This is my prayer to you, whereever you may be:
in Constantinople, in Castries, in Castro, in my own country
all under heaven. I was asked once if I would be
diligent enough to destroy my own psyche
through civilisation, and I agreed
trillions and trillions and trillions of times
until I was nothing but a distant memory
of a braver time, a set of 12 zodiac signs
that assume I know anything about astrology
without Gaia. Without enough going on for me
to be dreaming of glow-glow dancers, and prawn stars
and a story so ridiculously confident and sexy
that you can't help but wonder that if your muscles are bigger, that means
you have even bigger Kevin Martens energy.
You haven't tried Kristang food at all;
you don't know that the best afternoon tea
is palatable, enjoyable, mesmerisingly free
of spice, and salt, and juice, and blood.
That comes later. That swims in the seas
where they drowned every last homosexual devil,
every last person who dared to be non-binary
or trans, or lesbian, or gay, or just friendly
enough with their own psyche
to reap a secret or two from what they call psychology:
Individuation never works if you try too hard for
utility. If you tell yourself
I am sides and functions away from becoming
the next divinity.
For all you or I know,
you might truly
be there. It's plain to see
that if it matters to you,
then, well,
that, too, is an unassailable, unconquerable
infinity.
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