Wednesday, July 2, 2008

My Kind


I have no oven large enough,
Dear Sylvia, to roast
my head like a lamb for dinner.

Nor a brand-new car parked
in a garage, Dear Anne,
to etherize my soul.

Nor stones heavy with sin,
Dear Virginia, and a river deep
as forgetting to drown myself in.

Nor do I live in a building,
so high like the bluest
of skies, Dearest Maningning.

Sisters in rhyme, in crime,
how then shall I make my quick
and extraordinary exit?

Or shall I kill myself slowly
with beer and cigarettes,
bit by bit?


waltzang said...


Anonymous said...

Ang ganda sir!

Nina said...

this is really charming. short pieces but laden with meaning. even if u were talking about how these literary greats killed themselves, it came across as almost humorous.

i'm becoming a fan. :) i liked ariel too.