A state of undress?
How dangerous
when you look me
kung dos-dos olu di
alegri. Nang fikah midu;
justu agora inda nenang chegah tigri.
Because you claim I'm regressive,
I make very little cents
and dollars, off your repressive
sense of eugenetic pride;
I make very little in future perfect tense
(unless you care to revive
a different pre-predicated life)
and this leaves one with a stunningly accurate pretense that
you can hide it, no matter how incensed
you find yourself seething, slack when you are forced to describe
what's really naïve and what's fearlessly innocent;
what far queerer men have tried to elide
and so it is:
an orange flower.
Something to recover.
It's on the Other side.
Eh but wait—what did you think it was?
You need to have a more open mind.
Revive whatever is sixy and a little Lower;
because if you were following closely, you will find
that all along, very deep inside—
exactly where the gods like to hover—
it is there that you see in the end that I was right:
touch it.
Fuck it—
I was referring to my thick, gigantic
Kristang flamethrower.
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