Pr

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ntNoon

F. Cielo Aganorio
“What is the sound of one hand clapping?”
- Zen

Tell them that there is nothing to understand."

- U.G. Krishnamurti
 [[Subterranean Junkride of the Bodhisattva Lepers]]

Here is the beginning and end of all journeys.

A delirious and doomed inter-conscious sprint into the skid rows and
dead-ends of a mental metropolis where no leaps high enough to be
remained unreachable, no realms hidden enough to be left
unassailable by frantic frissons of the megalomaniac manic
misadventures of a mad-hatter.

A charged-up cluster cut-ups of irrelevant insights and insider

information from the intentionally institutionalized, the insanely
fucked-up fueled by intoxicants, irreverent fever dreams of igloo
icemelts and internet exhibitions.

Enlightenment came out heavy in spurts but everybody was too busy
searching for the next high mover and shaker of The Great Pacifier
(the Boob Tube). Here then is your antidote laced with acid juice and
spiked with a double-fisted uppercut to the gut, you stinkin brat!

Chococaramel-faced Christ coming down to claim his crown from a

colony of carbon-copied constituents of choo-choo train cardiac
calamities cramming for the last ride home -- holy horseman high on
hashcakes or hallucinogenic hopes harkened heroic through hotel
homicides by hardened semen from sea mentats.

The cannibal congo loon on your back yawping and yammering and
gazing the world thru hacked-off telescope and cellophane floodlights
of flourescented cognoscenti adolescents, gleaming with mad moon
beams of celestial hiss honing horticultured hairdos while humming
humdrum decade-old chart-toppers made by decadent pill-poppers.
Irregular blackouts from sulfuric heaven and half-catatonic half-
euphoric bliss drawing droughts from jaundice juices of pinprick
penetration through pores of banana-peel skin sick of dressing
dreams on dyphteric dawns.

We are sending cosmic needle-eye signals made of telepathic spits

and cosmodemonic curses to whoever is at home up there, hoping
God is not blind and the blackness of the sky, or a 10-ton satellite disc,
won’t fall on our heads.

Burroughs (Bill Jr. not Edgar Rice) crawling from the semen sewers of
Nova Express, at around 6 o’ clock, just the right time before the
spoon and the dropper points a dirty finger, screaming profanities at
government-funded clandestine catastrophies and camera-hungry
celebrities choking cocks and cropping crew-cuts.

Enjoy the ride.

- Alberto Balsalm (2010)

Skingrafting, PH.D.
Somewhere someone is singing. . . .
And I can hear The Dogs sniffing their way here . . . armed with Bark
and Howl Tactics. . . .
The Bat is sucking the Whore's blood . . . Nocturnal People are gasping
in Horror . . . neon lights baroque . . . brutal and ugly. . . the City
moulting its skin . . . .

"You'll be okay. . . ." God is saying. . . .

Teeth grinding . . . uncontrollable arms . . . . lights a cigarette . . . The
Monkey eats mud on the puddle . . . looks at me intently . . . . Do I
know you? . . . . Must rest . . . be calm . . . must be institutionalized. . .
. The Wentelteefjes are rolling themselves forward. . . . Where?. . .

Just forward . . . .
"We've given you chicharon . . . what more do you want? . . ." says the
voluble American Monkey . . . .
He is sixty-ish . . . ancient features . . . jaundiced . . . probably dying . .
. but still an addict. . . .
"Am I holding the tagay too long? . . ."
He has the jitters. . . maniacal gestures. . . his eyes are Comatosed. . . .
"I am the fucking Authority when it comes to Music and
Literature. . . ."
His companion sits right next to him . . . a total opposite . . . quiet and
serene . . .
"See what drugs can do. . . ." Lexam once told me. . . .
Go ahead, America, speak . . . so that I may record every word that
comes out of your mouth . . . but now. . . .
"Be back in a jiffy . . ." say I . . . walking away . . . a beer in hand. . . .

Wake up one morning in God's place . . . wearing a stranger's face for

a mask . . . veins itching for more nubain . . . dry mouth, sore throat,
teeth grinding in rapid inflection. . . .

God is busy setting up the props . . . rolling a cut of aluminum foil into
a tooter . . . folding another piece into a gutter . . . . God's a bona-fide
artist . . . has a PhD in origami in fact. . . .
Two anonymous fellows watch, licking their cracked lips . . . eyes
redder than mine . . . ugly diamond-shaped faces . . . sixteen . . . thirty
. . . Me can't tell . . . They're kneeling . . . hungry and perspiring beads
of sweat. . . . God's sole electric fan is dead machinery. . . .

Smoked two candy blunts with Lexam, The Jacker. . . . Lights start
glowing . . . shadows cast by the sodium bend into distorted
phantasms . . . fast forward motion . . . euphoric sense of the
unknown . . . heart palpitation . . . the usual high. . . .
I remember two friends who had died from some crazy drug
experimentation: Code Name J ate a poisonous mushroom he
mistakenly assumed as psilocybin . . . and Code Name D had
overdosed from milkshake (a mixture of methamphetamine and
nubain intravenously inoculated. . . .) Read an innaresting news article
about a juvenile delinquent stabbing a police officer with a swordfish.
. . . Crazy little world we live in . . . lots of goofy shit happening. . . .

An electric evening . . . prism of dazzling lights . . . cold weather

brewing in an acrid sky . . . black and white foreign monkeys with
teenage hotties . . . myopic visual sets in . . . I walk through a sea of
blurry faces . . . no eyes recognizes mine. . . .

At the pharmacy counter I'm coughing a little as I hand the

cashier/pharmacist a hundred peso bill. . . . She smiles cordially and
gives me the bottle of syrup . . . red white green. . . . Enough is never
enough . . . I take it . . . and the change too. . . .

The author finds himself in the middle of a wave . . . bombastic dance

music playing . . . loud and terrible . . . tries to jive around but ends up
puking on a chikay's party dress instead . . . searches for the exit sign
(before the bouncers arrive . . .). Pushing mannequinesque bodies . . .
manages to grope a feminine breast or two . . . doesn't care if the
other looks homo. . .

"A person of your caliber shouldn't be here, sir . . ." the waiter tells
me.
"What? . . ." I ask him . . . confused . . . defense mechanism sets in . . .
act primitive and savage, boy. . . . What is he talking about?
A psychic rapport between us occur. . . . He dismisses me immediately
and leaves
. . . he knows (instinctively, at least) about my mental condition . . .
two years spent at an asylum exchanging philosophies to a robotech
contraption made of shadows. . . .

The place is decent . . . decent in a sense that most people here

dressed expensively well . . . except me, of course. . . . Not boisterous
. . . voice talk in soft low volumes . . . hands clicking Iphones and Ipads
. . . a kleptomaniacal thought wants me to steal a Notebook. . . . Fuck
that American Monkey! . .

I'm at the parking lot . . . peeing dark-gold on a silver wheel of some

rich kid's sports-car . . . waiting for someone. . . . There's a band
functioning inside the bar . . . not my type of music though . . . too
mellow, too passe . . . am too para, too blase. . . . I want explosions
and riots and heads splitting open . . . terrorism! . . blood . . . guts . . .
never mind. . . .

Someone arrives and we leave. . . .

Pinkish dawn. . . . We arrive at this barrio trudging on a muddy road . .

. puddle water seeping through a hole in my shoe . . . my sock is
soaked. . . . Houses built of light materials (mostly plywood and
cardboard . . .). A series of baroque destitution. . . . Past a few
patrolling barrio tanods . . . exchange awkward good-mornings . . .
yes, they know who we are . . . people on tables gambling bingo or
tong-its or mah-jong . . . a couple of kids (probably glue-sniffers)
watching pornography on coin-operated internet boxes . . . teenage
whores hustling it up in dim-lit alleys . . . queer pimps look bored and
cancerous behind sodium lampposts. . . . The barrio that never sleeps,
or so they say. . . .

There will come a time (not too soon, I hope) when all of this must
come to an end. This is transient . . . this is just a temporary state of
mind . . . this is NOT your psychiatrist speaking, boy. . . . But not now .
. . no . . . never now. . . .
Each meeting we are always spewing the exact same bullshit we were
saying yesterday and a hundred yesterdays ago . . . we are performing
the exact same scenario . . . we know every punchline . . . we know
the drill, sir . . . we are contained in a repetitive cycle of intellectual
bankruptcy . . . but who cares? . . Not me . . . and certainly . . .
not them. . . .
Bordering into the insanity zone. . . . stimulant psychosis means the
cockroaches are taking off their tuxedos . . . paralytic dance means
you're outside Terran beyond human communication . . .
dextromethorphan hallucination means a group of robotech
mechanisms are observing your testicles with surgical apparatus. . . .
"The tunica albuginea is white-blue this time of year . . ." says one of
them. . . . tintinnabulation of forgotten bells . . . priests butt-fucking
their acolytes or vice versa . . . hallelujah! . . psychoactive children run
wild outside the old Cathedral . . . a bum gnaws her arm for breakfast
. . . punks clad in black coats, Doc Martens boots, Mohawk hairstyles .
. . anarchy reduced into mere fashion . . . a kindergarten dream of a
dog performing fellatio on a toddler . . . plastic beauties on TV . . .
thawing flesh . . . psychoactive children run wild. . . .

A male hypochondriac says his vagina is diseased. . . .

Uncle Dino, The Dealer, is a big Tarsier with ruptured kidneys and a
bad liver, but the fucker is still alive and still shooting nubain. . . .
He'd say, "The caprices of the veins . . . they eat the brain, right?"
Or, "I am more of a technical person . . . I don't do much mathematics.
. . ."Or, "You will never understand the feeling . . . machine emotions .
. . soft tissues ignite into a romantic flame. . . cavities smile like teeth.
. . ."
His idea of paradise: a needle, an ounce of nubain, and the damage
is gone.

Fiery heat . . . atrocity of a pregnant noon . . . hobbling on the asphalt,

on the pavement, on gravel, on mud, on air . . . thick dark RayBan
against the burning sky . . . hands in pockets . . . oblivious to sleep . . .
mind is somewhere between wherever and nowhere . . . Time is an
unimportant factor. . . . Forget your name . . . forget your life . . .
sickening innuendos of civilization . . . spitting and vomiting and
tasting some of it just to feel real. . . .

Ubek Train and Me talk explosives . . . wobbling para . . . we speak

Cannabis with an accent too . . . gasoline fumes dance through
olfactory nerve . . . you have to ask us about pressure bombs . . . but
only furtively . . . shh . . . a police auto passes by . . . we give them The
Finger . . . glad they didn't look at the side-mirror though. . . . Lights
up a cigarette . . . the cherry is blossoming red . . . the ashes fall
without a clatter . . . we need water . . . lots of it. . . .

I am the last Negrito of the e Agta tribe. My savage blood flows

through me as I wander around The City where monolithic blocks
heave high and electro machines rumble in crazy automation . . .
Snakes cease their hissing, recoil in fear and astonishment . . . as I step
in the menagerie . . . naked as the first Homo sapein . . . craving for
destruction and massacre . . . eyes that pierces the soul it sees . . .
fangs glittering against moonlight beams . . . one gargantuan shadow
impeccably shrouds the jungle world . . . God squirms in silence that
echoes throughout the air. . . . I lift up my hands to choke the vastness
of His neck. . . .

Terribly numb, tongue sticking out full of chancres, itching syphilitic

cock, skin inflammations due to parasites excavating their niche on
the dermis, I think the word I'm looking for is scabies. . . .
"You need more methamethamine, more nalbuphine, more
dextromethorphan, more cannabis, more alcohol . . ." says the Doctor
whilst eating the Nurse's filthy pussy. . . .
"You are almost ready for Enlightenment, sir . . ." says the Crazy Monk
rummaging the garbage heap. . . .
I am watching watching WATCHING me please. . . .
"One day you'll be so alive you start to wonder what life is all about . .
." says a Wentelteefje rolling on the flight of a Penrose stairs. . . .
Just another loony writing idiosyncratic notes, just another distorted
cellular activity. . . .

You let Him do it. . . .

Now He's finding a virgin vein among uncharted regions of skin . . . His
breath smells awful but the syringe tastes sweet . . . the needle pricks
the virgin vein . . . blood . . . pain . . . the nerves . . . vertigo waltz. . . .
God laughs at you after the Shot . . . He looks beyond despair and
madness . . . The world can't touch Him . . . You want to kiss him and
weep in joy . . . Thank You . . . thank You for this blessed moment . . .
and then You cut his head off. . . .
You grind your teeth . . . involuntary muscle twitching . . . tongue licks
cracked lips . . . your eyes glitter in a fake Universal Comprehension. . .
. If you're in a habit . . . the symptoms are too easy to notice. . . . You
go opaque . . . you lose control. . . .

I am blowing the pieces of youth as they magnified the austerities and

amplified the noise receding discord upon unhearing ears that bleed
in chromatic design of orgasmic impunity that writs itself unto
dipteran angelic romance purified by hate by pain by unctuous
resistance dissecting thoughts and creating floral ambiguous dance
biting bones of methamethamine dawn. . . . The dead music resonates
sex as cognitive aural benediction licks its own reflection where syrup
liquid floods the pharmaceutical nostril as fingers violate arms as
mouth penetrates cock as eyes nullify balls teeth cracks into crystal
bits amputate the body incinerate the soul reprimand the ability to
strike a spark among fires in beautiful machinery of doom . . .
electrifies the night dissolves the day stars that fall incendiary . . . in
flowers do not rest in peace do not remember in thinking do not
breathe in the harrowing madness do not play in sickening syringe
malice do not splice the asshole kiss the technocratic erection holy
semen digested for love . . . ovaries I beg you eggs that do not hatch
pubic mustache and plastic crotch little monkeys appalled by your
menstrual glitz your pathetic camera lungs browsing through
perfunctory boxes whilst humming notes of piano teeth lie artifacts
cold in ruin for malignant sores I sell for tobacco dream I smoke
dissipate each and every aural union words exaggerated to gain
meaning out of failure out of hunger out of intellectual hope of
recognition between legs misshapen between nipples rearrange into
salacious scent of approval I reign in automatic sentiment
contrapuntal to active malevolence easy as the news rebirth me my
knowledge rebirth me my will rebirth me my suffering I will kneel
down and suck His cock until he Cums. . . . American Monkey go to
Hell I don't care mister junk tourist buying menthol panorama with
green-colored sucklings good night white dragon good night cough
bottle good night effervescent therapeutic leaves no more expletive
insights eating genius infected fraud durable substance not in use high
in masturbatory religion a mad gusto for incestuous action blind
connotation atavistic for laboratory jargon hex freedom of robotech
mechanisms to chemically plunder an inch. . . .

Wait. . . .
I find myself in Colon Street checking pornographic discs on the
sidewalk . . . . And then the commotion starts . . . two ugly Moslems in
a brawl . . . their gibbering language zap to and fro . . . cuts the
atmosphere with an angry musicale . . . blood spurts like drizzle as
they beat each other to a pulp. . . . "It's flammable . . ." a bystander
comments . . . an impulse to strike a match passes . . . I take a disc and
slip out of the drama. . . . My carnal sensation must be relinquish at
once. . . . Praise Allah! . . .

And somewhere someone is singing. . . .

Diarrhea hits the toilet bowl . . . I breathe in the smell pretending it's a
new drug I'm testing. . . .
I always marvel at the idea of defecating. . . . absolute nervousness . .
. in widening terror . . . technocratic screams . . . dipteran monologue .
. . rearrangement of the senses. . . .
My friend, Lexam, the Jacker, collects and preserves his jissom in test-
tubes . . . "I have a fascinating theory . . . " he says to me . . . but I
can't print his Idea here. . . .
"It's unprintable. . . ." says he. . . .
"I bet it doesn't exist. . . ." says Me . . .
Dumb look . . . flower eyes that can't be close . . . sleep becomes the
antithesis. . . . hopscotch daytime hallucination . . . mouth hysteria
eats the ice-cream night . . . . lets out a loud diabolic glee . . . an addict
of no alluring quality . . . hepatitis eyes focus on nothing. . . .

Methamphetamine joyride. . . . Oh yes, I remember:

Derty Sex picked me and Ubek Train at a gasoline station intoxicated
with Coke and rum. . . . When was it? Three years ago? Yesterday? . . .
It seems that it has never actually happened . . . but who cares? Derty
Sex put the pedal to the metal and zoomed his auto across Marcelo
Fernand bridge at a speed of a hundred-twenty kilometers per hour . .
. crashing at one drug den after another was the Idea . . . First was
Tikoy's place in Pajo, Lapu-Lapu . . . then at Brent's crack-house in
Marfa, Mandaue . . . we kept moving on and headed onto Cebu City . .
. chasing the white dragon, or so they say . . .
Richmond's minute room in Camagayan, Tambok's cavern in Bato,
Ermita, Dodong Kagid's leper hive in Pasil. . . . This is cerebral
masturbation, ladies and germs! . . . there's an inner nebulae being
born inside our personal universes. . . a sense of cosmic excitement . .
. a rapture no one could grasp except the three of us. . . A. Lopez . . .
V. Rama, Labangon . . . Sambag Uno, Urgello. . . . Cebu rips its own
stomach and expose its disgusting entrails. . . . booming inside The
Tunnel . . . screeching mad at SRP . . . Carabao Bill in Tangke, Talisay. .
. . "Cum . . . pl'y . . . sol'tair. . . ."

It was a ground-breaking record . . . a classic drug binge . . . our

collective consciousness were expanding brilliantly then. . . . We past
uptown and downtown . . . rolled our windows down and laughed
and hollered fuck you at Mango Avenue, fuck you at the big Old
Cathedral, fuck you at the Public Library, fuck you at McDonald's, fuck
you at IT Park, fuck you at the Police Station, fuck you at the City Hall,
fuck you at the Capitol, fuck you at the band of rebels congregating in
the methamethamine dawn. . . . But we didn't mean it . . . and it was
no use. . . . You can never light the fuse . . . and run. . . .

You can only reduce yourself to pure comic entertainment:

crazy, anarchic, and NOTHING new. . . .

"Me is going home . . ." I tell my friend. . . .

Sprawled down the gutter beside the heap of garbage . . . flies
converge on them . . . buzzing dipteran show biz. . . .
He won't listen . . . he won't speak. . . .
I kick him before I go. . . .
The sun is slowly rising East . . . I can feel its warmth . . . or am I
imagining this? . . . My shoes are touching real pavement, I can sense
it now. . . .
"Don't leave me, bai. . . ."
I hear his voice . . . but it's too late. . . .
I can't look back . . . I keep moving on. . . .
"An addict never comes back. . . " says Ubek Train.
the discord of traffic begins . . .
sewer farts hang in the air . . .
tongue tasting formaldehyde. . . .
"It's not addiction if you can afford it. . . ." says Derty Sex.
early female tarsiers . . .
leave traces of perfume . . .
dogs howl obituary. . . .
"Got a light, bai? . . ." this psychoactive teenager says. . . .
I'm about to enter a narrow alleyway that leads to barrio Juan Seno. .
..
"Yes. . . ." I say . . . but I keep my pace. . . .
"Kayata! . . ." the boy grunts . . . chasing after me. . . .

I don't know what to say to him. . .

All of this doesn't make any sense . . . he won't understand. . . .
"Blame the drugs . . . don't blame the gnomes. . . ."

I give him a good conundrum without looking back. . . .

Post Haiku Script:

li'l grasshopper . . .

hops ---

now what?

Zubu, 2010
Desperate addict . . . desperate soul . . . hungry and forgotten. Holy be
thy dipteran penis. Holy be thy asshole glory. . . .
I will kiss thy feet in loving grace . . .
I will chase thy shadows in dark crevices. . . .
You will give me thy Kingdom . . . You will swallow my cum. . . .
Desperate addict . . . desperate soul. . . . I will pee in your Sacred Place
. . . I will spit on thy Holy Face. . . .
I have smelled the roses . . . I have burned the Books. . . . I carve my
own Name . . . I dig my own Grave. . . .
Hungry and forgotten . . . let this be the proof of my existence. . . .
Blessed are you who open this book. . . . Blessed are you who clasp
thy hands and believe. . . .
Blessed are you, Children of Men . . .
who will rejoice when you remember this
Testimony . . . on your death-bed memory. . . .
Fi
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