"The MAG"

ANGEL ALEGRE

Angel Alegre studied journalism at the Pontifical and Royal University of Santo Tomas in Manila. He was a reporter for six years where he wrote economic/business stories for a national broadsheet in the Philippines before deciding to work as a freelance journalist. In 2001, one of his poems was adjudged by the International Society of Poets as a finalist in an international open poetry contest in Maryland, USA.

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LIQUIDO

water
dribbles
from the
vegetative
rocks
of
thallus
purling as it cupped by the streaming liquid
that sizzles from the springing heat of stony bed.

that exactly mirrors the motion inside me -
the desire to hold and taste the juice…

bank of the river are fat cocks
whose pink heads riveted skyward
for some gyrating gossamer.

and the lady, brooding on
the flowing text of water,
drivels
with
the
froth
of
longing.

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MARABOU WINGS

The angel is clinically dead.
The short calculated years of his existence
Had come to an end.
Choked to death by every breath
That puffed out of the mouths of his self-anointed gods;

His flesh is no longer there,
Only silvery dust blown to the horizon
By the blast of this silly season.
His flows maieutic and imposing,
Wings marabou, smooth as silky sheets -
Now gone to feed these false gods' grounded minutiae.

From the aerial site of his agonized viewing,
The angel watches their inanities.
He would rather keep his own macabre way of striking back
As deep in the recesses of his soul,
He has been longing to strike those keys again,
Make his marabou wings flap
That would engender panic to all his contemporaries.

In the realm where he wrestles
The end is just the beginning.
Spirits do commune and the scent that's spreading through
Pronounces how various these little gods' will be brought to heel,
To honor the glistening light
That shall restore this their servant,
A clinically dead angel.

*silly season - a period, often in mid-summer, when frivolity and exaggeration pervade newspaper stories, publicity stunts , and public entertainments.
- Webster's Dictionary

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FLOWING NOEL
(for Noel, the physician cyberlord who stunned me
with his egocentricity and his take on the matter of my copyright)

you come unseen flowing
like a quicksilver in my screen;
nothing strange in your usual
insouciance
except that this moment, there is
shroud in your silence
that churns the house,
eddies the puddle of my equanimity
as we cross this line this space
that bind us in this so-called cyber-screen.

how in this world do we stem
the tide of this passion for what is ours, for ourselves;
yours is oceanic that respires
in the harshest tempest
which is orgasmic, masturbating, ejaculating
you and you alone live?

as you hit your keys - whatever mechanics
you have as possessor/cyberlord -
there is this me that threatens to ignite as

you peak on, flow your discharge,
marauding my scriptorium;
hating you more with your silence,
with your tricks, with your ego...
leaving me now on fire

blazing with chemicals of love!

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DROWNING IN THE ZENITH

lost in the drowning depth of desire,
I fumble through this tiny hole and
spread my vision like a hungry cat
for quarry: for solid men lodged
half-naked till curtain time
in the zenith of this tower.
my thoughts pour profusely over
their sizes, shapes; hung like
horses to palm; button mushrooms...and
finally clasp as a lip gloss? pouring over as

the drowning goes on: down under
in their humpbacked tumescence -
moist secreted in their sacs
smells less muriatic than a fresh sperm.

what else can the mind shape
out of the g-stringed protuberance -
the primal signifier of this kind of drowning?

flesh after flesh
the pleasure melts in the tongue.

indeed a paradise, "a tower of pleasure," so they say
but unlike the heavens of the faithful,
darkness is the light of rapture;
its brilliance welling out
of the pitch
of carnal anonymity.

m.a.g.