POEMS BY ANGEL DAVID

ANGEL DAVID

A ten-poem collection. Safe from digital termites.
Written on the fly, on the road, between the concrete jungles of Manila to the edge of the sea.
The ghosts of the past and the shape of the things to come.
No maps, no apologies, and no destination.
Just a man with his machine, and a long way home.

I.
Midnight Howl

there's not a thing in this life
that you can get away with.

the ghost of your past will hunt you.
the emptiness of the now will fill you.
the uncertainty of the days to come
is a promise.

all these will soon be at your doorstep
waiting to take you away.

and all those years you've spent
roaring back at life
will be put to the test,
to ask who you really are,
what you're truly made of.

***

II.
Read Me

I'm a bad poem
waiting for a reader
who will embrace
my imperfections.

someone who'll
steal me from bookstores
and read me obscurely.
someone who'll take
me anywhere
and read me
while riding home.

someone who'll
read me every morning
and smile at my tragedies
as she drinks her coffee.

someone who'll read
my dreams at night
as she drinks her beer.

someone who'll read
my perceptions about love
no matter how cynical they are,
and she'll understand,
for she's the only one
who can.

I'm the book of bad poems
in dirty bookstores,
being sold
for cheap.

but I'm worth the read,
I guess.

I've seen bad poems
walking around,
and I'm not interested
in them.

I may be a bad poem,
but I am different,
just like any other poem out there.

I don't want to be
anybody's favourite.
I just want to be read
and understood.

I don't rhyme with anything
at all.
but if you can understand me,
take me off the shelf.

***

III.
It Took Me A Long Time

just as when everybody
was smiling,
just after taking photographs,
I took a moment to
kiss my mother
and father on their foreheads
and whispered, "Merry Christmas."

it wasn't merry at all—
I don't even believe in Christmas,
but that moment took some courage.

what's normal to others is odd to me.
I'm not a family guy,
I'm a recluse.
a rebel for rebellion's sake.

whatever happened in my childhood
has been embedded deep within me—
a heavy burden.

I have no regrets at all.
I was chosen to give this family a good life,
and I will die trying.

there are failures here and there,
and there are moments of grace.

whatever I do for the betterment of my life
is to prove to those two people
that adopting me 30 years ago
wasn't a bad choice.

***

IV.
Archer

they say you should
shoot for the stars—
if you miss, you might
land on the moon.

but nobody told you the truth:
that in pursuing your dreams,
you might end up lonely.

you might land nowhere.

nobody says you might
end up floating in space,
spiraling into nothingness,
into the gaping void,
slowly and aimlessly,
like an arrow in endless flight.

***

V.
That Beam of Light

does it bother you
when you think about
who you could have become?

because I do, all the time.

sometimes I lie on my bed
and think about it.

I think about luck,
and I see a beam of light
from a hole in the roof—
but it's not aiming at me.

I get up and try to reach
for it with my hand,
but it's gone.

the clouds outside
swept it away.

***

VI.
Cache

in the end
we will all become
a fraction of a memory
of someone—

whether we have touched them
by grace
or malevolence.

whether we will be the light
or the darkness
inside the room of their thick skull.

and in that solitary room,
we will be judged:
saints or sinners,
winners or losers,
saviors or the damned,

or neither.

just another name
that will soon be forgotten.
nothing to be remembered for.

a bug flying towards a lightbulb,
unnoticed.

***

VII.
2020

who's to say which one
can see the sun
as he disappears,
swallowed by the sea,
declaring his daily rest?

who's to say which one
can watch the moon
as she towers above
the concrete jungle of Manila,
revealing her beauty and madness?

sometimes I wonder
which one is out of touch:

he who wants to see the sun
and watch the moon?
or he who wants to stay indoors
and follow their mindless rules?

oh, I know the answer
because I am here
beside the sea—

watching and waiting,
mad and free.

***

VIII.
When You See Me

fly me to the mountains
and let me listen to the wind.

let me bathe in the sunshine
and wash away the pain.

into the sea I will dive
to drown my fears—
all hopes and dreams
reflecting on the tide.

let the mistakes of my past
wash me onto the shore
so I can be at peace
from within.

let the road all the way home
remind me of who I am,
so I can sit
under a tree
and write my life again.

***

IX.
Arriving Nirvana

this train has no destination.
it became rusty and fragile
after all these years.
this once-mean machine
is running out of railroad tracks.

I hope there is really
a road less traveled by.

I hope I will arrive
someday in a place
where the mornings are slow
and the nights are long.

no itineraries,
just coming up
and down the highway
like a motorhead Constantine,
to heavenly valleys
away from
hellish alleys.

may the gods
deliver me from mundanity.

I want late-night conversations
about dreams,
a campfire with an abundance
of marshmallows and laughter—
the only medicine.

and if somehow,
in the absence of
laughter,
I hope there
will be sheer joy in silence.

to experience something
in moments of despair,
something that just
takes your breath away:

a melancholy pause,
a shooting star
that you're not expecting,
a ray of light reaching
the blades of grass
after a morning rain,
or a thunderous
roar in the sky
just when you enter a shelter,

watching nature
flex its might from the window,
knowing that you're still
being watched and cared for.

just living in the moment
with the man in the mirror,
whoever he might be—
this sparkling stardust
with all its beauty and terror—
so that all that
there is to feel,
touch, and see
may finally fill
this void that is inside me.

***

X.
Transport

on the road where speed
means freedom,
and freedom is being
abused by numbnuts
who like to splatter
their brains on the ground.

from south to north
these two wheels
paint these roads,
back and forth.

from east to west
this mess tries to find
peace in the trails.

the preparation
before even
the rooster's crow.

straight paths
to a glorious velocity.

to a stranger's city,
to a familiar province.

the cursive lines
on a Saturday morning.

the rivers and lakes
cannot wait any longer.

I can hear the ocean
calling my name.

I can almost see the
eyes of the mountains
from far away.

the greetings of the rising sun.
the farewell of the new moon.

the clouds will weep
on my command
and will stop as soon
as I raise my hand.

a new adventure awaits,
and the words
will pour like rain,
and each line
in each poem
will burn like
the Pacific Palisades.

---

I.
king of the night

I remember that night
it was raining cats and dogs
just when I got off the jeepney.

it was like the rain
was waiting for me to come out
of the woodwork.

so I welcomed her as she poured down
on me.

I said, "Baby, if this is what you want
I would gladly walk down the line with you."

so I did,
passing through the
darkest streets of Tondo, Manila
as the rain fell down
with words and thoughts,
soaking my rugged jacket.

I looked across the path to home—
there were no wild dogs,
no stray cats,
there were no signs of life.

it was just the rain,
the blinking street lights,
a lone man with a heavy burden,
and a wet cigarette
still burning in his hand.

wandering like the king of the night.

---

II.
walls

the problems of man
start in how he acts
when he has very little
or too much.

men who only respect people
in power.

watch them when men
with fat brown cigars
knock on the door,
stupid smiles
adjusting their bow ties.

nothing worse
than sitting in a room
full of those assholes.

to them
kindness is weakness,
opportunity is
trampling somebody
for personal gain,
power is breathing
down someone's neck.

once I tried to climb a ladder
to see what they're doing
on the other side.

cafés where the place looks nice
and the coffee tastes like shit,
churches where the homeless
were sent away like lepers
in the time of Christ,
schools where children
look alike
that soon will make them
think alike,
rivers that look like landfills,
an orange fish floating
upside down,
and a lonely statue
of a forgotten hero.

almost all creation
comes from this side of the wall.
like a flower growing
out of the gutters.

some creatures like us
are too delicate for these walls.

civilized beasts
with hip shoes
and European boots,
cozy madmen
walking to nowhere land,
sucking the life out of life.

that's why I only visit this place
for nine hours a day.
the longer you stay
the more it wears you out.

---

III.
near-death

500 meters from the road
in Gabaldon,
a serene river.

there were huts near
the water,
tents,
cars and motorcycles.

the water
was only knee-deep;
on its bed
there were stones,
large and small.

as I sat down by the river,
I saw a stretch of rolling hills
and valleys,
from side to side.

there was a strong rush
of water coming from the east.

my friends and I
had this bright idea
to get carried away
by the river,
to get
to the far end.

I was the starter.

we were all laughing
as our butts were getting
slammed on the stones
while getting dragged
by the water.

suddenly, I realized
it was getting deeper
and deeper.

my feet could no longer
touch the riverbed.

we were in trouble, I said to myself.

my two goofhead friends
at the back
didn't know how to swim.

I looked over my right shoulder and
there were four kids
diving from a platform
two stories high.

this part of the river
was really deep, I thought.

I looked around and there
were two kids standing
50 feet away from me.

I said to myself, there's nothing
to worry about.

all we needed was to get ourselves
washed to the shallow
end of this river and we'd be safe.

but when I looked back at my friends,
one was already drowning,
the other was trying
to swim against the rush
of the water.

one was screaming my name,
the other looked
like he was waiting for some superhero
to save the day.

they were drinking a lot of
river water
by the time I realized
the mess we were in.

I tried to walk and swim to
them, but it was no use.

so I shouted, "Don't panic!
just let yourselves be washed
to the shallow end!"

they didn't listen;
their heads were dancing,
popping up and down
trying to get some air,
but the river knew.

it was just toying with us.
it needed to see
what the bastards from Tondo
were really made of.

soon the river got tired of the prank;
the two finally
got themselves to the shallow end.

I was laughing at them,
and they were laughing at themselves
while coughing up all the water
they drank.

I thought we were going to die,
my friend said.

Our lives are now cut down to eight,
said the other,
as if they were cats.

but cats don't do stupid
shit like we did.

we went back to HQ;
they told the story
to our friends trying
to get some sleep in the cottage.

they told it again
to the merchants near
the river about how
they had managed to
escape death.


I was shaking my head
as I listened to their story.

I was thinking,
maybe that's just
how life really is—
riding the rush of the water.

---

IV.
gutter saint

one afternoon back in 2013
I was so sick, and a homeless man
took care of me.

we had met a few months prior;
he used to sell cigarettes and biscuits
just outside the building of NAPOLCOM.

I was a messenger back then
and used to roam around Makati.

I would come by his joint
every once in a while—
he was quite a talker.

he had a son that needed special treatment.
I don't know the reason why,
but he and his son were shunned by their relatives.

since then, they'd been living outside that building.

I remember him talking about some guards
and workers around the area that owed him money—
they would just take whatever he sells and not pay him back.

the poor guy.

one afternoon, I went to his little store
after delivering some checks at the bank
near Jupiter Street.

I bought some cigarettes, and I was so sick that day.

he told me to just lay there
until I felt better.

he gave me a cup of coffee and a biscuit.

so I was there that afternoon, outside
the NAPOLCOM building,
just laying on the gutters
as people came and went.

I stayed there until nighttime.
I even fell asleep.
I went home at 9 PM feeling better.

the next day, I went back and we had
a conversation regarding his relatives.

I offered to look for them on
the internet.

we found one of his relatives online,
and I sent a message informing them
that they were in Makati living in the streets.

up to this day, I haven't received any response.

after that, things happened at work and
I was forced to resign.

we never met again.

I had already forgotten the man's face, his name—
all I remember was the smile of his son.

a blissful smile, not a worry in the world,
not knowing what his father was going through,
and that kindness from
that homeless man.

---

V.
leave my sorry ass alone

I don't worry about bad days;
bad days are my norm.

what I am worried about
are the few good days
that are given to me.

they make me anxious.

they make me feel like those
little good days are just compensation
from God for something worse
that is about to come.

---

VI.
lento mori

most people age
terribly.

life gets the better
of them.

you see them in malls
and
outside of malls.

you see them in parks
when they are playing chess,
and when they are tired of playing,
they debate about God.

their faces—
those billions of faces—
paint an image of agony.

a handshake of regret
and resentment.

to these kinds,
death is almost
a welcoming invitation.

without a glimpse of a grin,
the man with the scythe
arrives and they're just there,
bowing their heads.

a life not lived.
a wasted potential
for a Bourdainesque adventure.

to let something die inside you
while you are still alive—
that is my greatest fear.

when I was younger
I often romanticized my
own finish line;

suicide was even an option.

now that I'm older and have
kids of my own,
things have changed.

I want to live longer.
to live longer with a purpose.

every suffering that comes
down my way
must have a meaning.

and when life is done
kicking my ass to the ground,
in those final moments,
I will put up a smile
and flip a finger.

---

VII.
no abracadabra

it's always those poor
fuckers
with no abracadabra
that tell you what
to think,
who to listen to,
what to buy,
what to wear,
what to watch.

beware the people with
no magic in their eyes.

poor fuckers
with no abracadabra.

all they have against you
is the bullshit that comes out
of their mouths.

beware because they didn't
fall out of the fucking sky.

once they were just like you
until they were told
what
to think,
who to listen to,
what to buy,
what to wear,
what to watch.

---

VIII.
false flag

nothing but a power struggle.

one side seeks vengeance
masquerading as justice.
the other seeks justice
clothed in vengeance.

they say power tends to corrupt,
and that power corrupts
absolutely.

in this god-awful place,
that statement has never
been more true.

try to observe the humanity
beside you—
angry,
belligerent,
loud, uninteresting,
and more insane than ever,
propagated by technology
gone berserk.

a plague of pseudo-virtuous mammals
voting en masse
for a candidate that
reminds them most of themselves.

there is no justice here,
neither truth.

the elected are nothing more
than a reflection of a nation.

I was once a young man,
full of ideals and tenacity,
sifting through the debris
of this once-promising country.

walking through rallies,
being one with the crowd.

and that young man could no longer
stand the facade.

I can see through their motives—
dark intentions that hide
behind those banners
of freedom and democracy.

I don't want to hate another being
over some imbecile that doesn't
fulfill its duty.

I took a step back, and here I am.
an observer,

watching the watchmen.

as their promises wind and fall
to the rest of the rotten fruits
of their precious politicians.

do I feel a sense of fulfillment?
no.

they failed me, and I failed them.

but at least I know,
unlike them, I don't wave
my blunders like a flag
of victory.

---

IX.
blue

I stared across the blue horizon,
wondering what's out there.

how many brave sailors have dared
to travel to this pristine paradise,
almost untouched by men?

how few of them survived
to tell the tale?

and how many of them perished—
slaughtered by the natives,
succumbing to diseases,
swallowed by the waves
and never to be seen again?

soon, these eyes will stare
at the Western Sea,
where Philippine vessels
are water-cannoned in our own sea.

this vast sea will no longer
be the theatre of warfare.

people will flock to the east
once the war machine makes
its move.

and they will think
about the exact same
thoughts that I have now.

---

X.
the fugitive

the world wants to put
a stranglehold on me
and I refuse to be its slave.

whatever I do in here
leads to the same destination—
a grave or cremation.

sometimes death is a good excuse
to just lay around and sleep
for quite a while.

and sometimes death is a drag;
it keeps you moving,
it keeps you maintaining the pace,
the essence.

it makes you want to go all in.

because you're going to die anyway,
so why bother with sleep and rest?

but since you're going to die anyway,
why not just do whatever the
hell makes you happy?

I don't know the answers to life,
but I'm sure about the questions
that need to be raised.

---

I.
2/3

we spend a third of our lives sleeping—
some of us take too long
to get to it.

and when you don't get enough
of the latter,
you tend to slice your life away.

in slumber
we experience dreams,
we run through nightmares.

and when you wake up,
you try a little bit harder
to live that dream,
in spite of living in a nightmare.

how we live through the bad times
is almost a miracle.

how a dream can sometimes
be only a dream
is such a shame.

***

II.
The Rat-Race Community

I envy others who
already know their path in life—
no matter how mediocre,
dull, boring, or normal
that path may be.

bad taste creates millionaires,
they say.
it might be true.

I've sat with braindead jackasses
who have nothing better to do
than talk about automobiles,
fucking, partying, drinking.
yes, they talk about drinking
while drinking.

and no matter how much
they talk about the things
that make their mouths cum,
not a thing impresses me.

I have this feeling
they're actually bad at automobiles,
fucking, partying, drinking—
which is why they can't keep
their mouths shut.

that's why I'd rather
hang out with bums:
misfits who have given up on society.

not because I want to be like them,
but because they have a better
appetite for life, in my estimation.

for them, the game is rigged.
wolves will be outlawed,
and the sheep will thrive
no matter what.

I can respect that.

***

III.
Downsizing

where will it go,
this human shit show?

reduced to who they voted for
in the last election.
diminished to whether they are
from the left or the right.
narrowed down to poor
and middle-class.

trimmed,
slimmed,
marked down
and made cheaper.

I pity my fellow species
for wanting to be shrunk
into certain categories—
the need to be distinguished
like a color,
lowered to the importance
of the content of their pockets.

this immense gift
from the bloody years
of evolution,
from the age of reptiles
and beyond,
has come to this:

a cesspool of the unwanted.

their supposed meaningful lives
degraded into routines
that kill them slowly and joyfully—
like rats running
on a small treadmill,
smiling.

***

IV.
Vox Populi, Vox Daemonium

a thumb,
a stain of ink,
the blue, the red, the pink.

I could not care less about
the affairs of the state.
I'm not a cheerleader.
I am not registered.

my time is essential to me,
and such meaningless activities
wear this man down.

why would I?
they only care about freedom of speech
when you agree with them.
and look at the choices you have
every once in a while.

I will never choose
the lesser evil.
perhaps that's just the order
of things for me.

you can call me a cynic,
a skeptic, or disillusioned.
have it your way.

I think for myself,
and let's leave it at that.
popular opinions don't
bother me at all.

I will not be sucked into your echo chamber.
I thrive in my own magical world,
far, far away from the hands
of your beloved circus clowns.

all these let-me-educate-you cocksuckers
and solid supporter cretins
can kiss my ass.

and if you think I'm an enabler,
apathetic, bored, halfhearted, or whatever—
you're entitled to your opinion.

as for my opinion
regarding your opinion:
you can shove it up where the sun doesn't shine.

I have made a vow
not to put my salvation
in the hands of any politician, good or bad.
I refuse to participate
in anything that involves deception.

there are four constants in life:
death, taxes,
and my middle finger on the left and right hand.

so you guys, enjoy this coming election.
as for the results...
well, nobody dies a virgin.

***

V.
O Mighty Caesar

if you analyze any clout-chasing
mongrel nowadays,
you will realize that most of them
are driven by resentment
masquerading as compassion.

woke used to be a thing 5 years ago.
now, woke has been hijacked by self-important,
social justice-blowhards.

what you should do is abandon
that cancer you call ideology.
take it from me who despises
the Dutertes, the Marcoses,
and the Aquinos all the same.

I'm far from being cynical.
in fact, I consider myself optimistic.
I can live with whoever sits on that throne
that you people are so crazy about.

pardon me for my unlikely evolution.
I have decided to not judge
a human being based on their
preferred presidential candidate.

I know, my hands are not clean
on this one.

be careful when a man says
that neutrality means
you're on the side of the oppressor.
there's no arbiter of oppression—
especially nowadays when people
wake up feeling offended.

be careful when you open
the scar tissues of history.
you should know what you're talking about.

it's easy to look virtuous, of course—
one click and there you are,
a champion of the downtrodden.
a social justice warrior.

well, Caesar... O Mighty Caesar,
I am not worthy to wear
red, white, blue and pink.

I am sorry.
I'm just a jackass who drinks beer
and writes bad poetry.

***

VI.
Bastards of the World

outside the walled city
of Intramuros
is a river,
and beyond the river
are slums.

one might believe
that the latter's function
is to keep the filth
from reaching inside the walls.

in the middle of the river
I saw a man washing
his clothes
while sitting on
a patch of water hyacinths—
like Christ doing the laundry.

between the river
and the slums
is a bridge,
the infamous Delpan bridge:
a bridge you wouldn't dare
cross at midnight.

so I walk deeper into
the slums,
further and further
into the depths of Manila's filth,
confidently—
for I know what's inside
her stomach.

I know the sting of her tongue,
the smell of her breath,
the color of her teeth.

I know her face,
her eyes
that cried so many tears,
from the days of the trees
until now, where everything
is covered by concrete bullshit.

I can distinguish her luxury
from her poverty,
and spot the people who pretend
they're rich.

I have seen the people
in here turn into monsters
and never go back to normal.

I know her strengths,
and her weaknesses.
I know every curve,
every hump,
every road—
wet or dry,
clean or rotten.

I know the scent of
her life,
and the aroma
of her coming death.

I can read her mind.
I know how it came to this.

and who can blame her?

raped by the Spaniards
for more than 300 years,
she became a mistress
to the British for two years,
was handed back to the Spaniards,
then sold to the Americans
like a broodmare.

then the Japanese came
and fucked her—
again,
and again,
and again.

you can see it in the skin
of her sons and daughters,
and in their eyes as well:
you can see whose grandmothers
were fucked by the invaders.

now she is being sold
to the Chinese,
and her sons and daughters
are squabbling.

some say their mother
has been raped for far too long,
while the other bastards—
her spawn of useless fools—
are convinced
that their mother is a bitch.

a beautiful bitch.

***

VII.
In Motion

the cat suddenly
vanished from your neighborhood.
a dog turning rabid.
dog eats man,
man eats dog.

the forest fires in California,
undisturbed volcanoes
are finally awake—
Vesuvius is only counting
down the days.

the ocean will swallow
one city after another.

no matter how hard you try,
no matter what you do,
right this moment
a rapist is unzipping his pants,
a woman is being chased
in a forest,
a knife is being buried
in someone else's chest,
or a whole family
getting murdered by some burglar
looking for riches.

and in some part of the world
a bomb is being detonated,
a finger hits the trigger,
a bullet flying through a head,
blood splattering on the ground,
hundreds of children
dying of hunger,
a fat son of a bitch shoving
his food down his fucking throat—

all of this happening at once
while someone else
is praying for god knows what.

as the moon is smiling with delight.
as the sun waits for
your cat to suddenly
vanish from your neighborhood.

***

VIII.
The Ouroboros

many know,
but only a few understand.

we're battling for space
on this pale blue dot,
inside a gigantic universe.

almost everyone wears a mask.
almost everyone is no longer interesting.

such stupid questions.
such mundane drivel—
enough to make you go insane.

lives not lived fully
in this deadly routine,
along with everybody.

so deadly you can feel
your soul rotting away
as the hands of the clock
move slowly and surely.

as I long for my children.
as they judge me.
as the payroll passes by.
as the rich devour the earth.
as the poor devour the rich.
as the earth devours everything.

the snake will eat its own tail.

the once-dead, winged creature
will return,
engulfed in flames.

I will survive.

when the mother of invention calls,
it is fight night once more.

and I set aside the man
they think they know,
to be someone else.

the unpredictability of me:
my best weapon against it all.

I start to walk,
alone,
into the abyss—
guided by the stars,
comforted by the clouds.

a journey to the unknown.
I will rise above the flames—
all hell can't stop me now.

***

IX.
Monsters

I asked, where are the monsters?

the father said,
"they're the bullets in our guns,
they're on the edges of our knives."

I scratched my head—
I believed that's not
what they look like.

I asked, where are the monsters?

"look for them under the bed,"
that's what the mother said.

I'm not convinced.
I used to hide under the bed.
the monsters I'm looking for
are on it, not under it.

finally, I asked, where are the monsters?

"look out, be careful.
they're big!"
no pun intended—
that's what she said.

and so I asked myself,
where are the monsters?

I said, they lurk inside your head.
if you don't believe me,
you are as good as dead.

they're born and raised
inside our skulls—
to know them is
what makes life
far from being dull.

***

X.
Fury

in the loneliest nights
when the darkness
feels like light,
solitude is my food.

I am a seed that grows
in my cold empty room—
that's the time
I'm most alive.

it's when the whole world
is against me,
when shadows creep
behind me,
when predators
lurk on my steps,
when the knives
are all pointed at my back.

a few smokes
and a good beer
is all I need,
and I will smother
the odds into pieces.

I've been doing it forever.

and to the people
who believe in the
beauty of their dreams,
those who dwell in their
mighty imagination—

the night is ours.
let fury have the hour.

---

E-mail the author at angel@jamlemonrecords.com

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