Whoredom & Other Poems

Whoredom

1.

He must be 18 or 19,
about to graduate
from Creative Writing.
He is thrilled
he has just finished
a komiks script
for a Villar hand-out
& his classmates bask
in his congratulatory mood.
Yes, the illustrator
was a second choice;
his first couldn’t attend
to the racket…
The observer across
the table interjects
in the din of exchanges
about the 20-thou
for the electoral project:
Is he able to sleep?
The irony is lost on him,
dismissing it as if
he’s too cool to hear…

2.

The Center is turning out
literary pimps:
they don’t care,
ideological issues
are for anyone to claim.
It doesn’t matter
which fodder for
the cannon
he makes for whoever
candidate —
it’s damned easy money,
he has the gift
to satisfy his self:
he can write,
he arrogantly believes.
The political is something
old people seriously take:
he’s young & free,
he’s out of party loop.
He cannot be pigeonholed;
his mentors have made
sure
he doesn’t march
to a different drum
of jargons & foxholes.

3.

They take their cue,
of course,
from American studes
who don’t give a damn
about “class struggle.”
That’s a Third World
problematic —
until, of course,
they’re sent overseas
& engage tunnel-visioned
terrorists…
Yet war isn’t keeping
the world peace
anywhere on the planet
but understanding
reasources & conflicts
why mountain denizens
keep their Kalashnikov
always within reach.
If natives stick
it out with marines,
neocons aver,
where the hell
are Marx & Lenin
in all this mess?

4.

Satur & Liza
defy the orthodoxy
of bourgeois politics:
joining the NP
fans the masses’s firefight
in a time & age
when new formula
for ascendant power
must be kept alive.
Mao had done it before
with Confucian
warlords…
& the young organizer
means what she says,
even frowning
at the suggestion
she’s stretching
principles.
No, she protests,
the two are pure-hearted
warriors…
& he is terrified
how the future
shows its possible face
when she finishes school
& hits the streets
with her partylist.

5.

They are free,
of course,
to vote
for the leader of their choice —
that is tradition, rule.
Like rats in a
spinning cage,
moving slow or fast
whenever the hand
pushes the wheel.
So much freedom
& its allusion
of moving about freely
in a small curvature
at the edge of space.
When will
they chew themselves
out of the cage?
A lifetime of being born
into a bad habit
of confined behavior
assures them
of cold comfort
in their forever peace.

6.

The power brokers
in the backroom
know the people
like the palm
of their hands:
their psyches
are measurable,
their habits terrible,
& like the rats of Hamelin
will follow
the sound of the flute
into a dark garrison.
Hitler knew it
too goddam well:
his shrill voice
left the Nazis
goosestepping madly
to his call
of purifying the race.
Generations later
skinheads
will hold his banner high,
amplifying his truth
of gas chamber
as necessary & good.
He was once an outcast
& made billions
off the credulous poor,
this Presidential timber.
He knows goddam well
he can buy
the multitude cheap
like perishable goods.

7.

The President-elect
knows very well
his cunning & wealth
make for the Palace:
he has made promises
on shuffled cards
because the masses
are inveterate suckers
for casino play.
Ironies need only to be
balanced
with empty words
to seal an imaginary pact:
money, after all,
is all, not love.
He is one above all censure,
& never has he this
frisson of a strange orgasm:
he gets what he wants
like any Mafia bum.

8.

He’s a stupid lover:
he wants to be alone
but can’t do
without the Other.
Society is bloody transaction.
But what is there to do
if the world turns out
to be an infernal mess
& everyone is a Freudian nut
but denies it?
He must move with the crowd
lest he be stoned
for being discordant.
This May,
they’ll commit mass suicide
in the belief
things will change
with a new set
of hooligans
to take over the shithouse.

9.

So finally
the landscape
of the future
after May’s
theatrical blast:
the Smartmatic guy
will secure
the set-up draw of the luck;
the poor in their hovels
will complain of eternal lack;
the militants
will count their blessings
from the game of craps;
the cynics will hold
a party
to toast their clairvoyant tact.
& we, mortals
who miss the bus,
shall wait for another
century
at the air station
to re-sked
the crunchy salvation.

10.

College kids
are aping their elders:
they troop into the morning
room
like syncopated notes
to silence
the snarl of campus terror —
much like the thugs
who would run the nation
of run-away horses,
as if everyone
is in hibernation.
& follows commandments
of blind reason.
They’re still at it,
producing the nonsense
of priests
who intone cheap salvation.

11.

He never really looks
that far ahead:
he is damned content
to harvest
short-term happiness…
He doesn’t save
for the rainy day,
as streetsmarts are wont
to say,
thinking God is watching
& won’t let him
grieve his sin.
But it takes a lifetime
to wake up
to the scandal
of not planning
like a grizzled businessman.
He’s down on his luck
but he still swears
he can get by
even without women
who jeer his
small-change
appearance.
How do you see
the future
like Teresias?
He doesn’t have the gift.
Words fall flat
from his tongue.
He has never looked
far ahead.
He is disaster itself
hanging from the gutter.

12.

Look at them,
he points to the mob
in white-hot frenzy
before Baal in barong —
& they’re not horrified
at all
by their act of desperation.
Resplendent in white
& sidling up
to Manila politicians
who pay homage
to himself, the prophet,
as he raises the hand
of his anointed
to whom cultists
must pay allegiance.
Through him
the Infinite speaks —
& no one
is open to speech:
they’re beholden to sacral
silence…
The Church he has built
with people’s hard-earned
savings
consecrates things he touches,
blesses.
Through him enters
the Holy Spirit,
as obedience is the rule
of the Holy Writ.
Thus, in like manner,
the modern-day Fuhrer
steps up the plate:
Jehovah blesses
him, the preacherman,
who in turn blesses
the presidential kingpin.
O How Nietzsche’s herd
lies like sheep
in the sty
of eternal recurrence.

13.

How could such
mass laceration happen?
The scale is unprecedented:
thousands of men & women
shouting hallelujah
at the wave of the counterfeit’s?
What mind-boggling
neurosis is this?
How could he sucker
them into believing
he’s the bearer of truth,
savior from
squalid realm?
This herd could very well
run riot in the field,
shooting bystanders
as in Tehran…
Yes, they insist
they own the palaver
to deliver death
upon the unbelievers:
as the Nazis pushed
the docile Jews
into gas chambers…
It’s difficult
to fool anyone
with open eyes —
but this is sheer genius:
Caparisoned like
an angel,
he makes them dance
to the beat
of a psychotic drummer.
& he no longer wonders
why ersatz holy men
sprout like mushrooms
in this accursed land.

14.

Do they deserve
to be pushed aside?
Treated to speech
& pimiento sandwich
at husting’s site?
This is the spiel
taken for truth,
the very onus of bondage:
the masses
are easily suckered
into gross belief
they can be led by the nose,
like cows in the corral,
by speechifying bandits.
O Let us book then
a flight to planet Mars
where sin does not exist
because nothing human happens.
God is there,
sitting on a rock,
tired of earth
& its constitutional nonsense.

15.

Has he given up
on everything?
But he’s alive!
Taking care of his diet,
listlessly on the hunt
at the promenade
for scandals & sex.
Mornings
he wakes up
from a troubled night
of sleep;
Noons,
he meets events
to show he’s social,
smoothly of the flock;
& evenings,
he drinks his beer
to mark the time
that never expires.
& Days thereafter,
he whips out
a new sked
of duties & routines
to prove something is happening,
the world
brimming with good tidings.
But this is all for show,
Kabbala
for things repeat themselves.
& the wheel of misfortune
always starts to spin.
Has he given up
on living?
O, it is all theatrical whim.
This evening,
he is popping his dose
of vitamins.

16.

They might as well
be unlettered peasants
prone to metaphysizing,
but the visitors
are ilustrado professionals
given to methods & scheme.
But there they are,
kneeling like penitential
children
being prayed over
by a sick charlatan
whose tribe
in clogs & slippers
witness the consecration
in sacral attendance.
Is this Galileo’s time?
Giordano Bruno’s?
Medieval age
when married popes
fuck around?
No!
Machiavelli lives down
Mossad street
where the likes of Duvalier
& Aristide,
Blair & Bush,
ride the merry-go-round.

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