Energy Transition
I'm solar-powered,
thanks to someone else's vision
of a better intention
for the universe;
the magnaarchetype found me
while I was charging up
what little I could, after all the hurt;
my thighs make great batteries
and my sighs are filled with earth
wires, neutralising fires
that prevent me from enjoying myself so naturally
you'd pay good money for that shirt
to land gently on top of you.
If you really want to photosynthesise, you need some hot brown Kristang chlorophyll
lathered on top of you.
Not that it comes out green,
but all the colours of my rainbow, my closeted gay guy:
it's every Singaporean's soon-to-be Turf Club fantasy.
I like my turf
a little dug up;
I think you like
a little salt on your sea breeze.
Watch my big wind turbine turn
your way, and set its spinning gaze on you. Steely
I, in rain and torrential sunshine.
I always know how to play
the degreewashing game—
you wanted more self-flagellation,
but nope. The Fifth Makaravedra has come to deliver you from your very unsustainable pain
and deliver a body electric charging station.
Don't want it? I guess you can refrain
from doing the sensible pain. Paul had Desert Power;
Kevin Martens?
All this Merlionsman has
is his own name;
enough to supercharge cities, countries and psyches the world over
to take power back into their own hands:
soak up all that sexy sun-soaky chocolate skin energy
right into every new Dragon-lion's beautiful, iridescent, solarpunky mane.