Papier-mâché

Tinititigan ko ang mga tao— sa kanilang mga uri, sa mapupusyaw na salumpuwit. Mula sa amoy ng silog, Sa mga inuming nakapatong sa lamesang bilog. Ang aking ulirat at ang pagkawala nito nang mamasdan ang pagbukas ng pinto na lumuwa sa isang lalaking pinatingkad ng kanyang kuwintas— isang dipa mula sa kanyang mámaháling saping tumapak sa seramiko. Minsan itong tinayuan ng mga abugado, doktor, inhinyero, guro… ngayon ng aking mga balahibo. Saksi ang buhangin na tinabunan ng semento: salabat na kable, kahel na tumupok sa tatlong-daang dumagan ang bingit, isandaang nasulasok sa ragasang sumingit.  Itulak ang pintong konektado sa mga bituka  na humimlay sa isa’t isa sa balikong tarangkahan, nawa’y aking mahila ang oras habang tinutupok ng gunita.

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...

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...

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.

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.