014


If I stay away from you for several ways or seven weeks and I let you call upon me
Maybe write to me so you will feel my absence more strongly longly for the body
Behind the voice so thine mind endure to conjure my face frought from memories
Mementos metaphors the melange of things you took for granted then perhaps
Perforce you may become the man I fell in love with so many years ago bedraggled
Brute beast of burden soldier of sorrows sage of satire a philosopher of nought
Wrought broken yet most winsome terribly ugly yet clumsily sweet lustfully deep
Hidden you the man who once called me an angel in the kitchen and a devil in bed
Begged me once to spread to suck if I should fall in love with you again do listen
Hasten to be a cock to beat your breasts to woo me with foul language to ravage
Savagedly sweetly force yourself upon me ask me fuck me call me slut tell my flower
Finger fuck her rub my belly rub my butt kiss and fondle stretch and spread me
Be my master look at me when I suck you let me ride you be my slave flaunt me
Show me to the world your Asian trophy dress me crown me feed me kiss me
Let me dance the dance from hell watch me Sarabande set me free to flirt and lure
Me with your aching loins be the bastard brute I first and ever wonder wished to love.

Fatima Lasay, Sta Rosa, Laguna
Saturday, April 26, 2014


Because you woman clutch your prayer beads you woman cast your spells
Tells me you woman wherever you go whichever you eat whenever you wake
Stake the hearts of your people in your breasts the pintados the indios the
Imagenes repulsivas the latin runs in your veins the friar’s ashes in your bones
Tomes of castellano taint your primitive tongue but you will never submit
Commit to the white man’s burden no matter the prize of everlasting life
Why won’t the pagans in your rituals leave you never for their rivers run wild
Wide in your limbs your welted thighs remember your forebears who cried
Died for you their throats crushed for you bodies burned for you so their souls
Slow death for you to give you the power to hex those who hurt you yet too
Through mercy the power to love those who hurt you with their own pain
Nay none could love as madly as you woman with the blood of the enemy in
Sins you commit with the curse of your insatiable lust burning inside bursting
Cursing you with grand ecstasy and the forgiveness of your colonial religion
Revisionist Filipinism feeble before the animist chants of your inversion
Subversion of collective vengeance your meditative struggle against nation
Shining your cross against the monotheistic tradition die never return amen.

Fatima Lasay, Sta Rosa, Laguna
Sunday, April 27, 2014


It is difficult to ascertain whether she anticipates her return
Retour her recoup to the life that brought some happiness
Nestled nested in profound loneliness aloneness lonesome
Summers of difficulty breathing from too many tears of years
Peers she gazes preponderances at yet another uncertain future
Futile too few signs too sparse the beating of her blood to see
She is too weak from too many years too little intimacy too much
Much too much unrequited love that shuttered her delicate ego
Will he look at me will he see my face will he hear would he touch
Such incessant begging such mendicancy for lack of self-respect
Despect despicable empty begging bowl no sweetness no sugar
No surfeit of fondly caresses but lots and lots of talk yes talk of
Talk of the unfortunate despondency talk of the ways of the world
Talk of the great feats of philosophy talk of the battles against evil
Talk of so much to talk about until the weary heart wears out bears
Out and then flows without strength just lets go and flows as water.

Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Friday, May 9, 2014


It is getting too difficult to breathe again bloody difficult lift
Shift shit that weight upon my chest the pain stabs me deep
Sleep made weary like the root of some tenacious weed this
Pissy little fucking sucker on my breast is spreading seething
Splitting into my flesh and ribs what are you have you awaken
Shaken by the throb-throb of this broken damned twice broke
Stoking the opportunistic weeds now let me see is it the gall
Bladder or is it the lung how does it feel when you press there
Where does it hurt don’t cut it out just let it sit there put it
Get it back to sleep keep it hidden away when he fucks you
When he licks and sucks your teats thumps you on the chest
Yes breathe mothersucker breathe like there won’t be air to
Morrow open your mouth and gasp for life oh god isn’t that pain
Cain slays stabs deeply isn’t that the most beautiful pain but
No you will stay in your grave I will breathe I will heave I will
Fill these lungs with air and I will float into the atmosphere…

Fatima Lasay, Quezon City
Friday, May 9, 2014


Oh how I wish to drift away from you my dear
Clearly dearly through your fiber-optic hi-speed lens
Sensibly so sleepy in your little comfort cot drift
Lifting you and me along to dreamy world find
Mindless selfless soulless sleeping pleasure of you
Your lovely legs and oh so cute those toes you are
Are you not my milky oolong tea so creamy sweet smell
Spellbinding me this vacant look this seamless sigh oh
Nigh is night-long longing wind is blowing so is you
Your lovely lungs your breath you blow me breathless
Less this breadth of sea and sky of you and I
Aye my drifting dear a million years it takes to make
To bake a cup of shifting sand beneath the feet please
Mercy please a million aching breaths to let you
Go to let me be for it was you in the quiet night
High and low it was your moonlit shadow that seduced me

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Thursday, May 23, 2014

Follenious Love

And yet I am persistent in my folly for what am I
By and by a stripling a puerile chink upon a rock
Mocked of such naivete a novice of heartbreak broken
Breaking beckoning love in all the wrong places all the wrong
Phases fazed by the reality illusion of more experienced
Expedient fellow travelers whose hearts have stripped
Ripped stitched broken well and weathered strong resilient
Saliently silent to know better than to trust to thrust that
What is that anyway this grossly overrated more of that
What they bitterly jokingly call love that human garbage
Verbiage unnecessary plumage to they who soar most high
Why I look at them and yearn for them to fall into
Unto my arms my cave a pile of their feathers make my bed
Bedraggled love no you be no human garbage you be no
Known to TV ratings not kin to mortgage or credit cards
Just follenious love of the lucid fool becoming wise

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Saturday, May 24, 2014


In the hollowed ground of my incertitude the lewd
Lute solute dissolute heart of a most charitable lass
Alas my offbeat paltry innocence he tossed careless
Less of a care his incessant mating call his oh-oh-
Oh like the bark of a whiskery sealeon his sauce
Tossed numerously dime-a-dozen nickel-and-dime to sprat
To catch a mackarela and me my tawdry me my twisting
Torqueing oblique in farness from his careless calling
Hawling and Trawling all the grasses of the sea oh-oh-
Oh his egregious hurls and I caught them all in my
Myopic hands and I took them all to heart in my
Myomatous cul-de-sac fool-de-luck gall-de-tack
Tacky mack I took for la la love and now a lo lo lone toss
Tossing back the dregs along the shore bye bye he said
So saided with little else to say but bye bye love as
Love be uttered ticky-tacky bargain-basement cut-price love

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Saturday, May 24, 2014

Fashionista Anorexia

The task at hand is to take that old linen dress
Pressed creased by its own weight yellowed brittled
Riddled with cifers of diss-use then unfold it carefully
Caringly most cautioussly not to break to crack to shatter
Shuddering in the sudden caress of daylight crumbling yes
Desperately pulverulenting to dust in vulnerable places
Laces of silk still strikingly lovely to the sympathetic eye
Lie the dress on her back and reflect upon her sinewy weave
Wavering filaments of strength would she wear that dress
Rest that dress upon her bones again this time like an armor
Glamour for Maria Callous fashion for Carmen Sandugo
Vogue for Evita Peroxide a sword for our lady of Fatima
Fatwa of piss-elegant courage sharp painted nails of dreadful
Red-black-red ready for nothing but babboon face make-up
Supped with Jesus in love with Jude she takes to the linen runway
Runaway in her anorexic bravado to melt your fat and love you

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Sunday, May 25, 2014


Because of your flickering blue breath heard through wildness
Winds winnowing grains of white salt I will sit in the dark quiet
Quite quiescent in the non-light a half-life for my quittance
Quickening the pace of summer into the season of monsoons so
Soon before we know it I have slept through my ordeal of ord
Ordinal non-life and you cradled me in your unrelenting songs
Sung since the Tung-Tung Dynasty crippled my veins you wisp
Whispers my lullaby your wails waywhile my resuscitator
Arbitator for my metronomic arteriosclerotic varicosic oh
So what is death when one is sleeping what is dark when one is dreaming
During which you lightly keeping seeing through beating through
Throughput puttering through the end of rain the and of pain
The mind of ten washed away to finally glimpse the warming sun
Some sunny Sunday still resonating that lucid sound of song
Since and up on waking making it through with just a sign a
Shrine a shroud you are my might and main the blood in my veins

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Monday, May 26, 2014


The Virgin held the shroud to her womb and the peace it brought her
Fraught her distraught mind into a state of alpha an eerie un
Canny confluence with her pains and passions with the cosmic
Mirror microclimatologique refraction a relique of a bleeding heart
Philointerloper of her introspective lust and there began again
And then her doleful seduction an offertory of scented water sip
Seeping down her breast her navel her certain heaven oh grasp
Gasp breathe the blessings of the shroud to feel the deepest of its frays
Frayed by tick-tock tell her she is worthy though most unworthy
Would-be wrapped in your love and protection show her mercy
Murmur merry till she rises clothed in your light till she soars
Pours her blood to receive the grace of ecstasy when her tongue slips
Slithers between her teeth upon the skin of her teeth aspirating as
She respirates the air between her nose and his breasts to the top
Of her head where her eyes glimpse the illusion of heaven oh
Heathen joy the shroud brings the Virgin would he break her reeds!

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Wednesday, May 28, 2014

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