I was left by the roadside, a stray
beam of pure, uncorrupted darklight. Roadkill, for
trillions upon trillions of hungry, ravenous eyes. Views of my deaths make for not just great TikTok,
but for a neat, palatable concretisation of the sound of
the Doomsday Clock,
moving ever closer to where your patchwork heart froze in mid-beat, stopped
itself up, out of fear
that reality was too unedifying to see.
The music was just a little too terrifying to hear:
Up and Down,
Up and Down.
I have led them Up
and Down.
Goblin,
did you lead them on a round?
Oh, bitch,
every time you call me goblin,
I get to put on my best morning clothes:
shades of yellow, turquoise, cinnabar, spessartine sunfire
orange.
and I make sure you know that even a maudlin, empty creole child's dumpster fire of a life
can become
the gods' first and only rainbowbreathing dreamfire Dragon.
By break of gay—
however queer you claim
you are not, oh, my angel
wakened from my flowery
head—
do you know just how many gay Kristang faeries have swept up your bed?
Do you know just how many Portuguese-Eurasian unicorns have been mixing up the saffron, the nutmeg, the clove, the cobweb?
Do you know that where angels and other geometries fear to review self-published poetry anthologies:
oh, freaky boy, that is where I have made sure to tread
heavily, daintily, surreptitiously?
Queerer than a lion's mane
bedecked in every glittering colour of the radiantverse
except sanguinous blood-red.
Else the fucker
a tiger call.
Sure thing: my stripes
are soft, and luscious. They divide my forearms from my
big, fluffy, huggable
man-paws.
No fights.
No claws.
This house has been over-blessed with reports. Now
at the speed of Might,
Robin Goodfellow asks you, pressed against the tips of your sweaty, porous, dirty floor:
is it time yet
for us to tear down the night
and bring on the real, outsized, unescapable Singaporean dawn?
Or are you still needing
a little time more.
Very well. Taste a bit of my bicep
and kiss it.
I wanted so much fucking more
but I'll settle for this:
your delicately heterosexual Instagram stories,
and a memory of that one sweet, murmuring, transcendently queer yawn.
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