This is the colour I want to be buried in:
the soft, liquid love of an unforeseen sky;
the decay of tyranny, insoluble, solvable;
lights out, awake, afar
in a dream of the earth, indulgent
and running over, brimful, of life.
I want the words "disobedient, hypersexual faggot" tattooed on the soil of my soul
and raked across my genes.
I want to hear that laziness oozes from the heat of my soil.
I want you to bake me in the mud of your fear,
to suffocate me in stone
so that you realise that maximum psychological heat applied to a robust Eurasian body
makes for one hell, and another hell of
a curry devil.
Adoi, time's up.
Too late. Tadri bos.
I am browning.
Bubbling over with stories, and sex,
and strength.
Tokah kemah sol, we say in Kristang:
when you lit me up to scorch away suffering,
oh dekas, how you did not realise
what lay beneath,
darker than dusk drowning in divinity,
white-hotter than even the invisible sun:
( — no, not that, though that
is chocolate too.)
No, lower, look lower.
Look to lower your stories, Löwe,
deep into the fire beneath the Earth
until their strength bubbles over,
loud and brown,
into words buried in unforseen guise.
"You, Lower Six:
bury yourself."
There it is.
It is there and then, in the furnace,
Löwe, lover, that I'll let you know
just how fast I can bury myself, indeed;
I'll show you, nang dibeh , nang sperah,
just how rich life can taste,
when milk turns to magma
and masculinity finally turns to manhood:
this is just how hot hope can get.