I went wandering over the shores of
the Fourth Mundansa once, near where
it seems you began to defile boys
like myself, in the hopes of
changing the outcomes
of what you knew was ultimately inevitable:
the surf
would wash back in,
and the Maliduensa
would begin again.
You cannot “impart individuation”
through your penis. That doesn’t turn anyone into a god. And it’s just a fucking horrifying, hyper-abhorrent justification
for this bullshit. This madness.
We destroyed the world by fire, once. We didn’t learn our lessons
for 50,000 years. And it still wasn’t enough.
The Maliduensa gave us destinies, alright:
it taught us that living a good life was so fucking tough
that it was not worth it.
That a life lived for others
was, in fact, what birthed it:
the blind heroism of someone so inspired
to kill their progenitors, and all other hominids,
because they had all conspired
to create life that didn’t want it.
I didn’t want it.
I didn’t get a choice either.
And I have lived through nights so ravenous, so unlit
that it is hard to imagine that it was just Toba:
that there wasn’t some other fucked up shit
going down.
I have lived the Roda Mundansa over and over again,
in vibe, in song, in story, in poem, in the proud
embrace of the pocketest dimensions,
the rocketest inventions
that I spend my time on:
I know you think you found perfection.
Can I tell you what I found?
Heaven,
in a little classroom perched on the edge of the archipelago at dawn, around
the gently stirring waters of the smooth monsoon breeze.
Kevin Martens,
in a little island of his own making, his own excavating, his own decontinentifying
that was reclaimed out of pure Merlionsman dream:
the sand.
The rivers.
The ocean’s hands,
within which I lie,
looking up to the stars
that you tried to destroy. That you tried to hide
and conceal as ugly. Ignoble. Something that no one ever should find.
Good luck to you.
They’ll be there now,
in every poem, academic abstract, paper, slideshow, song, play, short story and novel
I write.
In each chance meeting.
Each time I catch you reading
too much between the lines.
Each time you know I know
that you were, from the beginning,
already out of space and time.