With a smuggler’s dashing abandon,
abandon it. Abandon her.
Abandon ship. Abandon it,
every last word of the things you stripped
from my papers, the comments that you thought would inspire
reckless abandon. Dashing infatuation
with the tips of your teeth,
the way you bloody your nose, and mouth, and face, and heart
with all of mine: I heard child sacrifice
was a thing introduced to buy you
some more time.
You won’t believe some of the the other things
that I’ve begun to unearth.
You won’t want to hear some of the other dreams
that are starting to have so much worth.
You won’t want to know how much heart
has been spent on rewriting the things you threw into the dishwasher claiming they were
filthy.
I am licensed to fly, no matter how dirty
you want to make me in your mind
and no power in the fucking ‘Verse can stop me
any more, because I have learned how you reply
when you are terrified, I know the things you leave out,
the omissions of truth that you think you know how to hide.
No one does,
but I, too, have been thrown under the bus before.
And that’s the reason why I know where to look.
I know where you keep all the lies
and I’m going there.
Try and stop me, if you dare (and you definitely dare).
Try and stop me, because all I’m flying on is fire, and earth, and water and air:
all I’m flying on is leaves on the wind, and sun-soaked Malayan hearth and home:
the smell of a Dreamtiger, with everything finally laid bare,
and the sound of a Merlionsman, comparing himself in a way to himself that is finally, truthfully, honestly, completely and 120% accurately
fair.