here comes the sun

pucha, pare. the sun is up and so's my tuytuy (ilonggo, to guide. pucha-pare-ilonggo, smuy tt). time to get rakin and rolin.

when i was taught about the birds and the bees, pare, it was by my father's soccers colleagues. not that my father played soccer. he just had a fetish for soccer balls. whenever he sees one, he goes berserk and bangs my mother to the wall. as in my mother's blood would be spilled all across the wall, pare. but my mother was a fan of rambo. 'yuuu druuu ferst blaaahd'. and she'll get her hunting bolo and make a necklace out of it, pare. using my father's head to forge the metal into fine links. she'd work at it night and day, day and night, all rice. and my father would be reborn into a 45 day chicken with no balls to speak of and he would be reincarnated into my father again in no time after my mother makes inasal (ilonggo, to stick a spike thru a dead, marinated 45 day old chicken like my father) out of him. i miss my mother's inasal. it tastes like my father. pucha, pare. talk about spirituality.

when i was taught about the birds and the bees, pare, they never included flowers. deym. flowers are supposed the be the subject of the birds and the bees, pare. well, not unless the bird makes a subject of the bees. and then there's the pussy, who'd eat the bird, pare. the circle of life. reincarnation and the wisdom of the soccer colleagues. wattalayf (say that with pizzas, pare. again. wattalayf.)

but but. my bird is also a flower. a sunflower, pare. it'd follow the sun. it rises on dawn. it sinks with the dust, pare.

smuy tuytuy sunflower, pare. coffee and blue skies. don't forget to put rum for that extra kick. and don't bring a soccer ball. my father might see it.