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[Crime-scene. Time ceases to exist for YOU,
the necrophile. YOU are on top of the corpse.]

Cadaver, corpse, a body's just a body
and yes, I'm guilty, sleeping with the dead
it loves me, then it doesn't love me.
                                                             ­ [Beat]

The rosary you must! To rest in peace, so
transfigure me baby while warm on my bed.
Cadaver, corpse, a body's still a body.

Indulge me; martyr to your livid beads
please intercede for me, oh, please I beg
for it loves me, then it doesn't love me.
                                                             ­ [Beat]

Now shall I exorcise you; set you free, from
the purgatory found between my legs?
My body, yours a corpse, but still a body,

And when your sinews loosen, skin erased
by time who shows no mercy for the dead,
will you still love me then, or won't you?
                                                            ­  [Beat]

To resurrect is daunting, but you shall have
the body that my kiss declares undead.
Cadaver, corpse, a body's just a body,
which loves me, 'til it doesn't love me.
                                                             ­ [Exeunt]
If thou perchance hast longed for my embrace;
thou felt its spectre linger on thy skin,
thou must unearth a paradise wherein
abundant is the fruit that thou shall taste.
     Its sweetness and perfume will thus invade
thyself, who art perplexed by strident din,
(which one mistakes to be the medicine)
and shall be cured of solitude's malaise.
     And thou may wonder where doth one procure
this nectar so sublime that guarantees
escaping from the claws of loneliness?
    In silence, these empyreal orchards endure
the perturbations of the fleeting years,
and in the fruits they bear - thither I rest.
The squalid honey of this urban hive
that sways and quivers in Escolta's arms
assaulting viscous currents, I've survived
to witness time dissolve in waters warm.
     When monsoon whispers calmed the fev'rish night,
hyacinths surren'dring to kundíman songs
seduced I was to words meant to ignite
another's lust. But still 'tis I that long
     In time, desire has rotten into liquor
and putrid nectar spoiled in unloved lips--
this rancor that I spit into this river
to curse the farewell of your westward ship
     and centuries have passed, yet here I bathe
Manila's vein that bursts with restless hate

— The End —