Boracay Island Poem by Artchil Daug

The sun was preparing to hide as hundreds
of people gathered by the beach answering the call
of their invisible alarm clocks that probably stayed silent
in their respective rooms after their masters decided to partake
in the delirium of Boracay Island after the setting sun;

an old American couple found themselves sitting
by the pizza house talking of the sunsets they shared most
of their lives and the futility of love in a
post-modern world like flowers that felt the need to bloom
in an autumn never seen in the Philippines;

they found themselves anticipating the fire dancers
who usually come at night to mimic the occasional fireflies
that dotted the island many full moons back into
a time when only the native Indian danced with the fire
of their imagination bathing in the moonlight, in the island

that is now haven for hotels, resorts and shopping galleries
that most of the country folks visit, ignoring the beach and
its rare sands as if stores are things of rarity in a place full
of artificial merchants that ranged from Muslims selling carvings
of that Catholic idolatry to faggots offering fellatio

in the corner of all those broken inhibitions set up
by the numerous crucifixes and scientific superstition
of society drowned in the beat and buzz of islander lifestyles
that the city-dwelling guests so fondly needed out
of the metropolitan indifference that found itself being stirred

in the cup of dark espresso in my hand just outside Starbucks
as an innocent Indian stared at me without a sense of recognition
of the explosions set off by the music of chaos.