on leave

this is actually an old poem from a couple of years back. they call this type of poem a sestina. originally, my best friend alex gave this 'assignment' as a writing exercise. i managed to write this in about two days, and surprisingly, it even got published online sa dalityapi (volume 5, issue 1 of makata 2004). this is one of my several attempts to dabble in the art of writing, as well as a sort of introduction to those who do not know me. so here it is, i'm sharing it with whoever wants to read and take a peek into my life. 

On Leave

From this side of the room the blue sky turned gray
And by looking out the window strafed with black mud,
You ask why the only glitter in this forgotten basement
Was lamplight refracted through a bottle of beer on a Friday.
Trudging the moist earth was a forgotten pet turtle
Whose only consolation is devouring worms and their juice.

Dry leaves exist beneath it, their bodies devoid of any juice
Splashed in God-made puddles that dried up and went gray,
Ravaged slowly and scratched by black claws of the beast-turtle
Or turtle-beast burrowing in the seemingly prehistoric mud,
Oblivious to mortal sorrows consummated on alcohol-Friday
Night drinking binges and death wishes in the basement.

Give me something to dwell in, not the past, but the basement
Instead of the deadly aroma of Satan’s gin and poor man’s juice.
When Bathala decides to eventually turn me into stone on Friday,
Bathe me in the marijuana smoke haze that made your heart gray.
And quietly I’ll kill the memories then bury you in the cold mud,
Where your porcelain skin and amber eyes won’t matter to the turtle

Whose only need is to feed and not being able to mate with another turtle,
His ill fate is just as cursed as mine. Dwelling in a dank basement
Is as self-fulfilling as burrowing, feeding and killing someone in mud
Which nobody notices until the body floats like ice in a glass of juice
Spiked with the Devil’s brew, so lethal it could turn all your hair gray
In a span of seconds, like a blowjob making a schoolboy come on a Friday.

Smell of dead leaves, damp soil and rotting fruit tells me it’s Friday,
The 13th day of the trudging, the searching, the foraging, the turtle
Finally coming full circle to where it once dwelled in, unmindful of the gray
Puddle attempting to drown the cold-blooded inhabitant of the basement,
Drags it under, where the half-eaten fruit shelters a dead beetle and the juice
From the once desired fruit turns sour, becoming one with the mud.

The image of a woman once loved takes shape, rising above the mud.
Her eyes sparkle, as if wanting to tell her man to come over on a Friday
Night instead of spending it with friends who do nothing but drink juice
Drowned in poor man’s gin, telling the same old stories like a turtle
Walking the same path over and over, around an empty basement
Whose sole dweller’s soul is still possessed by a past love turned gray.

Her lips were strawberry juice, oblivious of mine that felt like a turtle
Drenched in fresh mud after a tropical storm that came on a Friday
Night, flooding the empty basement, turning the white walls gray.

© Christian Michael Entoma

Works at the Social Weather Stations as a research assistant and plays rhythm guitar in a lousy band called Happy Christians. He is currently taking a break from working on his project website, Batuta Ni Drakula.com which features Kamao at Lipistik, a multi-media script whose characters are based on real life.