Cicatrice II

I could only imagine the pain as Christ was being flogged, as the heavy hammer drove the heavy nail down His Hand, piercing through skin, muscle, and bone.  His wounds exposed, His flesh dies for every minute he expires on that cross.  The sacrifices of the mortal Christ are beyond comprehension and imagination, especially in modern times.  No amount of self-flagellation and self-mortification will ever equal the kind of suffering Jesus went through.

Perhaps it is not the crown of thorns, the heavy nails, or the flogging that presented and represented the most suffering for the Son as he was being hurt and killed.  Perhaps it is to hang from that cross, and ask God why He hath forsaken Him.  I’m not a theologian or anything, and I’m not the most religious or spiritual person in the world, but I guess the questions are as apt as they come, especially if you’re being executed.  What has He done to suffer?  What has He done to deserve the pain?

Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?

Could it be possible that, at the moment of extreme pain, Jesus examined His life, and found a pain more intense than a crown of thorns?


All Grown Up (The Second Year Anniversary Post)

Today, turns two years old.

Technically, The Marocharim Experiment was “born” on November 9, I-don’t-know-when, but I like to think of it as all grown up.  A couple of years ago, I really didn’t know what I can do with my blog.  I wasn’t interested in making money or being famous – after six, seven years or so of blogging, I haven’t got either or both – but I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t go places and I just remained where I am.  Or was… I really should watch my grammar.

Or at the very least, a sense of fulfillment.  While my comment forms will never be full of the thoughts of readers and admirers (if I have them) and the mantle wouldn’t be full of accolades and awards, there’s nothing like the sense of fulfillment that comes with getting through the day, making it out alive, and having something to write about in the evening.

It’s 7:09 PM, September 15th.  Here I am, writing on a space (of the virtual kind) that has been around for a couple of years.  Nothing to be proud of, really, in the grand scheme of things we should be proud about.  Heck, for some people, it wouldn’t even be worth whatever.  Things like girlfriends, for example.  LOL.

A sad, boring, miserable existence for some, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.


Maria Watches Over Us


When I was a kid, the image of Mother Mary was everywhere.  There were the statues of Mary, the amulets and chaplets bearing the image of the Mother of Jesus, right down to the calendars of the Virgin Madonna.  No shred of blaspheming or shard of atheism was to be taken at home, where prayers were in earnest and religious rituals were observed with the piety of living saints.  Whatever CDs and MP3s I had of Mercyful Fate or Marilyn Manson had to be played with earphones or the lowest possible volume on my radio.

Somehow I couldn’t escape the sight of Mama Mary, even though the “watchful eyes” I was taught to fear and revere were inanimate prints on a picture, or carefully-made relief on a sculpture.  Every eighth day of September, the statue of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception was brought from the Church to our house, where the pious neighbors murmured the Mysteries of the Rosary over the watchful yet reverent gaze of my grandmother.

It was that gaze: the feeling of being watched.


A Thousand Cranes for 2010


They say that when you fold one thousand cranes, your wish will come true.  While I don’t seem to be a big believer in wishes, I really do.  I also believe very much in the power of magic… yeah, I can be hopelessly romantic and naive at times.  Sometimes, a little bit of magic – and some wishful thinking – is all it takes to make this world a better place.

I’m folding one thousand paper cranes for clean, honest, and fair elections in 2010.

Cute.  Naive.  Hah.  Humbug… but I believe in wishes.


Die, Die, My Darling

For the last time, let me call you “Sweetheart.”

“Sweetheart,” huh?  That’s a mouthful; all I’ve ever been to you was “Bhe.”  You and your terms of endearment.  Bhe… what the hell is that supposed to mean.  “It means baby,” you say.  Sounds like a dog’s dying breath, I say.  So I’ll stop being your “Bhe” for once, and just call you by a one-syllable term of endearment you deserve:



Goat Sez Burnination

Offensive NSFW follows.  Foul language.  Graphic, lurid descriptions of deviant behavior.  Limericks.  Lyrics.  If you don’t like it, scram.  I’m not liable for permanent emotional or psychological damage resulting from burnination.

Go on, shoo.  Evaporate.



When I was in Literature class, and when I was in a lit workshop, they told me the meanings should arise naturally.  They didn’t tell me the text was supposed to and .  I guess I’ll never understand the ways of the youth today, who insist that words should and .  Do they have to do this all the time?

My brain cells.  They burn.

I was channel-surfing and found myself staring at the television text chat channel.  I was looking for [O/G]GANGSTA_187[\m/] and ~♥bHaYb33_lH0n3lYh3ArT♥~.  It looked like Romeo and Juliet, or West Side Story, with the plot twists of New Jack City and Scarface.

The soundtrack was a horrible mishmash of old Aerosmith songs synched to Final Fantasy clips, and novelty karaoke songs.

The dialogue was fun, though.

[O/G]GANGSTA_187[\m/] :cno pw3d3 mak1-s3x jan? TXT me at

The text messages kept scrolling… and scrolling, and scrolling…

~♥bHaYb33_lH0n3lYh3ArT♥~ : h3lLuR p0wH pA-aDd-P0Wh aQ s FRIENDSTER
aDd nY0H p0wH m3 TnX p0wH

The grand eyeball (GEB) of the LONELYHEARTZ Clan:





[O/G]GANGSTA_187[\m/] and ~♥bHaYb33_lH0n3lYh3ArT♥~ always came home late after that.

[O/G]GANGSTA_187[\m/] :cno pw3d3 mak1-s3x jan? TXT me at

School was out, family was even more out, and the only thing that mattered was the LONELYHEARTZ Clan.


They came home late.  They came home even later.  They came home only in the morning, after their parents and families knocked on doors and rang on bells at the dead of night, looking for them.

Grades dropped, dinners were forgotten.

Yet it didn’t solve it all.  T-Pain remixes were long gone.  Only in cheap MP3 player giveaways at the call center Christmas raffle were they heard from, or from fast-food restaurant muzak at noon.

The heartz ceased to be lonely.

~♥bHaYb33_lH0n3lYh3ArT♥~ : h3lLuR p0wH pA-aDd-P0Wh aQ s FRIENDSTER

The heartz ceased to be lonely.
aDd nY0H p0wH m3 TnX p0wH

~♥bHaYb33_lH0n3lYh3ArT♥~ sat on the sofa, looking at her phone.  The TV was on.  The same channel, the same songs, the same tracks.  No more gangstas, just emos.

The last , and the last , reminded ~♥bHaYb33_lH0n3lYh3ArT♥~ that at least here, the world didn’t  and , did not  and .  There were diapers to change, milk bottles to be filled, and dreams to be remembered and missed.

There is nothing in the world but youth, Lord Henry tells Dorian Gray, but didn’t grow out of the fiction to tell that to

[O/G]GANGSTA_187[\m/] : never heard from again


~♥bHaYb33_lH0n3lYh3ArT♥~ : and the baby in her arms.

POSTSCRIPT: Experimental, and perhaps even annoying, and definitely not good.  Burnination is serious business, and I swear to all that’s good and holy this is the last time I’ll use glittertext.  But everything here is based on a true story.  – Marocharim

The Boneyards of Srebrenica

One of the news articles that gave me nightmares this week was a report by AP’s Aida Cerkez-Robinson, where forensic scientists are hard at work identifying the bones from mass graves of Ratko Mladic, the remains of the Srebrenica Massacre.  I can’t say I know the history of Srebrenica well, or the Yugoslav conflict, but I do know that it was a low point in the history of humanity.

I am not a poet – or if I am, I’m not a very good one – but the story of the efforts at identifying the bones of Srebrenica made me think of the boneyards.  It would be grief-porn to console ourselves with the events of 14 years ago, and say we feel their pain.  We can only be thankful that it never happened to us, but at the same time, we can only be saddened by the pain of seeing your own men or boys shot and dumped into mass graves.  Or waiting for them to be identified… every bone of them, just so that you can bury them properly and have your peace of mind.  I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone to have a nightmare about ethnic cleansing.

Please read on; this is a poem – or what passes for one – to Srebrenica.

The Boneyards of Srebrenica

Bones in a pit, without a name
A war from a previous era
These are the things you will find in
The boneyards of Srebrenica.

Skulls, scattered on the earthen pit
Them bones, like yellowing pages
What was once white in the body
Turning brittle as it ages.

Bones of one’s hand buried in one
Vertebrae sown like seeds of death
Segments of feet in another
With ribcages piled underneath.

The cruel stench of death rises
And conquers the air with its smell
They dig up the bones of the dead
From a war we never knew well.

Without grace or ceremony
Like garbage, the corpses are piled
Are they bones of a man who fought,
Or bones of an innocent child?

Stories of defeat and despair
Many ways to tell how they died
Waiting for the bones of their dead
Going mad, and dying inside.

Them bones, mutilated, destroyed
From that one impossible crime
Stripped of respect, even in death
And buried a bone at a time.

Bones in a tray, and given names
Genocide and its miasma
A happy end, you’ll not find in
The boneyards of Srebrenica.

Tigulang Nga Kahuy*


The fireflies gathered
Quickly, rapidly
Like clocks, for the kapre‘s moment of thought.

He stood atop the kahuy
Carefully, quietly
And saw the two lovers holding each other’s hands.

The lovers kissed
Gently, sweetly
And never saw the monster or the
iput-ipot around.

The kapre mouthed
Tan’awun ta’ka
And watched as the lovers held each other in embrace.

The man whispered
Palangga ta’ka
And left his woman under the shade of the lunok.

The fireflies left
Quickly, rapidly
The kapre’s moment of thought lasted too long.

The woman shouted
Ginahigugma ta’ka
The kapre stayed, waiting… for the break of dawn.

* – A friend tells me that in the Visayas – Iloilo, in particular – trees in rural areas are referred to as “tigulang nga kahuy,” and that got me thinking of tonight’s fantastic fiasco.  For the lack of a title, there you go.  These are notes for something I’m doing.  Please feel free to correct me it if I spelled or used words in the wrong way.  – Marocharim