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Elitishizicling   : Lawdenmarc Decamora

Lawdenmarc Decamora is pursuing an MA in literary and cultural studies at the Ateneo de Manila University. He holds an MFA in creative writing and has been a fellow of regional and national creative writing and criticism workshops, such as Faigao, Lamiraw, Pamiyabe, Iligan, and KRITIKA. His literary works have been published in Mad Swirl (Texas), TAYO Literary Magazine (Issue 5), WE ARE A WEBSITE Literary & Art Journal (Singapore), Cruising Magazine of Manila Bulletin, To Voice My Own, Paper Monster Press, PAMIYABE Literary Anthology, and BUKAMBIBIG Issue One: “Crowds.” He is currently a faculty member of the University of Santo Tomas and a research fellow of the university’s Research Centre for Culture, Arts and Humanities (RCCAH). 

I collect things       things I

collect from toy guns, wrestling

action-figures, to vinyls, books

& gravity       seriously

with a capital G. Gravity

I mean when...

the feeling is there

up the 27th floor

as rain falls hard

on every worried shoe / homeless

veteran music in the drawer

filling the room air

with extra-scented elitism


sprayed all over the serious

parts of [ars] praying

for my left-braned hand’s

funeral – so I dub

                           [poetica]

Manila’s karmic sutra

in the heart of the walled city

gravity there plies


I collect grave signs: you know

history is now KFC

fried chicken with pictures

of war centipeding in / memory

but neither do I share recipe

ever kept secret nor space

nor Lefebvre nor

the coastliest decision

ever made while collecting

a foreign breath in one

of your alien lungs. A saved

kitty though your self

wanting to turn

into gravity

into a language

established

into so many grave things

as how everyone

now’s into every-

one.  




We think differently from the innards

                        of our soul—you said

                         

                           Lucky the planets

                                                that spin round

                   their cornbits—I voiced—following their path

                                    bit by bit


    So no matter

                        what we think of

                                    or follow thru

                                                I would mangle

                        the flowery comets

                        like petals taxonomically

                                scrunched from the taxied galaxy

         of the universe

                                                Well then—we’d wonder

                   wandering

                                    with the guinea gig of our boat

                                                                                                sailing thru

                                                while I twang the guitar

                                                                        and you sing the night

                  into sparkling

                                    spectacular oracular

                                                                        good-night verses

 

 


 

 

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