Pantomime Of A Madman: Becoming - Poem by Artchil Daug
I walk on blinded alleyways covered in the dust of broken canopies that fell in the moonless night of our becoming,
fallen bread crumbs from half-destroyed crosses over half-destroyed minarets achingly singing praises in the streaks of light
passing like a needle in the weave of early morning tantrums from the beggar who shouted salvation but received only coins.
Freedom! Freedom! The empty preacher of the hollow sanctities whispering in their tattered robes and beleaguered probes flying recklessly
over the nature of man, over the nature of women, over the crowded trains of sweat in proletarian LRTs buzzing like blinking eyes
in the railway of over fed egos that ironically assembled themselves from self-esteems drowning beneath Manila Bay like swimming mermaids,
on oceans of uncertainty, crisis of identity taken from scriptures that rained down from university castles higher than the clouds
thrown by half-dazed intellectuals looking for lighters that can free the academic smokes inside the invisible cigars born of abstraction
humanisms, bisexualisms, psychologisms, sociologisms, historicisms, the arrogance of self-proclaimed angels drenched in universal jisms,
bathing in their delusional horizons, replacing religious spirit with the menacing stare of manly prostitution and ambitious rage in contemporary Ermitas.
Progress! Progress! These water lilies shouting while clogging the dams of Lake Lanao with plastic manhoods and clobbered pussies.
There is something wrong with being a man, there is something wrong with being a woman, the new mantras of modern-day tarantulas.
Ejaculations for progress, progress, progress, progress, progress, progress, progress, progress, progress, progress, children of evolution
holding the magic wand of creation and using it in the howling caves of unrestricted liberty, subway passages devoid of exploding stars,
fingering contentment in the middle of black holes wet in the slippery and erotic coverings of bits and bytes that flow from neurotic longings.
Become a woman and feel her wizardry in calming any hurricane and in sheathing any sword that knows that she too is a force, but you are not a woman
that causes quantum leaps over Copenhagen, unashamed of her vagina and the clasping will to control the destinies of men.
Become a man, that eager slave of women's pheromones, the captain in the mixing of water and chocolate in the avenue of her smell, but you are not a man,
a sword of reason and intellect that slices through the fabric of women's dreams yet becomes part of her beyond the delirious orgasms produced in the reflection of the gods.
You scream the shouts of Stone Wall and dared talk to me a backwardness only existing in the garden of social constructs that drove away your nectarine shit,
be grateful of this tailor that took your vows and sewed your necks in proper bodies, for once you are nothing you become woman and she becomes man in a baptism of blood.
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