mi alma is made of pineapple fabric,
bartered in the palengkes of San José,
nothing like the silk of Manileño prep-school boys,
in their country clubs and villages with gates,
classmates whom I envied for their patrician ways,
whose diphthongs I eventually learned to emulate
as I dyed my pineapple-fabric soul with neon desires,
neon as bright as New York City lights,
and put on an invisible muzzle on my face.
but what was harder to wash away from my soul of piña
was the stench of garlicky stews we ate in San José,
so foul that even aswangs kept their distance,
'stead of ******* me out of my mother’s womb and taking me away,
throw me up deformed somewhere in the UK,
deformed like the glorified mongrels that are my cousins,
those UCL-educated mestizos, or was it LSE?
oh, maybe my life wouldn’t have been so ******* mierda,
in a corporate attire with a three-thousand pound pay!
but unfortunately, I wear my alma of pineapple fabric
masticated by the teeth of unsolicited advice,
fragrant with cathedral incense, heavy with the guilt
of having been cummed on by ersatz lovers, ‘straight’ best-friends
whom I’ve cut out of my life like overgrown fingernails,
for tripping over loose threads and undoing my soul,
oh, yes, I get lonely without my BFFs, but at least
I still have mi alma de piña, my greatest source of pride,
fragile pride as fragile fabric must be dry-cleaned monthly
at Au Beau Blanc, Gallardo Street, Makati City,
elegant but indeed makati (which is Tagalog for really really itchy)
remember: don’t you ever dare to wash me in the Machine!
or as I like to call it the Lacanian Other clothed in moreno skin,
castrative, repressive, myopic Manilense society, nope!
I will not go to spinning class with synthetic souls ever again
cannot chismis anymore about Manila scandals over brunch,
because my soul is made of pineapple fabric
and pineapple easily tears apart at the seams,
shedding its fibers behind in faraway places,
foster cities and countries with their irrevocable stains,
like those of chimichurri and malbec in Buenos Aires,
Debería haber nacido en Buenos Aires, I always like to say
‘cause it would be more chic to drown myself in Rio de Plata
than the ****** waters of ******* Manila Bay.
Pues, thank God, I didn’t, because now estoy en Spain
and of vermut ***** con aceitunas I am always inebria—
ted, waxing nostalgic for a time when these white men
would’ve scoffed to see an Indies dress,
would’ve asked my pineapple fabric soul to untuck,
scared to be stabbed by some concealed, mystical kris,
but no! don’t get me wrong! I love Mother Spain!
but I don’t think I belong here either,
nor in Buenos Aires or the United States,
nor will I belong again in any one of those seven thousand isles,
which my fingers fidget with like the rosaries I pray
to call out to the god of overseas workers,
the patron saint of the unmoored, the new cosmopolitan
oh, please help me conquer, for the sake of mi alma en pena
hecha de piña, now ruined, stinky, sullied, stained,
help me find a street, an enclave, a hamlet, or a shore
just somewhere—a corner to feel not so out of place.

Hubo tantas veces que casi me ahogué cuando era niño, durante lecciones de natación, fiestas de cumpleaños. Así, me da miedo aún bañarme en las piscinas, las playas, los lagos. Me da vergüenza enseñar al mundo mis escamas dolorosas, la piel que teme el calor de la arena, los rayos del sol como si fueran medusas que queman con sus besos. Es que mis heridas, debajo de cuyas cicatrices, siguen ardiendo...

Quisiera que de agua yo fuera hecho. En Manila, cuando era estudiante universitaria, y tomaba el bus que por el boulevard Roxas pasaba, podía olvidar de mis problemas, del caos, solo con una mirada a la bahía. Y siempre me preguntaba, ¿podría ser que al mar le doliera su piel de agua?

Me acuerdo de cuando en silencio sufría, contra ondas como orilla padecía: el abandono de un amigo a quien quería en secreto, padecía el rechazo de las obras que había escrito, padecía la soledad en esta cruel ciudad... en aquellos momentos pensé en caminar, con piedras pesadas en mis bolsillos y zapatos, despacio, despacio hacía el mar, hacía el fondo... para que por fin se cumpliese mi destino de morir en el agua y su abrazo...

Pero a ella, nunca he aprendido odiarla. Y he llegado hasta mares gallegos, hasta Coruña y sus cristales, donde cada mañana le escribo canciones de amor y promesas al océano atlántico. Al agua, un día regresaré, un día en ella, me habré disuelto, sí, yo a mí mismo.

Porque es mi destino, yo que llevo alma azulada, el alma de aquel pez anciano que se hizo humano. Cuando un día me pregunte, "¿de dónde vienes?" un amante gallego, le diré que tierra yo no tengo, le diré, "amor, mírame los ojos, su blancura viene de las espumas de los mares filipinos"... y la noche en que me bese los labios y luego la piel, le diré, "amor, sigue, porque las escamas ya no me duelen, ves que del agua ya estoy hecho, de los aguas quietas, ya estoy hecho..."

A veces, amor, a veces
I want to tell you all about
Asphyxiating in the ambrosia of *******
Indulging my kapritsos of thanatos
Following you to your crusades, caballero
I ******* to the mendacious marvels
my mind concocts to make mundanity
a bit more palatable.
I imagine that I consume your carne,
cariño, cannibal that I am
Quiero que te sientas como yo
Quiero que te mueras como yo
I commence with your carotid
I take swigs of your blood like bignay wine
Till satiation spells sweet slumber
Till I **** the sublimates of such fictions
Morning come I’ll bite into my bread
And wonder if I could toast it to be
as warm as your inaccessible flesh
I do not think I’ve sinned in such desires
To the padre I’ll have nothing to confess
This pandesal is a muscle of my messiah
I mutter amen and no longer protest.

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

YOU:
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