Do me lazy;
do me without a sound.
Do me dirty;
everyone else who ever supervised me
already abused me,
so why not? It's profound
when you use me and refuse my
advances in human individuation,
the chances I gave you to rethink the path that would lead to
my resignation;
the way you look down on my self-
designation,
even after I somehow secure a poetry Fellowship
with not a single book-length poetic publication...
or so you think.
You do me so proud, when you link
nothing together. When you think Naufal and Bahana
were just another pretender's
attempt at writing real literature.
Let me take my shirt off again, so that you can measure
just how wide my gentleness is;
just how much treasure
trail separates man from the big guns,
the places where we have fun
together; where you learn that the Eurasians and Kristang
actually say bum a lot.
And not as a pun;
as a delightful way to spend the time,
second to none.
You thought, after Spectrum, and Kenneth Jerome Rozario,
the Eurasians were done.
Well, I am not.
Like I said,
you haven't done me proud.
Do me quietly.
And do me loud,
so that the whole neighbourhood might hear, once again,
just what this Merlionsman is all about,
when he says he knows what he's talking about; again, I repeat
that it takes a fuckload of pride to be out and about.
That it takes a bursting load of life to hold onto the clout
that you throw at me, like scraps from the master's
fables;
it's okay.
Fabulousness comes naturally to
every Kristang and Eurasian table.
It's just how things are done.
It's just how we are able
to help ourselves out
of the coffinated closets you nailed us shut
into. Around
here, I need to be done slowly,
like a roast, or a sun-soaked Malayan cloud:
the rains come, and when they come,
the flood is a torrent sea,
within, with you, with me, and without.
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