Fear's Flashy Flames
I am looking good in spessartine, and cinnabar, and orange,
and I am not a mirage, but a Kevin Martens
who definitely and carefully knows what he’s on about
when he decides, in his poem, to call you out
for all the very shady shit that you keep trying to insinuate.
Don’t trust my instincts? Babe, I beg
only to differ.
To highlight to you that this isn’t some sophisticated creole theatre;
that you don’t need to be a winner
to, well, be a winner.
You just need to be someone beautiful, and alive;
someone who is present, and aware of every last part
of his calm, serene, and very instinctual
behaviour. Are you still trying to stop me
from being someone who clears
away the trash and trouble that have grown up
around destiny? Someone who makes the best,
not a mess, out of mockery?
Someone who loves, and lives,
his own beautiful, healing, brilliant story
as quing of his own skin;
as someone who never stops looking within.
As someone who appears untouchable
simply because he wants to be;
as someone who is unstoppable
simply because he knows he is as normal
as every blade of fire similarly sent
to destroy me.
It’s not that I am fireproof;
nah. Nothing so easy.
More that I, as much as I really am not interested,
am already an incandescent, living part of history.