No riots of colours.
This is a gray fever,
a hidden stream
that becomes a Kristang kabesa-minstrel's gay fantasy
of learning
how to stand at the pier
and quietly, defiantly scream
in silence.
I want to celebrate my lack of reliance
on the dead. And I'm not talking about my ancestors,
or my demons,
but those people who cluster soundlessly at my bed
and make me feel like
I am not actually naked.
Like I am mixed the wrong way,
and sort of almost overpainted
in too much livery. Drab and brown?
You haven't watched me swimming in the lake.
You haven't watched me drown
at the hands of these tortured men and women.
They claim I have no land. I have no space where I can rouse a dancing, merry band
of Lifeshapers. Of people who intend
for the waters to rise in beautiful applause, and send
their real, honest, undying regards to true heaven:
ah, sayang.
There are so many things I would like to amend
but I am waiting for the ferry.
I am waiting for the deluge to once more begin to end.
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