Bebe and Bob-Z

 

random pictures I collected during the semester

Don’t ask me to take off my sunglasses.

You may have the pleasure of pouring your sun into my eyes,

but I will be blinded. How then, can I see you?

I am to be free. You are to teach me to fly.

I am to kill what I eat. Who said that I had to die?

I want the memory of me living, drifting in the skies.

 

Where paths of the Sun, Moon, and Mother Earth

seemingly intermesh with ecclesiastical shimmer,

that is my home, set against a backdrop

of supernovas, black holes and solar flares.

Magnetism shows face with each revolution.

Gravity brings me back. I am coming for my food.

 

Receive me with grace. I am to fall into you.

My jaws are wide open and my eyes feast on you.

I didn’t know that I was conscious of you.

It’s an omen, glycerine washing out of the mouth;

Once again, you are new to my naïve palate;

a savoury piece of meat, salty flesh, thick bones…

 

I just wanted to love.

I never really cared about anything else.

But freedom was too much

for such a “special” child to ask for.

But I didn’t care.

I needed love and acceptance.

Is it wrong to need love and acceptance?

 

All I got was snide judgment and condemnation,

so I would like to extend the same courtesy,

in the name of proper function,

and fly, from the diamond sky

sinking my teeth

into throats

freshly squeezed

so pure and natural

one by one.

 

I am to consume brains.

I am to pick at hearts,

rip out the spine.

I want to be vicious

I want to be the Pterodactyl

I am the Pterodactyl

Beautiful Pterodactyl

With hair of lamb’s wool,

mad, contemplative Virgo’s

eyes are afire.

I remember Old Lady Balfour,

who had dressed herself up in couture;

when she saw the other side,

And barked out her hefty chide,

Faulty pride was the means to undo her.

The french word for umbrella, "parapluie," makes

much more sense than the word "umbrella."

 

It's only sensible to have an umbrella in the rain.

Lending someone an umbrella when they have to go

outside is so generous; and yet, umbrellas can

break in the winds, can't they?

 

No. You cannot drift through the sky

on a gentle gust of wind with an umbrella.

After jumping off a building,

you'll most inevitably fall to your death.

 

I remember one day, while walking with my Mama

through Riverside Park. We went to the river

to see the geeses.

She carried an umbrella that day,

but it was not an umbrella in the sun;

it was a parasol.

 

I don't know what "para" means; paralysis, parade,

parapsychologists, unparalleled beauty, parallel

parking, paradise, paragraphs, paradigms of

virtue, and paradoxes...

 

People are paranoiac in nature

and probably have paranoid schizophrenia.

I am paranoid for other reasons...

 

It's cloudy and my umbrella broke today.

queued up

the people walk towards you,

with blank expressions on their faces,

waiting for you to act.

you act diplomatic and gracious.

 

signs of annoyance

concentrate in the cowded space,

while you're playing fottsie with yourself.

looking down, you feel most

out of place,

questioning whether or not you have a space.

 

people have told you that you are

merely a pawn in their plan,

moving around as they say,

taking up no point or any stand,

when that is your stand;

quite and elegant,

the midpoint, the high point

that all people pass in suceeding,

having done many good deeds,

slowly approaching

a "rebirth."

 

this, the fate that is preached to you,

shall be the only way,

even after i've beseeched you

to have another say.

I texted Pieter. Asked him for sex.

Got rejected. Even though

I had asked him for an address.

Had the rendez-vous scheduled.

Told Claudia. She got pissed.

We argued. I ran away 'cause

she got pissed.

It was through my old neighborhood,

filled with old relics.

I felt right at home.

I even asked a tree for stength.

 

A group of frat boys in boxers were running in front of me as I returned.

It was beautiful.

Cloying words,
beauty, patriotism, diplomacy,
ethic, ingenuity, etiquette,

love, honour, propriety,
all describing the lot of us,
wearing our personas so well,
in an effort to sell ourselves.
We might as well be underwear models,
featured in Dolce & Gabbana ads,
all grease up, bronzed like hell,
very delicious, flexing our pecs.
But oh no! that’s too ostentatious,
especially since the models show off their packages.

We look into our mirrors everyday,
popping pimples, plucking eyebrows,
wearing lipstick, even noticing our dimples;
rendering ourselves All-American in image,
voices clear “extemporaneous,” deserving of patronage,
of impressionable ears, used for making good measure
of the message. However wrong, we still consider it a treasure.