Sunday, August 31, 2008


Ermita turned blue at six
Then burst into gaudy red
In the fading month of November
At seven

Passed through the narrow lanes
Congested by pied faced whores
On half moon doorsteps
Of smutty dives

Damsels with tattered wings
Fat and unguent faces
Emaciated crispy masks
With pasted welcoming smiles

Urchins in rags
Look at white thugs
Expecting silver drops
In their young slots

Lights off and on
Deafening blares of PAs
Incoherent attractions
Cling willfully to the senses

Now into the famed circle
Ephemeral fairies cavort
With thick pasted faces
And sagging eyelashes

Through quaint abodes
Of a bygone elegance
Reborn as couture houses
And campy discotheques

In another turn smugly sits
A neo-baroque church
Unmindful of the din
Indifferent to the sin

We made three rounds
Uncertain of intention
Not stopping at any
Papier mache distraction

Seeking comfort
In this desolation
Gentle love or tenderloin
But, we drove on

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