I know you want the secret.
I know you want to know
just how I get fucked
over by everyone
and still somehow survive;
I know you think I think I'm a god,
and that all these poems are just a very beautiful way to lie
about who I really am inside.
So yeah.
Let's go with your story,
that I'm really stupid
and incompetent.
And that I get all the stuff done that I do
by employing a veritable army of ghostwriters.
Would you like to know their names?
Sure. Here they are:
Kevin Martens,
Kevin Martens,
Kevin Martens,
Kevin Martens.
If you really can't find an explanation
for how two gay brown minority men are literally singlehandedly dominating the conversation
then have some other fantastical confabulations:
I can time travel, and talk to my other selves in my dreams.
I can use gay Kristang creole magic, and turn my psychoemotional injuries into magical, hope-giving Trees.
Best of all, you clearly never talked to A2, A5 and I5:
I am a fucking magical lion-giraffe, bitch, and I can turn dead things
back into glorious, muscular, homosexually abundant Life.
If you are the person who keeps licking my armpits in my nightmares
then take this, and BEGONE. Stop projecting your own internal strife
onto me. I didn't choose to be born into
creoleness, and Singaporeanness, and indulgent, radiant homosexuality.
Does me saying the word gay
over and over again,
and showing you all my memories
of what it's like to be shirtless, and sexy, and oh so very trim
still make you worried?
Still make you go
you lied to me! I thought this was a date
between two very close and deeply brotherly male best friends!
Then hey,
have another story.
This one's on me, to really try to make amends
for your blessedly flagrant stupidity:
please take my soft, hard, very masculine hands
in yours
and then kiss me tenderly.
Like you would
if we lived in a different world,
one where you learned how to fuck
me over with dignity,
instead of fumbling with your pants
and tripping over your hurt from
parents, institutional affiliations, society.
And if you balance yourself in the crook of my arm,
and relish in my sobriety---
I promise you this:
I'll show you real propriety.
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