It's a different kind of metal:
not gold. Not silver. Not bronze.
Never, ever brittle;
cool to the touch,
and made of beautiful, luscious riddles
that feel like the gods themselves
don't know what to do with this pastiche of futures, traumas, pastimes long past
time for giving up.
Something secret this way comes;
I think it's all your insecurities as a Singaporean poet.
You know that meaningless, lacklustre, feelingless words are free to run
off the page shirtless too, right?
You know that with the right psychoemotional and linguistic velocity, I can persuade you
that this is how I'll be getting on my flight.
With my tongue stuck out
and all of my enemies' heads
still affixed, snug and tight
to their bodies. It's not just because non-violence is the right thing to do;
it's because I know how fucking terrified you are, when the best you can do
is make pithy and lonely and shady attempts to convince me
that these words do not ring
loud
and fiery and burning
and yearning, oh gods, they are learning how to resound
deep
inside
you,
little child,
little fearful squirming thing
that seeks to escape Karimang's brow.
Go on.
I know nothing,
except just how long
my new Resurrection Tongue can unfold.
Just how beautiful and airy my skin feels,
as your creativity wastes away, and you grow old
and we all die.
It's called the Wheel of Time
for a reason. You have no hope
and neither do I,
of living forever. Of becoming any kind of saviour
except They who must curve in on Themselves.
I am no, and will never be, Ozymandias.
Do you hear that singing,
in the distance?
The sound of some kind of distant, wavering
bells, I think.
The sound of the finest and sexiest Kristang devil in the world, sinking
into your tight, caressing sands, and gently knocking on the place
where you have tried to hide, in your skull,
your blazing, agonising despair.
The orange-hot knuckles of my hands are made of kevlar
just as every last one of your shameful, abusive thoughts
are made of your own radiant, terrifying personal hell
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