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  • Hi! my name is Aiko. In this blog are poetry, and pastel, and pink cute things.


Introduction
Aiko Lactaotao is a rare fat Asian specimen, a writer with the artistic temperament of a sloth, and the world's youngest elderly lady. A sleep-deprived Law Student, she still squeezes in time to blog about her passions which include books, reading the Classics, Fin-de-Siecle, Decadent literature, modernist, post-modernist, post post-modernist, experimental fiction, poetry, creative writing, linguistics, lexicography, philosophy of language, phenomenology, philosophy of mind, philosophy of law, criminal law, constitutional law, torts and damages, intellectual property law, public international law, Biblical exegesis, avantgarde films, collecting obscure, foreign, (mostly European, Asian, and Latin American) words, learning modern and ancient languages, and traveling the world whenever she has the budget.

About This Blog
This is a creative writing blog by a law student who'd rather travel the world and be a full-time writer if not for reality burying its fist up her ass and telling her she's not rich and that she needs to get a real job. Hence, the journey of a reluctant law student towards obtaining the Atty. title. When she's not moping around about how miserable being in law school is, she writes literary works that so far garnered compliments ranging from "Are you on drugs?" to "I'd like to have some of what you're smoking." Still, she's hoping that these seemingly outlandish writings of hers will eventually be able to land a book deal. Aside from writing, she is a voracious reader, currently owning around 300 or so books. In fact, she is infamous around the post-office because every other week a parcel or package of books arrives there for her to claim. As of the moment there are still 175 titles on her wishlist. She will not stop reading and writing and dreaming, law school can survive on its own; whatever happens, the aim remains the same: to become a full-pledged author.

Favorite Books
Monday, February 18, 2019 | February 18, 2019 |
Wax Philosophical (A Poem)



Ah Caprice, the mother of Spontaneity

your daughters are weeping

at the foot of History

all your whims led to Revolutions

the Synthesis of which

earned dissatisfaction

Technology is but a postmodern thirst--

for Immortality

a postmodern twist

to a thousand year old plot

of Man daring to become what he is:

educated and godless,

invention is his Vice,

devoted to his Objects, he becomes one:

a means, not an end.


NOTES:

I remember writing this poem after I read GWF Hegel's "The Philosophy of History." I was heavily fascinated with world history during that time and was invested in thinking about the future of Mankind. Admittedly, I am more mature now and have realized my smallness in the totality of the universe, that I decided not to be too affected by things I could not control (such as the "unknowability" of the future) and just live my life in the best possible way I could. That way, if I couldn't change the world for the better, at least I could do it for myself. One less noise in a cacophony full of voices demanding to be heard doesn't remove the headache, but on the bright side, it at least lessens its intensity.

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Friday, December 16, 2016 | December 16, 2016 |
Unspoken

What lurks beneath the deep blue?
perhaps sinister and tenebrous
perhaps the Mystery's a slew
for away from it the angels flew
and towards it the afreet cadaverous

The mangled face behind the calm
the gelignite in the pacific
the shore is awash with qualm
as if in Gilead to search for balm
the wanderers are sophomoric

It is where hope is obsolescent
and faith in a state of torpor
where love is not incandescent
where wisdom is an adolescent
where all my dreams are in stupor

The phantasmagoria is inchoate
a glimpse inside the deep blue hell
the misery I inculcate
a law I dare not desecrate
the unspoken only time will tell

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Saturday, December 10, 2016 | December 10, 2016 |
Never Generation

Youth I am not
I said

a maudlin sentiment
in protest
of my generation

how their
vainglorious
look-at-me
garish ways
reflective of a
nincompoop

and their petty
maundering and
atrocious patois
rankles me so

never my generation
I refuse to be part of

rather am I
given
to my effulgent
dreams fraught
with hope for
dismantling
what this world
has come to
possess in the
form of
sporadic morals

basking in a
dicey outlook
for this
never generation
of which
youth I am not

my lips are open
not
lest I be met
with paroxysyms
of laughter
and how they
jeer and point out
and scrutinize
previous flaws,
inconsistencies,
failures,
and big old crapulous me

as they exhaust
their empty
badinage

but blind I am not
and it is
quite limpid

that behind
the flashing smiles
the love of conformity,
digital adroitness,

lies a godless
and funereal
ideology of
anti-individuality

and forced tolerance
towards what is
blatantly wrong

it is the
skeleton behind
the proverbial closet
of this never generation

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| December 10, 2016 |
A Mango Affair

kokak goes the frog from
Somewhere at the farm in
Salapungan, Gerona, Tarlac, the
place where me and my family
get mangoes
             
                                that we sell

for a price at the palengke
                      the
place where me and my family
get the money for my tuition fee

for
four years in college where
I took up a course that
sounds good in a diploma
it’s called philosophy
       
                               but the
only philosophical thing
about it all is how
I got a job which has
nothing to do at all with
what
                                    I
                                 studied
for four years-

a funny thing because
me and my family
got the money for my tuition fee
at the Mango orchard albeit
it’s quite sad

               that the mangoes
nowadays are sold in the palengke
for a cheaper price exactly at
a time when I could see
that there is hope for me
after all

                                   (oh, oh!)
But,

     bach bach bach goes the chickens
in the farm in Salapungan, Gerona,
Tarlac, how I loathe their noise
chickens send chills up my spine
ugly as they are with their
bach - bach - bach - bach
at the place where me
and my family get mangoes

                                that we sold

So I could get an education
(I just want to point it out)
though it has a cheaper price
nowadays

would you like to have
some mangoes?
     
                              Please help yourself
to one tiklis
until your blood sugar
goes up ohwahtwillwedo
but I got a job
somewhere far from Salapungan,
Gerona, Tarlac,

                                  away
From the kokaks and the
bach bach bachs

                                  Please have a mango

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| December 10, 2016 |
Bearded Jesus

What’s in a picture?
     A White Man
           
        Was his hair brown? CuzInAllPicturesItIs

Was he a Jew? Nah
                        CuzTheyBelongToTheirFatherTheDevil

                  Kosher Jesus
                  Hippie Jesus

                        in San Francisco, circa NineteenSixtyEight

White people want their Jesus White.
                 
                  White Jesus

The son of man
       (though not the son of a white man)

              I’d like to walk on water too
     
                          -and turn water into wine
                      (except I prefer Coca Cola)
   
                  Cola Jesus

He died for my sins
-AndWithTheRateI’mGoing I guess He’s DyingEveryday
                                            BUT,
The pastor will burn in hell anyway,

                       that’s what he gets for
                                believing in a long-haired Jesus
                 
                   Jesus saves
                   Jesus shaves

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