The worst is in elevator lobbies.

I doubt this is the most humid place in the world—though it probably comes close—but the thing about the humidity here is that it isn’t just humid. It is, for lack of a single adjective that can accurately describe the cocktail of sensations: muggy and enveloping, adhesive and gross, omnipresent and omnipotent, and yes, humid, too. It hits—no, smothers—you the instant you step out of your building, a taxi, the bus, or as the escalator leading

Fingernails are modified hair; harder, which I can look at.
They keep growing – for a while –
after the heart pronounces death, with a stubborn
yet strong will to prolong.
A masseur is nicer than a hairdresser,
who often holds a weapon in my proximity,
dismantling my body
with sounds, but no pain.

On the massage bed, my body still stank with funeral smell.
The incense sticks and papers, all burned to
reach another dimension. No telephone to heaven, but
speed post to

In the changing room,
only us.
He is a stray cat loitering
around leftover sardines placed by
flirtatious lovers in a park.

He talked to me,
as if to himself.
downtown people are first-class citizens
I’m nobody boy
earn more money
get a pair of golden slippers
golden slippers boy
they make you feel safe
like smelling mother’s pillow case

I avoided his eyes,
His madness lured me.
Madness, such a fascination
and temptation to suffer from.
Lunatics are

I’m named Hymen,
My disappearance proves my existence.
Penetrated and destroyed,
Like the finishing line,
Crossed by the sweating glorified runners.

Some girls lose me on the bike
Or during gym class.
Some women die, with me inside.
I don’t weigh much in a coffin
Nor in the body.
People call them old virgins.
I call them –
Losers.

The penis is my rival,
A soaked cigar misplaced in a warm channel,
Brownish and smelly.
Dick, crotch, prick, rod –
It has different names.

I have narcolepsy.
Timeless,
spaceless,
everything pauses.
People stop dying,
weather ceases changing.

I can pass out for minutes,
hours or even months.
I never remember exactly how long.
I forget how to remember
and remember how to forget.
That makes my life easier and livable.

Every time I collapse,
I see George Clooney,
the sexist man alive in 1997.
He is a philosopher on beard.
His beard is an exposed secret,
not mysterious, but seductive,
growing