The Unrepressed Monologues of Ailing Kent

A.

'Lines', you say? I failed
Geometry more than you
brushed your teeth in
a week. Ever tried riding
that god-forsaken train
from Makati to Q. Ave.
buzzed like a bee?
What man won't forget
patience? Stand and hold
on to dear life as some
old fart keeps staring
at your assets, brushes
against your nape, push
just to be pressed in a
journey to Hades and back.


B.

The part where I have
to say something about
sex. Good news, kids!
It. Is. Fucking. Overrated.
Next please!


C.

Caving on a Wednesday,
It’s a sick trance on-board
metaphysics, extra-sensory
sweat on freshly dyed
ashen-tan hair and recently
contracted respiratory
infection. Hell. It feels like
getting run-over by a speeding
6-wheeler truck in EDSA, or
stepping on shit half-way to
rowdy Sara's under hammering
rain when I’d rather scavenge
for inverted triangular stones
care of Dr. Frankenstein,
Dr. Meredith Gray, as long
as it's free. Or even that big
bald gay, Dr. Phil. Oprah, you
are one lucky bitch. I am so
famished I could eat a live
elephant. Oh, is that a lizard?


D.

A tree. A spider. Spy here.

Spider webs. Spider webs.
Spider webs. Spider webs.
Spider webs. Spider webs.
Spider webs. Spider webs.

MJ, where did you hang
last night? My spidey-
sense is broken. Please,
come back. Indulge me.