Papier-mâché

S taring at your rug where you used to rest your sleepy reality, My fur, I have been eager; You died the day when I had enveloped my skin with the sunset. You were in the latest video on my phone; I never knew I was shooting a pain— that from that day I would not anymore get a gain. I have never experienced nor faced death that would render such excruciating ache. Your slipped tongue was my admission— that I have always been inferior. I stabbed the air particles on that night,  for that was the least thing I could do. Scented candles, spoonfuls of sugar— I watched death for the first time, Wet hands, shivering January winds, did I ever do anything to help you survive? Rest upon my arms, No weight I shall feel from lifting you, but from this void ton that pulls me down. With your apparition, make me feel my relief; For no wine or vice that could get me out of this grief.

Oh, how we revolt in the skies! Oh, how we revolt to celebrate the city where men eat bombs, from their mothers' wombs. Oh, how I revolt to sing the songs of our forefathers, only for them to get furious by the tune. Boomerangs, reversed hierarchies, Dante's Inferno― I revolt, only to stumble upon the 5th circle. Oh, how I revolt to dance to the beats of torment. As the night falls, as we raise our proud chins, yet slashed by the atrocious as Martha Tabram in a slum of the East End, yet still killed with 39 stabs at dawn. Oh, how I revolt to save the place of our childhood, where I have heard the stories of heroism. Oh, how they revolt in this soil that has witnessed misuse of Thy Name Of the fear of Your wrath,  Of Your stigmata, yet do not confine to decency. Oh, how I resign with my white flag, Sinking as I revolt for a very long time― from those clean rugs I had used to wipe my sweat and tears to spilled blood on the cream wall. Oh, how they revolt, as I witness; I hide, as

  Untitled sheet of my Sterling note; First page, yet here I am succumbing myself to the 13th. Deep down, I admire it― the torn pages, the Bibliosmia . Sitting my knees atop the glass table, same as my age as my aunt boasts. There is she: Wallowing in her floral Coach; Skittles on the palm of her hands, Collective memories from assorted flavors― Strawberries, cherries, lychees . From pain, swollen teeth can be treated by  '06 bills. For the clowns of the 7th birthday, she had administered every balloon. My laughs, my smiles, my gratitude; To reach my manhood so does my search for fortitude. From candies to bitter taste of my every sweat, Shivering thoughts of your person. Embodying silence is my response to Lady ego; long before I speak my relief, your pain is seconds ahead. As I seek my spring, you breathe my winter. From your weaved peach sweater to my distorted better. Woman whom I admire,  Woman whom I stare at, with shut lips, shut eyes I knead your back, I need your luck. Lus

Sandigan ko ang sapíng sumasalo sa mga paa, na sa bawa't yapak ko ay ang pagsumamo— mula sa aking mga pagluhod buhat sa pagdarasal ng aking kaginhawaan. Saksi ang mga hibla ng buhok na dumarapo sa aking braso Mula sa aking pagtangis, gayundin sa aking lupain, Kaparis ng lupang niyuyurakan ang kinabubuhay kasamà ng aking mga katipon. Sila itong aking mga panginoon,  kasama ang mga demonyo sa aking kalooban,  Kidlat nila sa aking kumitil ng pag-asa; nguni't narito akong tila isang basáng sisiw. Sa init ng pugad, sa lamig ng hanging mapagtangay, Ako ay magsusumamo, ako ay hihiling: Sumambulat ka, aking liryong dala'y galak! Sa iyong palad, sa iyong bagong pahina, Ako ay isang hamak na lipon ng mga pasakit at pagkasiya. Dalasán mo ang paghipo, Datapwa't ako ay pahintulutan pa ring mapagtagumpayan ang pagkalas sa aking likás na pagkatao. Sa sarili kong kalakasan, ako ay dampian; Sa aking pinakamalambot na banig, ako ay ihimlay—ibigay ang nararapat kong pahinga. Mula sa pagta

I want to make myself known not in the pages of my ecstasy but situating myself in laments. I want to create my name not on the nailed plaques on the wall, but as a varnished wood that spews addictive odor.  I look at their brass  and percussions  long before I tap it and hear its melody in crescendo,  and as people shout incessantly. From my paternal land, I disguise: my name,  my rumination, my tarnished heart of steel. in alternatives, in substitutions, with my elevated feet, I am drunk in my grandma-weaved sweater, and aye, I taste  the bitterness of the water. Molly, Caress my mouth, and dive into my smothered depths,  into orals and fantasies, rocking chairs, cocksure dances, four vomits on immaculate sheets of a stranger's place. there, my granules of my aliveness, slowly swallowing, as own Loch Ness swarms the water. here I am sealing my spot― gliding my sweating body onto the bedrock,  and with closed mouth, I speak, and on top, I startle.