Papier-mâché

Featherless flight, encapsulating oxygen; hell-like fire is who I am: a corporeal substance and at dawn I am being born. My atomic bombs are made of hopelessness; naught they shall see in me but hatred.  Hail to my masters! I extend my mischievous hands implanted by vicious men of the 1940s. I wreck lives to bits of their false hopes. Schadenfreude is my pride.  I devour tears of men; clemency is a foe! Strike it with such force and satisfaction lies in the sound of my borborygmus . I breathe vileness at the top of my lungs; releasing toxic air, annihilating every bit of race. As thick as the fumes  I create destiny. Bent knees are their last resort as they plead for mercy reaching my brass-made hands. Some touch my aflame horn, in return, I bludgeon them with remorselessness and I render unattainable salvation.

  I'm a riddle in nine syllables, An elephant, a ponderous house, A melon strolling on two tendrils. O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers! This loaf's big with its yeasty rising. Money's new-minted in this fat purse. I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf. I've eaten a bag of green apples, Boarded the train there's no getting off.

Call me by my birthstone : Pearl, clam's onomatopoeia Through the storm Deep down the cerulean sea I sail my inflated boat. Hovering towards me,  Kraken, ancient Scandinavian, drag my burden down as I flap my emerald tail one last time, like a mermaid of antagonistic tales. For no one sings my dark fantasies, as the whole world  only waits for my trophy. For Plath, my mother, like vines I crawl through the corners of this city in 1963 where I hear their disparaging exclamations. Flâneur , I wander with my floating feet, without silk top hat above my head,  still, I am a gentle lad, looking for my long-lost French coat.

Man who laid his hand upon me; Everlasting gratitude on behalf of my inner king, Repeat after me, as I rise: Repeat the joy of this 8th-month love of the last piece. Yuletide, I must celebrate with the virtual face! Canticle of the moon, with the stars, he sings: “Hear, hear, for I surrender my wrath. Retell the story on how I was saved; In this season, on the 25th, Spirited persona of mine, thy light that shone Throughout my entirety, towards me, Mellow tune I dance on this precipice, but that was a former state. And I kiss you in this distance, Sealed with unfeigned floral-scented ribbons and stamps. Mistletoe, below it, traditional kiss on the forehead, tracing your bridge to your softness, Yearning the warmth of your breath on my bareness. Love, Ahram, as the moon embraces your skin; Oh, love of my light, through the Lord, I express my Veneration towards Him, while I swear: “Ephemeral love, and as I declare my gratitude to Him, for you—my personified salvation.”

Cross-legged, Saturday grind: Hoarse voice of the barber. The morning greeting was the only polite tune he has ever spoken, thanks to the sun's radiance and soft chimes. His hands on the bare forehead of the kid; first touch, tenth fear. How the child fears the possibility that he will be cut by the blades, like the gruesome scenes of horror films his parents made him watch; stuck details of it reverberating to the young. " Koshin, be patient ," the mother clothes as the strands cling to the satin of which he never fails to keep tidy. How silence can respond to itself: " I, Laura, your mother, asking you to just take it easy ," as if the child had already said something for her to answer. Active cuts, passive shots― slice through the mouth, not wanting to move it ajar. Down from the scary stories his parents have always been into, to the reality he is strangled onto.

I sit on a two-year-old varnished wood of the chapel where I was baptized. Beloved Sabbath is what they wear ― with their necklaces. A 2005 memory that smells as my Johnson's Summer Swing childhood. Reminiscing how my aunt used to iterate, "The ninth hole is the fit," as the leather belt embraces my skinny body― the grip of manhood they deem me to become. I wonder how proud my father was as his child met the spring. Devotion of my youth, I asked before the Lord's temple where they surrendered my young person― through my tears that they thought were my approval. Singing the psalms as I witness while on the tiptoes of their praise. Vivid is their memory towards the Holy Book. I was a child, witnessed by hundreds of self-proclaimed fairies; with their CDs and gifts― as the nursery rhymes I enjoy to sing. How they held my childhood, for until now, I am being baptized by their wisdom. Proclaiming tongues as if it were a perfect sheet― softest silk. I kneel with my eyes ope

Alapaap, narito ang pagyapos ng aking katawan, Hayáhay ng hangi't ibon, narito't ako'y sabayan. Ragasa nang ragasa yaong mga tubig mula sa Kanluran, At kung dumaloy man ito pababa sa kabundukan, Marapat na hagkan ang iyong marikit na kapanaanan. Kalayaan kong makita ang dulot mong pagsinta,  O sa busabos ako ng sariling pangamba―nalugmok, ito ang aking puhon! Magmaliw, kung ito ma'y magmaliw, kung ito man ay susuungin, Aking panata'y pagtulos ng kandila ng pagsuyo. Hindik kong dala ng mga dapithapon, Ay sa kadalasa't sa kahibikan  Lagi't lagi kong sambit ang pahinga mong pagkatao. Kasarinlan, ibabandera ang sarili kong gawang watawat; ako'y tatakbo, at Ito'y mula sa pagkatao kong binubuo ng hangin ng iyong kasiguraduhan. Tanyag yaong aking kinatatayuang dalampasigan ng mapipinong buhangin; At kung ito man ang kahulugan ng paglalayag patungo sa iyo, Kung ito ang paglulan 'tungo sa iyong pagsinta, Ako ay tatapak sa lupa nang walang sapin ang mga pa

My father is a horror film from my relatives' view― Fine cinematography, grotesque plot. I watch closely as he approaches to me, With his feet inherited from my grandfather― a reason for feminine quivers. Splashed blood all over my creatively-built floor. Of color, of preference, of kind, Fuchsia excorticata , I sowed, a foreign shrub from our land. /peach, carnation pink,  the light palettes of my art. Blue is a definitive color, always his/ /Man is a default face of strength, And I have always been a lover of fuchsia plants/ Rewarded by countless recognitions― My father is keen to materialize the pride of his labour. Intimidating aroma of the sandalwood base notes of his Polo Sport, he profusely sprayed the bucks out of his lucrative job. "I prefer the manly scent," an echoing emphasis as he comes to me to embrace his heir, his control. Gnashing teeth as he grins, kisses the son's floral-scented hair as if carrying me in his arms in 2006 by the manhood's firm mu

 Tin cans and primordial air, As I played with my favorite Kentucky shirt. Right ear and left ear,  Crescendo, upbeat gags. I kill myself with seventh-grade memories, Filtered by haunting caress of my so-called friends, From the deep-rooted scars in my system. Gradual tempo From A to Z Skip these freaking letters,  For they shout my tears. Still playing? I speak me As they devour my brain Tracing my back with scorching knives I loathe all of you genius,  Silent I.  Friend is my demons, Traumatic fallen angel. Then born my bohemian, I stand with my pronoun you bludgeoned to disgrace. Can I.

Armed with a dark shade of blue, Camouflage, also I hide my form. Merciless of my type, this is my routine. As I smell the powder that came  from my caliber.  Look at me, daughter, I ooze with definition― Eyeglasses and badges, with my name given by your proud grandmother. I marry you with lipsticks and dolls. Define me the best, I, the father; 4 shots of relief I am my place's savior! Bloodshed is my strength, for I am Called to serve and protect the system. I am the system.