Mariel Alonzo is currently an undergraduate in Mechanical Engineering in the
University of the Philippines. She was a recent finalist to the Laura Thomas
Communications International Junior Poetry Competition and has written for
the Philippine Daily Inquirer, the national periodical of the Philippines.


1. If you were composed of something, why?
a. I believe that somewhere really deep, like, really deep, like Hadal deep, or Loubouttin in eye, socket deep, I've got a toms. You know toms?

b. I shall supplicate a categorical imperative derived by my years of primatology research with Bonobos and Britney Spears. F, C, U, K—yes, these four nitrogenous bases supplied with bitter sugars form the cataclysmic pudenda that dilates god's creation algorithm. In Genesis, Adam and Eve were basically a torpedo and a wormhole in oestrus, and in a gaping paroxysm of smoke-belching buses in Manila, created that beautiful face you point at called matter.

c. Apgar scores, eyes closed, zippers open. Soul snow melting, giving me neo-Pavlovian, colonial shivers. During Grade 6, they said I was too good for the Philippines, that I deserved Hong Kong, or Singapore. There I would be tossed the perfume scented dirt from their necks and knighted for non-conformity, profanity and ability to piss in three legs.

d. Tarmac roads of memory foam. Justified by tequila shots anaphasing with Beatniks gargling spoken word. An inch beyond a shoulder, red LED trying out green leather jackets by Zara. Beneath a truck loaded with beer, a pot-bellied man on a hammock rubs his crotch dreaming of quarter-Lebanese rest-human poster Gerbers.

e. Dough placed on arpeggio speakers, mashing me to non-Newtonian fluid with friction blisters. When I rise in a subcutaneous oven, I'd be like steroid pumped with lashes on my wrists, 'you are all batards!'

f. Shanzai Bucherer. Bucher killed by a bucher. Flesh carved from metal not found in any periodic table with a do-it-yourself best before date and kama sutra malleability. Climbing on my palm is the soft woolly corpse of a magenta chick, and I cry; remembering Tuesdays, coconut husks and/or, scrabble tiles.

g. Copy paste Leonardo da Vinci's treatise on water. Not so much architrave, not very cornice. In the extent of dehydration, I would be flattered to be a cell in your sheet #2 dressed in deep blue organza.

h. A welterweight neoplasm champion that has eluded the Richter scale. While I live, some Japanese otaku is ejaculating over Generativity sucks Stagnation. In 3 a.m. news Pacman's sandpapering his fists off neurons with prayers and white-petal flowers.

i. Can I please be partial points? Or at least, supplementary dusks...tears only flow how other tears fell. Just moved in a M-something street cul-de-sac, behind your back a neighbour with two navels, and you go, this ain't no Narnia. Where did the first tear go?


They had me strapped on a recycled slab that once held
the ten commandments, Prometheus, bucket lists by
matchstick kids during the industrial revolution, my wrists
held by yellow silk with shiny buckles lacking in corsets
their prosthetic leaves attached to my mitochondria
seeding into places most fags would cry there! Like little
kids, on hands and knees, bashfully cupping marbles.

They needed me to power Father's car.
They needed me to scintillate that new high-end village where plumbers can fix premature ejaculation.
They needed me to resurrect Ferdinand Marcos.
They needed me to splice a hybrid cement-bonsai.
They needed me to give birth and wait for him to do his kiddy step on the moon.
They needed me to invent the time machine and fuck my fifteen year old self.
They needed me to restore water's faith in our sewage system.
They needed me to change our name to beloved Syria.

All I wanted to be, and this I had written
down in a Grade 2 autograph book,
to crush, was a Chinese boy named
Peter. To be, is a pucker with
a sweetheart neckline.

Unsustainable Development

It started with a plant design, a tiny-oval shaped thing
I engineered using Erikson's album drinking bone
marrow on the rocks. I realized that maybe this was it,
this was going to change the world. This was going to
free the oppressed australopithecines in undiscovered biomes.
those gagging on colourful shapes. Those eyeing bars
of soaps high on kleptomania. Those reduced as quotients.
I am going to file emancipation with this as my witness
and achieve nirvana by watching my mother's snot
trickle. There would be no tissue. Only applause by
all of us who were illegally abducted from phantasmagoria
where I was once, a begrudged spandex-clad hero.


Plungers are more intimate than vacuum cleaners,
she said, in aisle thirty-six between cereal boxes and
ziplock bags. I had a feeling that she knew

the veritable secrets of plungers, she's exploited
from spending too long in the loo where I'd press
my ear on the door and listen her rasp

like she was giving a blow job to the toilet, or
deep-throating with a toothbrush, I wonder if this is called
cheating, because I honestly feel jealous.

It went haywire from there. I see chips of her shadows
left in all sorts of places, stapled on refrigerators
and egg beaters, even on our rotating susan.

"This has to stop." I said, counting the number of spider
webs she has twirled with a stick and turned into a dildo.
Her upper lip kept on defying her lower lip and

I all but wanted to surgically align them with
my tongue. The bouillon cubes quivered wet
in my fingers and I pitied all those things whom

she have raped. The carafe. The thimble. The third
button down of my favourite blue polo. The cue ball.
The æbleskiver pan. The emerald contact lens.

The police came after a heart to heart with my
second-hand sedan. I tell him about the secret of plungers
and he cuffs me over my hood, his gun glistening
with her sweat.

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