Pity

a poem by Roger B Rueda

It blows up when I see a cat hit by a jeepney
and transforms itself into a scalpel so sharp
and jagged, each of its cuts bringing twinges
to my heart snivelling and withstanding
the torment and misery of helplessness.
It reminds me of the enormous, whose
conception consists of me and pity, so then
of supplication as whispered by faith
from the abysmal respites of my humanity:
All I want is the vanishing of grieves,
fairy-like and spiritual, in the lurch and faithful.
It clings to the sentience and conscience -
it draws the pith of my wits and gags
bliss and vanity and conceit with remorse and
regret smothering me to be more tangled.
It intrudes me and my vision: it goes with
the cat whose body is feeling at ease now
and whose avatar occupies my sentiment
which is river-like - it's full of water
that wells over the window of my quintessence
when I am all alone, grief-stricken, pity-warped.

NLRC

a poem by Roger B Rueda

It is full of fire and brimstone –
its autochthons and peons
are genetic copies of Beelzebub,
Mephistopheles, Apollyon:
atrocious, villainous,  fiendish,
abominable, depraved.
They eat crying shame
and drink dirty deal.
They love rarity and high living –
their secret selves are fighting
a blaze in the recesses
of their hearts.
They exchange smiles
as they pass in the hallway:
their lips are so crisp
and their eyes,
pleased as punch, their scruples
ice-covered in the glitter
of their real distance downward.
The sacrileges
of their wounded
are behind themselves
waiting to  unwrap their lips and
muffle their laughs in their sleeves.