birds—for freedom


a long dead philosopher once thought of eternal recurrence. animals built the mighty metropolis to ensure dishes are washed and mobile phones are tended to. domestication brought life to unwashed pavements and mighty storms in the city. everything will be done over and over—for freedom

ISDA, sound art

Hear it on March 23, 2017 exhibit Fortuna Circuit: Our Current Condition at the 856 G Gallery, Cebu City

True/False Hopes



I want to hear you between my thighs. 

When you leave, I sometimes pick up the pieces of you that you left on my skin—a bruise, a scratch, wet trail marks of where your lips has been on my body, and bring it close to my chest. My body is a wasteland, my heart a hollowed tree, and still I wonder, how you manage to slip away from my grasp.


In the mood to melt on your hungry tongue.


True/False Hopes
is a Millenial meditation on self-love, gripping hopelessness, and places (in between.) 


(In order)

Self-portrait, Anonymous
Flash fiction by Iyyah Sinarimbo
Digital, I'M GLAD I MET YOU THIS YEAR, 2016 by Aidx Paredes
Flash fiction by Iyyah Sinarimbo
Photo, FIELD NOTES (running series) by Aidx Paredes
Portrait, CHEAP THRILL (set; one of eleven) by Jahre Criste
Flash fiction by Iyyah Sinarimbo

Cheap Thrill (NSFW)


thumping, the only sound
do not come from our mouths:
this primordial song


Photos, CHEAP THRILL (set; four of eleven) by Jahre Criste (IG: @moncriste)
Text by Anna Miguel



   ease into the noise.
   slip through the crevices of mastication.

holdontothe                                                                                                          words, words, words.

(what remains are the told, set against the untold.)

who are we when we let words do the talking?

like seeing you on every street corner
at the cornermost of word processors

in the stray hairs,
broken fingernails.


Photos  Karlu Tayabas
Text Anon



Come a fortnight of great coincidences and unnerving cosmic significance. Of a thousand piece puzzle coming together like a Byzantine mosaic or a trail set ablaze by a night sky of shooting stars.

Her heart is an adorned catacomb. It is an unawakened spectacle of turbulent potential energy: immobile and unmoving.

But she is oil and youwater.

Her way is an aerial firework of black powder. Magnesium. Iron. Multibreak Shells bursting into a complex explosion in acrobatic motions across the heavens.

Her eyes take in captives like the deadly dance of moths to a flame.

She is the eye of the storm while you are caught in between heavy rains and fright and terror.

Her tongue speaks in an ancient glossolalia. In chants. In mantras. In cryptic depth.

She has the world figured out and youunderstand nothing of it.
She is a massive mass of hydrogen and helium, and in a swift spectacular supernova explosion, the death of her will consume all brilliance into an indefinite blackness.


digital art by Karl Elnas
text by Anna Miguel

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Old Wounds #1


We were running too fast for anyone to see. Too fast for our own good. Until our souls ran out, and the tread marks skidded past us.


4" x 4" acrylic and recycled paper on canvas, Old Wounds #1 by Jonee Jabez
Text Anonymous

Pieta Reverses



visual poetry by ISDA

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