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An excerpt from Back-to-back Showbiz Love Cycle by Angelo Suarez - Soul Sessions II [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
Choochay

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An excerpt from Back-to-back Showbiz Love Cycle by Angelo Suarez [Dec. 4th, 2010|05:10 pm]
Choochay
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My Logic professor made us read this back in First year, law school. NO, I'm no lesbo. But this explains everything A MAN SHOULD BE. He may have all these fantasies, desires --- but IT SHOULD ALWAYS BE YOU, because you (as a woman) have everything to be desirous of and that no man should ever make you feel insecure about yourself!

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An excerpt from Back-to-back Showbiz Love Cycle by Angelo Suarez

II. Between you & Amanda Griffin

 

-I’d still pick you of course.

 It isn’t as much an issue of hormones

           As it is of heart –

 

Which is not to say all as such:

 

            Not much luck having her between one’s thighs,

            Her mouth mouthing lengthly

                                                The length of him.

 

            What sane straight man

Wouldn’t want Amanda’s tan all over him?—

 

            Who wouldn’t want his hand

On Cindy Kurleto’s crotch, to touch

Her just one notch beneath her navel,

Right beneath her skirt,

                                    Smell the very cleft of her?—

 

            Take the shirt off Cheska Garcia

& taste the very rack of her,

                                    The back of her,

Let his tongue go in & out of the crack of her,

Roundabout her body,

                                    Back

                        & forth

                                    The scrape of her,

Froth forming

                        From his mouth

 

            & south?

 

                        The list can go on & on

                                    & heap cycles upon cycles

                                                Can challenge The Trilogy

                                                            Of Saint Lazarus—

                                                                        But bent this logic may seem

                                                                                    As Cirilo Bautista’s arms

                                                                        Between you & Maike Evers

                                                            I’d always pick you

 

                                                                        & your sweaty palms, slightly bent nose,

                                                                        Shoulders & armpits worthy of psalms—

 

                                                                                    Your sex songful

                                                                                                With salt & sin.

 

Ultimately what pins me down to you is heart,

My love—

                        Though hormones too—

But mostly heart.

                        Isn’t that, after all,

                        The art of it?

 

            Does love not sprout from need?

            But choice? Not much room

            To heed a differing voice there anyway—

 

I’d be way insane to choose Heart

Evangelista over you—or Nancy Castiglione

Or Pia Guanio.

                        Let’s say even Mookie Katigbak

 

            What you think I want of them

Isn’t what you suppose to be their perfection—

& I don’t just love you because I lack desire

For anyone else—

                        I do because I do—

           

                                    Because you have all there is

to be desirous of--

 

the random swaying of sea

            on days of slight wind—

the dash pauses for breath

            between scribbled clauses.

 

                                    It is the off-rhyme makes

                                                The sonnet perfect—

                                    The rule you break

                                                When you write a story—

                                                                       

                                                                        That little mole above your lip.

 

            Your unshampooed hair past an hour-long bath—

            The unrolled R’s in your Tagalog sentence.

 

                                                It’s all asymmetry, my love—

 

That one silver of purple

In a corner of sky

 

                                                            As utterly black

 

                        As a galaxy without suns—

 


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